Another day, another time to clean!

Come to think of it, you haven't checked what's inside the basement since forever! Who knows that there might be a whole thriving ecosystem, or maybe there might be a group of teens using your basement as a hangout party, only God knows unless you check.

You walk down the basement through stairs, but suddenly something compels you to be wary. You felt goosebumps all across your skin. Nevertheless, you still continue to walk.

As you reach the basement floor, you see a box in a middle of the area. Just a singular cardboard box in a middle of a cobweb-filled room.

Half of you is curious of what's inside the box, and the other half says to leave it behind.

Ya know? There's really no reason for me to come down here. A mess, like fine wine, should be allowed to age. Oh, wait; that's really a very lame excuse. Here's a better one -- I've avoided the basement for many months; what's the problem with a few more? That's a little better. Why am I so afraid of this dark, damp, dreary dungeon? The spiders like it; why shouldn't I?

Oh, come on. It's time I got this job done.

What's this box? I don't remember ever seeing it. What will happen if I nudge it with my foot? Well, the box didn't whimper like a puppy or hiss like a miniature dragon. I guess there aren't any animals in it. I didn't hear anything rattle, like broken dishes. I suppose I should just go ahead and open it.

I take out my pocketknife and slice the packaging tape. Okay, nothing terrible happened. I'm just being silly to be so scared.

I lift the top.

The first thing I see is just a large wad of crumpled brown kraft paper. Padding material, to protect the mysterious contents.

Under the brown paper, there are some more papers. Old maps, including one of someplace called the Fergana Valley. Central Asia. A guide book to Samarkand. A journal, filled with writing and sketches.

I set the papers aside. The next item I find is a golden-brown teak box. Hey, maybe this is a jewelry box, filled with treasure! I quickly open it and find ... a mariner's compass and a sextant, both wrapped in soft wool felt.

What else is here? Books. Seven Years in Tibet, by Heinrich Harrer. Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea and The Snows of Kilimanjaro. Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Two Years Before the Mast, by Richard Dana. More travel and adventure books, some fiction and some not. No wonder the box felt so heavy.

Whoa! This is just too much! I am overwhelmed by the contents of The Box.

I feel a bit lightheaded. It must be the fetid, funky atmosphere of the dark and dingy basement.

No, there is more. The papers in The Box had their own nasty mustiness, as if they had been denied air since the time of Crusades.

The Aura reached out for me. It had no odor. It didn't make a sound. I couldn't see it. Yet, I felt it holding me as if it were a green anaconda.

I called for help. Clio, who held a doctorate in Asian studies, readily agreed to come. Herodotus, her colleague, whose expertise was in the field of ancient commerce, would also join us. Two of my drinking buddies, Rabbie Byrnes and Bill Faulkner, were eager to see the mysterious Box.

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My four visitors avidly examined my new treasures. Rabbie looked at the guide book and asked, "What's this place, Samarkand?" Clio responded, "It's the second largest city in Uzbekistan and a major commercial hub in its region." Herodotus expounded, "It's an ancient city, probably founded in the 7th Century BC, possibly the 8th Century. It was an important market city on the trade route connecting China with Persia and Europe." Bill lifted his beer. "Do you mean The Silk Road?" "Many people use that term, coined in the 19th Century. Really, it was a network of routes, not a single road, that carried commercial traffic between centers of wealth and culture."

Bill dug an old map from The Box. "Why is there this map of the Fergana Valley? I never heard of it." Clio sipped her wine, then replied, "The Fergana Valley is an agricultural region southwest of Samarkand. The modern countries of Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan all occupy parts of the valley. It's located southwest of Samarkand. Alexander the Great took his army through here when he invaded central Asia. The valley was also part of the route of the Silk Road."

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My visitors and I settled back with our drinks and talked about the Silk Road, and Alexander the Great, and central Asia, and our love of travel. Gradually, it seemed The Aura took hold of each of them. Long into the night, we talked of travel and adventure.

What is Adventure? Here’s one definition of ‘adventure’ as a noun:

• · A daring feat; a bold undertaking, in which dangers are likely to be encountered, and the issue is staked upon unforeseen events; the encountering of risks.

Another definition, this time of ‘adventure’ as a verb:

• · To risk oneself; to dare to go somewhere or undertake something

Oh, I get it. “To boldly go where no man has gone before.” A daring feat, a bold enterprise. “Ad astra per aspera”.

Does this strange box contain an invitation to adventure? Or perhaps these items are the accoutrements a daring soul might use.

Uh, what’s going on here? The aura of the box has become more intense; its glow now fills the basement with light. The box is changing. It has become larger, and it no longer is cardboard, but has transformed into wood. Now it is teak, inlaid with a wood the color of gold. Beneath the box a Persian carpet has appeared. We five investigators sit spellbound.

