Greetings from Tenerife … Airport! The journey of 10 thousand miles begins with a two hour wait in a dusty airport to get on a puddle jumper that will take us to another dusty airport, where we will wait another two hours to get on another plane that will take us to a slightly less dusty airport, where we will wait another two hours to get on a plane that will get us into Toronto this evening, some 17 hours from now. This is what happens when you get it into your head to go somewhere a) off the beaten track, b) seemingly glamorous, and c) far and d) don’t use a travel agent because e) you’re a missy know-it-all who thinks she can do everything.

We have far too much luggage, which we will have to collect at every turn as we are flying three different airlines, none of which have an agreement with each other. Really, airlines? Can’t we all work together? The reason we have so much baggage is because we’ve been skiing, golfing and eating, which all require different wardrobes. Also, we have Ronan’s ski stuff, since he met us in Chamonix, then went back to school in England, leaving us to take his winter stuff back home. So we are loaded down like the Joad family in The Grapes of Wrath, only slightly less desperate.

Oh I know this all sounds grossly entitled. Moaning and complaining about having to travel so far to have so much fun. Actually making a comparison to a family of migrant dustbowl workers in the Depression. Complaining about flight connections when there are people in the world who don’t even have frequent flyer points! I hear you.

Seriously, though. I will tell you right now that travel is my thing, my passion, my biggest extravagance. When I got sick 12 years ago, and then got better, John and I agreed that we would do whatever we could to see the world, not when we retire, but now, and, when possible, with our family and friends. Our kids have been much farther than we have, mostly through school and service trips: India, Australia, much of South America. I want all of us to see and experience as much of this amazing planet as we can, because it is getting smaller, and, in some places, meaner. I speak four languages: English, decent French, passable Spanish, and Restaurant Italian. I like using them, even if when waiters just look at me pityingly and pour me another glass of wine. Especially then.

They are calling our flight. Gotta go. There’s more where this came from. See you in Las Palmas, wherever that is.

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