It’s a Small World

My brother is dying of cancer. Just like that his bucket list is no longer applicable. Oh he lived a rich life and had a lot of good times, but this did rather sneak up on him. Nobody’s prepared to ditch their dreams in the prime of life.

“When we’re retired”. I can’t count how many times I heard my parents say that, or the devastation we all felt when we noticed something was definitely not so ok with Dad. Every year in spring he’d run a race with his kids and without fail he won. I was an extremely slow runner, but when I was 14 I effortlessly beat him. Parkinson’s disease is non negotiable.

My husband had three small kids and a bunch of new ideas for life. His wife never even knew about the tumor that took her life.

Never take tomorrow for granted.

“You guys are so lucky you can travel” we hear again and again. Amen to that, but what exactly do they mean “can travel”? We are by no means loaded, our schedule is as full as anyones, and we still have kids at home. And no, we didn’t get written permission from anyone allowing us to travel. We choose to not wait till it is too late; to embrace the not so perfect aspects of budget travel. We choose to pack plenty of wet wipes and pepto bismal to help our kids (and ourselves) out when the strange foods upset their equilibriums. We choose to pack light to keep general stress levels down, though we did have to learn that. You should have SEEN the mountain of suitcases we took on our first trip.

I used to glance longingly through gates at fabulous resorts that we passed, and passed, and passed, on our way to some basic structure on the edge of town with hard pillows and no shower curtains. Now I shudder slightly at opulence and breath a huge sigh of relief when I can sink into a “homey” couch, smell cats, and hear cheery foreign words. No animated penguins serving me American but not really American food in a cold hotel restaurant, no other touristy tourists wearing embarrassing clothing laughing loudly nearby. It’s just you, your little family and a few other hearty souls being quietly served by real people with real stories. People who need the money and treat you like Royalty. The food you eat is genuine, possibly even grown or killed right out the back door. The host presses more hot, sweet tea on you, calls you his sons and daughter and asks why you aren’t afraid to stay with the normal people. That’s a no brainer. It’s because these people take care of you like family. You know if you need anything at all they will be more than happy to help. They will walk blocks to show you the way home if you get lost, direct you to the nearest pharmacy if you’re sick and ply you with whatever the local version of “tea good for the digestion” is.

Yes, the towels are normally small and scratchy, the hot water sporadic and the air conditioner dicey at best, but there will probably be lots of free bottled water, an elderly electric tea kettle in the room and big fluffy blankets on the bed. The best part? You are never lonely. It’s so easy to isolate yourself in a big box hotel, hole up in your room with the double dead locks on, ac humming and all electronics happily charging. The windows are shut, keeping it cool and dark, and you lay pop-eyed, thinking about jet leg. But a few miles away, in a virtually unknown hotel, everybody has to play the same game. Electrical charging must be choreographed so as not to overload the system, shower temperatures are compared and things like razors and hairdryers are exchanged since we literally had no room to all pack our own. Windows are flung wide and the street noise is a steady backdrop to our chatter. By the time you’re curled under your blankets, having hollered an “all clear”to give people notice that they can plug things in again you have little energy for jet lag and no thought of the lonelies.

You think about the yummy breakfast you’ll eat in the morning, compliments of the hostess. You wonder if you hear gun shots and snuggle a little deeper under your blanket knowing that your building at least would never be a target. It’s too nondescript. You reflect on all the local stories you heard and feel utterly unworthy that these people are giving you the gift of their personal history. And then you chuckle cause you hear the thump and groan of someone walking into something in the dark.

When the roosters are crowing and the sun’s first rays begin lighting the earth, your crew starts stirring. Already from the streets come the happy sounds of kids headed to school. Exotic foods cover the kitchen table, while hot tea warms your belly and helps your eyes open a little wider. Lunches are packed in coolers to be devoured at some as yet unknown site. There is a plan laid out for the day, but it’s just that, a plan; certainly not a promise, for although schedules are necessary, one must always leave the door open for the unexpected blessings. The friendly family that wants to serve you coffee, the trail that beckons to a beautiful waterfall, the street riot that nobody had planned.

We have eaten primitive lunches in places you could never have imagined; dangling our feet over the side of a sailboat in the Mediterranean Sea, sacked out on a curb outside the Vatican, lounging among the wild flowers overlooking the valley where David and Goliath fought, high on the edge of a volcanic crater in the Rift Valley, in a train speeding through Italy with the worst smell you can imagine. Think cheese and B.O.

Travel is not so much about where you are, but rather the people you meet. It’s about new culture, strange stories and the connection that we all have. There is no language barrier too great to share a joke.

Travel also means facing your fears, reasonable and unreasonable, and realizing that the world is still full of good, kind people. It’s about pushing yourself to your physical limit and feeling a serious rush of joy when you summit a mountain and see the land spread out below. It’s about trusting strangers with your life and feeling the comfort of family where you least expect it.

But perhaps, most of all, it’s about seeing our smallness and God’s greatness. You cannot stand in an ancient Colosseum without being stirred in your soul as you think of the martyr’s. You cannot sit on Mar’s Hill without hearing Paul’s voice in your head, nor hike deep into the Wilderness without feeling empathy for the Israelites as they tried to keep everyone fed, safe and clean among the harsh, dusty landscape. You cannot hear stories of personal miracles from people without realizing how deeply God loves each one of us, no matter our race, religion or social status. I have been reproved and uplifted when I least expected it. One of my favorite memories is a conversation we had with Mohammed from Egypt. Privately we called him “cool guy”, thanks to his designer clothes and trendy shades. We were sailing together down the Nile and time had got long on our hands. The stars were out and the hills were a murky outline along the bank. He asked us all about ourselves and shared about his struggles, his family and his dreams. Never in his life had he encountered a religion like ours (he was a devout Muslim) but our spirits were one that night. These are the things that live on and keep us going back.