Mother Meets Me in Spain

I arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport an hour early just to make sure I didn’t miss greeting her. I snaked my way through the throngs of people, my eyes landing on the faces of travelers, tourists, commuters. An amalgamation of eyes filled to the brim with anxiety, parents balancing Jenga stacked suitcases, sharp heels smacking the tiles in determination, faces glued to screens. There was a chaotic energy dancing throughout the room as I took a seat near the arrivals area of American Airlines. 

There were many murmurs of frustration from the flight patrons but within me there was only excitement. I was not traveling anywhere that day but instead I waited at the airport with a bouquet of yellow roses and a fresh pastry for my sweet mother. She finally walked out the door. She looked fabulous. She looked Parisian- save for the backpack she had strapped on. She hugged me with tears in her eyes and told me that she had indeed researched “what to wear in Paris.”  

It only made perfect sense that my mother would meet me in Europe for a few glasses of wine. She was the first person who introduced me to traveling and instilled in me an insatiable thirst for it. She invited me to join her trip to Kenya when I was only sixteen, and not only did we come back from that trip with new eyes to see the world with, but we also found out that we travel really well together. She raised me- so naturally we like the same amount of coffee throughout the day and don’t entirely mind roughing it on our vacations. In Africa we had to time our bathroom breaks accordingly with the bats that resided in the village restroom. In Costa Rica we had to fetch our own water if we wanted to shower at the end of the day. In Europe we had a few more luxuries.

During the week that she was here, I got to show her my favorites pieces of Paris. We dined under the Eiffel Tower and graced our taste buds with frog legs. We then traveled to Barcelona where we continued to eat and drink. Between the tapas and sangria we dipped our toes in the Mediterranean Sea for the first time, got lost in the Gothic Quarter, marveled at the architecture of Antoni Gaudí and even fit in a visit to the Barcelona Zoo. We cycled through the city in what turned out to be a near death experience for both of us; we dodged cars driving on sidewalks and hordes of tourists and selfie sticks. There were no bats in our bathroom and we didn’t have to fetch our own water. I was happy for the lapse of solo travel, and to be with a dear friend that also happens to be my mother.

Our alarm went off at 2:45AM about a week later to signal the end of our time in Barcelona. We drearily gathered our belongings and traversed towards our flight back to Paris, as she had a return flight back to Salt Lake City the next day. I had a flight to Rome booked from a separate airport and I was already dreading the fresh wave of homesickness that would be inevitable once we parted. We ate dinner that night at a bustling restaurant where waiters swirled in the cigarette smoke between tables that seemed too close to each other. We talked about life and the universe and what we want for the future. She continually proves to be the strongest woman I know, and I find myself constantly making mental notes on how to be more like her. 

I hugged her tightly the next morning, the streets still illuminated only by the moon. I was grateful for the darkness; any ray of light slivered onto faces would have betrayed our courageous façade. She wished me Godspeed as I greeted my taxi driver. The taxi pulled away and I watched my mother walk the opposite direction towards the airport train in a purposeful stride. She and her backpack got smaller and smaller until my driver turned a corner- and she was gone from my sight. She was back in Utah 16 hours later. I walked through the Roman Forum that afternoon thinking how lucky I am to have a mother that is game to travel alongside me. How lucky I am for her friendship and for that first trip abroad together seven years ago.