We move the box to one side so that we can closely examine the carpet. Clio and Herodotus were fascinated. “The workmanship here is exquisite!” Rabbie, who always displayed an active imagination, said, “I wonder if this is a flying carpet.” Wrong thing to say! The carpet trembled, like a tiger ready to pounce, yet it didn’t move from the basement floor. Bill Faulkner spoke, “What are you thinking, Rabbie? Do you plan to ride this old rug to Samarkand to meet the vizier who is trying to cheat death?”

In an instant, my friends and I were aloft, bound for an unknown destination, perhaps in Central Asia.

Soar to great heights like an eagle. Dive at tremendous speed like a falcon. Make stupendous sweeping turns above the clouds. Erratically change direction and dart among the clouds.

From the depths of memory, I remember words of an ancient hard rock song that was a favorite of my grandfather – “Come with me, little girl / On a magic carpet ride” and “Close your eyes, girl / Look inside, girl”. Whoa! My head is filled with a dizzying, smoky haze. Now I feel the lyrics of another ancient rock song

High above a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to …

The carpet bucked like a frenzied bull in the arena, and I come to my senses. WTH is going on? I look at my companions – okay, we’re all still together, although they are wildly bug-eyed and pale. The mysterious box is firmly settled in the center of the carpet. Its aura now encompasses the carpet and us, its five passengers.

Whither are we bound? Does the carpet have a destination? Does it somehow know how to get there?

We seem to be flying over North America, especially the Great Basin and the deserts of the southwestern United States and northern Mexico. As the carpet circled, it descended to a lower altitude over Utah’s rugged landscape. Could it be searching for something? Maybe its home? Again, I heard words from an ancient song, “Those voices are calling from far away.”

Abruptly, the carpet abandoned its circling and turned in a northwest direction. We climbed to a great height, seemingly to fly among the stars. The mountainous spine of the continent was far below and on our right. We crossed ranchland, farmland, and impenetrable forests. We turned westward where the taiga gave way to the barren tundra. For a while, we seem to follow a mighty river. Could this be the Yukon?

We are no longer over land. To our left is a great expanse of water, an ocean. To the right, there’s another ocean, largely covered with ice. We cross a large peninsula dotted with volcanoes, then some more icy water, and then land again. We turn slightly south and soon are again over the dense forest of the taiga. I think this might be Siberia.

We continue flying east and south. The forest is replaced with dry grasslands of the steppe. Soon, this landscape in turn is replaced by desert. Could this be the Gobi? The carpet again descended as we crossed a mountain range. Hm, I just can’t remember the name of this range in Central Asia.

The carpet makes another sweeping turn as it descended into a wooded river valley and landed. With a touch of panic, I wonder, “Where are we?” My companion, Herodotus, retrieves the sextant from the mysterious box. He determines that our latitude is about 38 to 40 degrees north. “I think we might be near Samarkand. This river might be the Zarafshon.”

Samarkand? The legendary oasis on the trade route known as the Silk Road? Do adventures await us here?

Gnicolae Gnome was on a trek through the Carpathian Mountains in Romania. He sensed that a major storm was brewing; he hoped he soon would find shelter, someplace dry and out of the wind. As he came to the edge of Quail Meadow, he spotted a sturdy log cabin, perhaps a hunter’s hideaway.

Concealed among the trees at the edge of the meadow, Gnicolae carefully scanned the area. Hmm, it appears that humans had been here recently. Although they were not in sight, should he fear their return? Suddenly, a cold wind shook the trees, took his hat, and blew his beard out to one side. Brrr! Gnicolae rushed to the cabin and boldly entered.

Okay, nobody here at the moment. He quickly went to the fireplace. The fire was out, but the hearth was still warm. Ahhh! That feels good. He wondered whose cabin this was. The three bears? No, there were too many beds – he quickly counted eight, no it’s twelve, I think; maybe it’s just eight. Three little pigs? No, of course not. Seven dwarves? And their live-in girl? No, that cozy arrangement had been in Germany.

Five of the beds had been slept in. Would the humans return? Could Gnicolae stay in the warm, dry cabin without the humans finding him? Maybe up in the rafters. That would be fine if he were an owl. Oh, he could stay hidden in the inglenook. He took a blanket from an unused bed in a dark corner and made himself comfortable in the dark alcove.

The gnome awoke when he heard the cabin door open. Some heavy footsteps. Not a forest animal, but human. Some voices, five of them, two women and three men. They talked excitedly about the animals they had seen today. Not a hunting party; maybe explorers like himself. Someone laid fresh logs in the fireplace and lit the fire. Ahhh, warmth! Gnicolae returned to sleep.

