The plane glides over a darkened landscape scattered with electric puddles of light. I hear the whir of wingflaps, feel the sudden change in air speed, and realize we will be landing soon. As I look out the window I see the sky go from pitch to pink in a slow but constant display of morning. The sunrise limns the mountainscape in silver as we dip closer to the ground. Our wheels touch the tarmac seamlessly and I say my usual prayer of thanks to the Gods of Aviation for keeping me safe once more.
When I finally reach Baggage Claim, it is only a few more minutes before my luggage bumps out of the chute and onto the carousel. I haul it off the conveyor belt instead of asking for help, in spite of the warnings my doctors have given me about babying my right arm.
I sit and wait for my cousin, who will be coming to pick me up any minute. As I do, I try to log onto the free wifi of Madrid-Barajas Airport with no success. When I lift my head I see the sweet face of my cousin smiling down at me. Now I know I am here at last
We leave the airport and drive through a sepia landscape of palms, olive trees, and browning grasses. Mountains flow in the distance as we pass through towns on our way to my cousin's house. She points to a church where several stork nests sit high atop its flat surfaces. They are magnifient constructions and look to be five or more feet in circumference. I see one of the great birds lift its head out of a nest and stretch its wings to the morning. A few more storks perch themselves on utility poles as if they are sentries guarding their churchtop village.
I remark to my cousin that the scenery here is strangely beautiful and she says under her breath, "This land, this land ..." Her voice trails off into an almost reverent whisper.
We are now traveling on local roads lined with dense clusters of rosy crepe myrtle and verdant vegetation. This is a neighborhood of houses hidden behind stuccoed walls and neatly sculpted hedges. We stop in front of one of them and pass through its iron gates. Inside is a house made of stone and stucco with different levels of barrel tile roofing. I exit the car and am, for the first time since arriving, immersed in the dry, but pleasant heat of this Madrid June day.
Dropping my bags in the comfortable guest room, I'm drawn back outside to the pool, which is set in a backyard filled with fruiting trees of apricots, apples, and pears. I throw off my shoes and dangle my tired traveler's feet in the cool water. For a moment, I close my eyes and take in this new place. Dogs bark, doves coo, lizards skitter, and the air is scented with herbs and flowers.
If I had opened my eyes onto this dreamy landscape a year ago, I would have thought I was hallucinating from the drugs I was being given for my cancer. Yet today is real. I'm sitting in this homey paradise with my beloved cousin and her family on this gift of a morning. A gift given to me by my ex-husband. The man from whom I am divorced, but is still a dear friend, and who knows me perhaps better than anyone else.
In truth, I didn't think I would actually make this trip. I'd spent the last year in breast cancer treatment and wasn't sure I was up to a major trip by myself, physically or emotionally, even though I'd been planning it for months.
"Why am I doing this again?" I would ask my ex over and over before leaving.
"Because you need to reset," he would remind me. "You need to stop thinking of yourself as a cancer patient and find yourself again."
In the weeks preceeding my trip, every time I thought of traveling, fear would overtake me. I wanted to stay home where I felt safe and forgo the entire thing. I searched for some spark of courage that would push me, when the time came, onto that plane and across the Atlantic.
One day I was on the phone with a friend who was telling me she wanted to go back to school and finish her degree after a hiatus of almost thirty years.
"I should have never allowed that much time to pass. I would have had my doctorate by now if I'd only been more focused."
"Hey, there's no use in trying to change the past," I told her, "all you can do is take care of the present. My father used to say 'Shoulda, coulda, woulda, if."
Later that night I started thinking about that shoulda, woulda, coulda, if. Perhaps it applied to me as well. Did I want to let my fears get in the way of my already planned adventure? If I didn't take this trip, this amazing gift that had been given to me, would I regret it? If cancer had taught me anything, it had taught me that there are absolutely no guarantees. Would I ever find the right amount of courage or time to go?
There was only one answer. Pack your bags and call a car service.
So now it is the fourth morning of my stay in Madrid. I'm sipping on a much welcomed cup of cafe con leche and watching a line of plump black worker ants start their day of hunting for food. I look out across the valley to the line of mountains that I saw on my first morning here and marvel at their ever-changing form. I've begun to know their stages. At dawn they are a shadowy silhouette across the sky, mid-morning they bloom soft shades of violet, in the late afternoon hours they are rust and merge with the arid landscape, and in the evening they reflect the flame of sunset. I will memorize them and carry their image with me when I leave this place to begin the next leg of my journey. And for now, I'm happy to report that I feel less like a cancer patient and more like an explorer. The "sweetness of being" has begun to return.
