It’s summer, and for most of us, that means vacation. As I look forward to this year’s planned adventures, I look back on other summer escapes. Because I am traveling to Spain again, I can’t help but reflect on my first trip to Barcelona some years ago with my mother.
It was a very rough time in my life. Perhaps rough is a misleading word, a word women use to downplay a crisis; a word women use to let everyone know that they’re “okay” and not seem overly emotional, working overtime in a time of grief so they don’t make anyone else feel uncomfortable.
Anyway, I had just been diagnosed with cervical cancer. I had a procedure scheduled and I was scared. Terrified. My parents were both less than supportive because of their own feelings. They were scared too, and didn’t know how to help. They felt powerless and I had to be even stronger for them, to console them at my lowest point. And my ex-husband, well, instead of bringing out a version of him that was protective and loving, my cancer served to grow a wall between us.
I had the biopsy, and then waited on the results and for news of whether the surgeon was able to remove all of the diseased tissue. I was a bundle of nerves, emotions being checked with a projection of confidence and resilience that seemed to convince everyone. Somehow, the fact that they believed I was fine hurt me even more.
Around that time, my mom planned a trip to Barcelona. There had been some other issues in my marriage, some other disappointments and pain. I knew I needed an escape – from my life, from my medical issues, from my rocky marriage. So I agreed to the trip, booked a flight and met her there.
Now, my mother and I don’t travel well together. This is undisputed and longstanding. She doesn’t believe in relaxation; instead, waking early, checking every tourist spot off her list, racing from one place to the next so as not to miss anything. I, on the other hand, prefer to rise late, see a few sights I’m very keen on and then, spend the rest of the day strolling, taking it in, people-watching, cafe-sitting, wine-drinking. So, it’s not difficult to understand why our travel styles might not gel.
But, we both bent a little. I hurried up some, she slowed down a bit and we met somewhere in the middle. We lingered a bit longer and talked more. I was finally able to meet in person a friend I’d met online who lives in Barcelona. She wrapped me up in the love I wasn’t getting from my friends and family at home, love and support I didn’t know how to ask for from the people I saw every day. This is the friend I would end up visiting several more times over the years (and this year!) The same friend who would eventually become my son’s godmother.
And on this trip, between the distance from my normal life, the love of new friends and my mom’s patience, I began to heal. A reminder that the world is so big and I am so small and the struggles I was facing really needed to be put into perspective. To accept, to grieve, and then to live.
Barcelona saved my life that year, as it has several times over the years, for different reasons. And so this year, again I look forward to Spain and the joy it offers, the beckoning hand of taking things slower, of gaining perspective. And for me, this year, a beginning to the new life I’m embarking on with my son and fiancé. And so in looking back, I am gazing forward.
