It’s funny how quickly we forget.

We were flying home to Miami after a forty day stay in Europe.  Our flight left from Madrid and two hours into the nine hours of Atlantic crossing the captain said:

“Folks, I have some disappointing news.”

I did note the word “disappointing” as it is quite unusual for the pilot of a 767 to have something “disappointing” to say in mid air.  He continued to tell us that we were having some sort of mechanical issue and were headed back to Europe as we would not be able to cross the Atlantic on this aircraft.  We would be landing in O Porto, Portugal.

“That’s ironic,” I thought.  Of the four weeks in Portugal, I never made it to O Porto but this was not the way I wanted to see it.

Obviously Joe, the boys and I were on this flight.  But so were my sister, her children, my parents and another friend.  I remember (and I kid you not) having had this thought earlier as we took off from Madrid: “what if this magical month I just went through was our departing gift from God.  Imagine if this plane falls and we all die together.”  Morbid, I know, but fully within the spectrum of what goes through my mind on an airplane at take off, and totally within reason to return to my mind when the pilot informs us of the “disappointing” news.

I find out through the rumor mill (aka my mother) that an engine failed and was turned off.  I looked at the flight attendants and everyone looked calm, so I remained as calm as I could be.  Then Joe informed me there were only two engines on this plane and the anxiety I had thus far been able to maintain at bay began to creep in.  My thoughts turned to recent crashes, and I looked at Fearless sleeping on my lap while I immersed myself in the arduous process of calming down.

We finally landed safely in the midst of a fire truck and ambulance parade, and the cabin burst into clapping and cheering.  Everyone seemed relieved and happy, and were even understanding when the pilot asked us to be patient as they figured out what to do.  We deplaned and headed to the international terminal and little by little received information that we should make ourselves comfortable.  It would take another seven hours before we saw the inside of an airplane again.

The process wasn’t as awful as it could’ve been. But as time dragged on, it was easy to notice patience levels dropped and children (mine included) got restless.  There was a staircase, and I did races with my boys.  We must have gone up about fifteen times, at least.  It was tempting to forget that instead of being cranky because we were stuck at O Porto that we should be grateful we landed there safely.

We did eventually leave and finally make it home, a whopping twenty-five hours after we left Madrid; and since then I have been trying to readapt to the real world.

For the past forty days I have been in la-la land.  Our main home base was the small town of Caminha, Portugal and you can read more about that here.  But we drove around neighboring Spain as well.  We visited many of Joe’s friends from the years he lived there, and I am happy to believe they are now my friends too.  Of all these nights, we have spent only one in a hotel.

We visited countless castles, climbed innumerable cannons, walked through palaces, gardens, and parks.  In my training I’ve ran through forests, beaches, and along rivers and rode my bike through mountains that challenged me enormously.

But what about my children?  Dreamer is seven and Fearless is now six.  What will they remember?  I ask them often what it is they have enjoyed the most about the trip, and their answers change just as often reflecting what we have done recently.  On Monday I asked Dreamer what he liked the most.  We were still in Madrid and he replied Toledo, a nearby medieval town we visited.  Last week, it was fishing in Portugal, and before then it was running from monkeys in Cabarceno, Cantabria.  Fearless follows suit or just says he remembers everything.  His eagerness to participate in my research is clouded by his ability to finally play a game on his IPad.

If I ask them what they’ve learned, I hear about why cities have walls, or why castles are usually on top of a hill.  But I want them to remember other things as well.  I want them to remember the children they met, and how they were able to play even if they didn’t speak the same language.  I want them to remember the art, the architecture, the streets, the food, the history of the places we have been to.  Those are the things that give us insight; by experiencing them we learn about how others live and we can then change our own lives.  But I can’t dictate their memories, and my job as a parent is to expose them to as many experiences as possible in the hopes that something sticks.

I know that through all these adventures I’ve changed though I may not be able to describe how.  My family and I have been showered with hospitality and true generosity everywhere we have gone.  I know in time, in meditation, and as I reconnect with my friends at home the changes in me will be clearer to see.

We are now in Miami and I just asked Dreamer, again, what he remembers most about the trip; he mentions it’s the airport in O Porto.  Yet I know the seven hours in the international terminal did not eclipse the previous six weeks of exploring.  We may be quick to forget the details, to forget to be grateful, but travelling changes something so deep inside you that you will never be the same.  And as long as I remember that, I can look forward to discovering the change in me.