What the Hornblende? The cabin was shaking. An earthquake? Okay, really that’s not likely. A mighty dragon defending its territory? Or could the fierce wind buffet this sturdy structure?

A mysterious aura gave light to his little alcove. The cabin began to shrink. Even his inglenook became smaller, until it became a snuggly fitting prison cell. This was now his entire world. He felt his world lift up as if tossed by a monstrous trebuchet. Whirled and twirled. Then suddenly, all was quiet and still. Somehow, Gnicolae understood that this box which held him was itself in a dungeon, dark and damp and home to many spiders.

Gnicolae was bewildered by the events that had overtaken him. Here he was, enclosed in a box that was neither small nor large. He was comfortable, wrapped in blankets that were soft and comfortably warm. He didn’t mind the darkness; it was as if he were deep in a coal mine at midnight, under the protection of Saint Barbara, one of the Holy Helpers. He felt neither hunger nor thirst.

So now he lay in a box, padded with blankets and ready to be shipped. A box? It could be a coffin. What evil creature had imprisoned him, a harmless gnome? Why was he a captive?

Gnicolae lay in his box, pondering his fate. Wait, was he really lying there? He could be standing. He could even be on his head; he couldn’t tell.

How long had he been here? How long would his captivity last? He mused about what he would like to be doing. Out in the sunshine, kissed by a gentle breeze. Maybe on a beach. Wait, what’s that? His box shuddered. Or did it? Gnicolae relaxed and returned to his daydream. Yes, he would like to be on a beach, maybe in the Azores. Suddenly, the box was shaken by a strong tremor. He realized he was no longer in the dungeon, but flying somewhere among clouds which he could not see.

In an instant, his box vanished, his blanket was now a beach towel, and he was indeed lying on a sunny beach. He had been released from his prison; he was now free. He could again roam, as was his wont.

Somehow, Gnicolae knew he was on a beach in the Azores. There was nothing to tell him where he was; that didn’t matter; he just knew. This is the beach known as Ponta da Ferraria, on São Miguel Island. Here there is a natural geothermal pool where the temperature varies with the state of the tide; at low tide, the temperature can reach 90 degrees F. Paradise!

After a few days of R&R, Gnicolae became restless. He wanted to be on the move again. He’d like to visit an arboretum or a botanical garden. There’s probably something nearby. Then, it came to him. Near Funchal, in the Madeira Islands, there’s Jardim Botânico da Madeira. In a moment of common sense, the Wandering Gnome thought this garden was just too far away – about 750 miles. Oh well, it would have been nice to go there. In an instant, his beach towel transformed into a blanket (or maybe it was a carpet), and he was flying high over the Atlantic Ocean.

Gnicolae spent a full day immersed in the fragrant beauty of the Jardim Botânico. As he strolled through the garden, he asked himself, “How did I get here?” Gradually, he realized that he had wished himself there, just as he had earlier wished to be in the Azores. Could he travel wherever he wished? He thought he might like Bermuda. Nothing happened. Okay, how about, “I wish I were in Bermuda”? Instantly, he was on a white sand beach on an island in the North Atlantic. Now that was a shock – nearly 2800 miles in the blink of an eye!

Hey, this is fun! Let me see now. I’ve been to the Azores and Bermuda. Hmm, initial letters A and B. Where might I go next, someplace that starts with a C? He had scarcely formed the thought when he found himself basking in the moonlight on Corfu, in the Adriatic Sea. As he travelled, he indulged in “the hot sand treatment” – lying on a hot sandy beach, with a cold drink in one hand, and a hot somebody in the other.

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Here there is an interruption in my story. I still intend to clean the basement. No excuses today, no travels to faraway lands. Wait a minute, what’s this sand on the floor next to the Mysterious Box? I don’t understand this at all.

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Gnicolae said to himself, “This Gnome has had enough sun, sand, and surf for a while. I’ll try something different, some place that starts with a D. Maybe a place with a lot of history. Hey, Dubrovnik is not all that far away. I wish I were in Dubrovnik.”

Of course, he was there instantly. It didn’t matter how near or how far. The city is recognized for its extensive medieval architecture, a pharmacy that dates to the 14th Century, a restored medieval bell tower, and the formidable city walls. It’s a shame that this beautiful city would be little known to most Americans if it weren’t for a few fantasy movies that were filmed there.

Gnicolae thought it time to visit someplace that starts with an E. Um. Where? England? He really wasn’t interested. Estonia, Ethiopia, the Eddystone Lighthouse, Eritrea? Should he just skip the E’s and go straight to some F’ing place? He decided to sleep on the idea. Instantly, he was back in his box in the damp, dreary dungeon.