As a high school Spanish teacher, Elena is continually looking to advance her knowledge and expertise. This time she signed up for IB (International Baccalaureate) training at the end of June in Madrid. Madrid, Spain.
The Madrid part was not surprising as she loves to travel and has completed several immersion courses in Spanish speaking countries over the years.
What was surprising was her invitation for me to accompany her for all or part of her trip.
“It will be a great way to celebrate my birthday!” she explained enthusiastically during a phone conversation one Saturday morning in mid-March. Despite my usual early bird gets the worm mentality, it had been drizzling for days and I was still in bed.
I sat up and looked through the window sheers at the emerging gloom outside. It was the kind of day that made one forget all the beauty and abundance of the Willamette Valley and question their sanity for ever having moved here in the first place.
I switched Elena to speaker phone and tapped the weather app. It showed no hope of letting up.
“Will it be sunny there?” I replied, not even attempting to match her level of excitement, fighting the urge to crawl back into bed. I closed my eyes and transported myself to June. In Madrid. With Elena. And sunshine.
It was interesting for me to observe myself becoming anxious the weeks and days before our trip. I gave myself grace. After all, it had been years – twelve years to be exact – since I had traveled outside the country. My last several trips were to West Africa for medical missions. Those were rewarding but grueling treks. We would travel for days then hit the ground running, treating hundreds of people. And when you thought you were finished for the night, one more person discovered your presence and came knocking at the door. How can you say no. Reality overcomes you with the enormity of the need and your complete lack of ability, resource, or strength. But even a cup of water in His name, right? Anyway, that’s how you console yourself. The recovery took weeks.
I think my biggest fear was that someone would need acute medical care on the plane during the flight, like a chest tube or urgent delivery, and I would be inept to help because I don’t practice that kind of medicine anymore. That and the jet lag. Oh, and travelling standby.
Elena and I arrived early at the airport Sunday morning and set up “standby camp” near the gate of our intended flight. Elena scrolled feverishly on her phone while discussing with Jacob the myriad of ways we could get to Europe. Jacob was behind the scenes in Atlanta, staring at his computer, examining the loads on the various flights, and calculating the statistical probability of getting two seats on the same plane considering the weather patterns, the higher than usual travel season, all the connecting possibilities, etc.
I sat a few feet out of earshot of their intense conversation, people watching, and remained blissfully ignorant of all the empty seats that were there and then gone,vanishing into thin air at the blink of an eye. Leave it to the experts, I thought. I don’t need to get involved. I contemplated digging out the seven-hundred-page novel from my backpack that I stowed for leisure reading (and that Elena cringed at the weight of…. “are you sure, Mom?”)
A family parked their gear in the seats next to us. I recognized the dad immediately. It was a colleague of mine who was with his wife and children. We exchanged greetings and travel plans.
“You are very brave,” he commented when I explained we were traveling standby and what that entailed. “You don’t know exactly how you are getting to your destination or if you even have a seat on a plane? I don’t think I could give up that much control.”
Elena interrupted with some urgency, trying to figure out who I was talking to and trying not to be rude. “Mom, excuse me, Mom, she said abruptly, “what do you think of going to Ibiza instead of Galicia. We would fly into Amsterdam, pop into the city, then hop on a plane to Ibiza. Probably get there by noon. What do you think?”
I looked at my friend and then at her and shrugged my shoulders. “Sure,” I said, feeling a little smug, having no idea Ibiza existed before that moment. “Ibiza. Why not?”
I smiled inwardly. Yes, look at me, not having to be in control of everything all the time. I am footloose and fancy free. At least for the next nine days, que sera, sera.
After all, even if I could not control seats on a plane or weather patterns or travel arrangements, I could still be in complete control of maintaining my healthy habits during the trip. Of that I was certain. I had been practicing healthy habits for several years now and they had become ingrained. Stay hydrated, even if it means buying water. Fast on the plane (because I am not using any energy and I know that my body can manage without food for even a day or two at a time. I would not starve. I packed raw pecans and walnuts just in case.) Stick to my normal meal and sleep schedules. Choose whole food. Enjoy the wine because we are in wine country, but don’t overindulge. Have a treat but save it for the end of the trip. I wasn’t even concerned about activity. I knew we would walk everywhere we went. So, I didn’t even bring my AppleWatch to track my steps.
I was so confident that my habits were part of me that I toyed with the idea of writing about it before I left…at least a friendly email to my patients as a way of leading by example.
It’s a good thing I didn’t.