There was a book I read many years ago about a young woman who impulsively decided to go travel to China one summer break from college. She went with another young woman she knew from college with whom she had a superficially close friendship. They headed out with not much of a plan, and a blasé attitude about the differences in Chinese and American culture, all of which ends up exploding in the author’s face when her traveling companion has a mental breakdown. It was a good book, and it gripped me because I had been that young intrepid traveler who lit out for Europe after college with not much in way of a plan, but a backpack full of ideas of how it was going to be.
My trip to Spain was different than that adventure for a lot of reasons. I was 30 years older. I had money. Not a first-class glamorous deluxe holiday kind of money, but definitely a good enough credit card that I was unlikely to be faced with any severe problem at which I couldn’t throw my Visa. I was going with a group of friends who I had known for years. We had plans on plans on plans. Plans of where we were staying. Plans of what we would do in each city. We had even planned in time for spontaneous changes of plan.
I also had eight months to prepare, whatever preparing might mean. I knew that I SHOULD start walking regularly so I could build up endurance. But I hate walking. I mean, I really do hate it. It’s so boring. And it often hurts so, meh. So I signed up for aqua aerobics classes at the Y. I like aqua aerobics. I like any activity where I’m the youngest person participating. And I invested in an elliptical foot pedal thing that fits under a desk. Working out while working! Multitasking at its finest!
I was sidling into a new exercise routine, hoping against all hope that I would beat the odds and not hurt some body part. If I come up on exercise gradually without making direct eye contact, I fervently hoped I would not trigger anything. Promptly upon using my desk elliptical, my lower back and sciatica immediately began hurting. I began doing all the things, the yoga, the PT exercises, everything I could think of to get my back to calm down. I went to the doc. Got muscle relaxers and extra strength Tylenol. I began using lidocaine patches and started regular visits to a massage therapist. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking that if things didn’t improve or resolve, I would need to cancel my trip,
I mentioned in Part 1 that as I’ve grown older travel and preparing to travel has become harder. I obsess over these decisions like which travel pillow or travel socks or travel purse to buy. I get caught in a hamster wheel of indecision over relatively neutral decisions, like which suitcase to bring, as if the wrong choice could ruin everything. I become hung up on doing everything the “right” way. As nice as it was to be sharing this planning with a group, the text chain began to feed my obsession with doing everything correctly.
For example, some of the group decided they were going to pack carry on only. If you don’t check bags, you don’t get stuck waiting for baggage. Going through customs is easier. Moving around is easier. It’s all easier. So, I began to obsess over how I could do the trip with carry on only. Except. Except except except. Except my life is just more complicated now. I needed to bring 2 weeks’ worth of the dozen medications I take daily. I needed to bring 2 weeks’ worth of insulin and insulin supplies. I needed to bring my cpap machine and a power adapter.
After weeks of spinning out and emotionally berating myself for being a failure at packing and travel and life, I acknowledged that it was impractical for me to travel to Europe for 2 weeks without checking a bag. This cycle of becoming obsessed with a particular detail, building it up to be representative of whether or not I was a fit human being to travel, and spinning out about it until something or someone made it clear to me I was blowing it out of proportion, happened a dozen times in the months leading up to my trip. For a while I convinced myself I was actually too fat to go to Europe. Europeans are thin and hate fat Americans I reasoned. What if I sat on Europe and broke it?
At one point I reached out to a friend who had recently traveled to Italy and told her that I was having so much anxiety about everything from my back pain to my large butt to my choice of what to pack I was seriously considering cancelling. In fact, I’d even told my mother and my husband to not allow me to cancel because of anxiety, and then immediately regretted making them promise. My friend gave me some great advice which boiled down to remember that every place you’re going to visit, people live there. There are stores for shopping and taxis for hailing and even doctors and hospitals if things go really sideways. She admitted to me that when she’d gone to Italy, she’d packed her handy water purifier that her family uses for camping. Upon arriving she immediately felt ridiculous. They have potable water in Italy. They have Aleve in Spain. And they have lovely fat ladies everywhere, no matter what French diet books say.
As the time before the trip reduced from months to weeks, I struggled with my stubborn, unresolving back pain. I told myself several times that if I was going to be in this level of pain, I shouldn’t go. How would I enjoy myself? How would I be a decent traveling companion? I was miserable all the time. Did I want to go be miserable in Spain? At some point one of my friends, I can’t remember who, but I wish I did, said look, if your back is going to hurt regardless, wouldn’t you rather be in Spain than just miserable in Tacoma? I’d hung a lot on this trip. More than it necessarily deserved or could handle the weight of. If I stayed home, I felt I would be surrendering to the forces closing in on me? Would I be embracing a small life?
As we got closer to the date, my back was intermittently a little better, then a little worse. I was visiting the massage therapist and yoga classes weekly with mixed results. I stocked up on lidocaine patches and disposable heat wraps. I think part of me believed that I would go and it would just feel better because it had too. Because it couldn’t feel worse. I thought about cancelling almost every day, but when I imagined actually cancelling, I felt no relief. I imagined the two weeks’ vacation I’d scheduled for my Spain trip being spent instead stoned in front of the television, grieving a life that was no longer possible for me. I didn’t know if I’d be able to recover. Like I said, way too much weight on what was supposed to be a fun trip to Europe with girlfriends.
Departure day finally arrived. I got to the airport early and unfortunately at the exact same time as all the busloads of people departing Seattle from their cruises. I got in the wrong line. I finally got into the right line. The machine wouldn’t print out my baggage tag, so I had to go stand in yet another line. I got through security. I got to the gate. My back hurt, but not too bad. Maybe this was going to be ok.
Fourteen hours later we deplaned at Charles de Gaul airport and were confronted with an impossible task. We had to walk 1200 miles to get to baggage claim to go through customs to drop off our bags to go through security to transfer to a different terminal to catch our connection to Barcelona in an hour. The people in our group who had not checked luggage did not have almost any of this problem, and they toodled on ahead. Which is the sensible thing to do! There’s no point in all of us missing a plane. They should go on ahead and get to the Air B&B on time and all that stuff. Still, reader, I resented them. I had unkind thoughts about my friends. Also, my back hurt.
We all made it to the plane, though I thought several times about just giving up, lying down and letting the river of humanity take me. When we arrived in Barcelona I had to go to baggage claim and get my suitcase which wasn’t where the airline said it would be, so I had to go to a different carousel while my friends waited patiently, and I imagined they were already regretting having me along because of my stupid, stupid suitcase. Also, my back hurt.
The long plane trip had erased whatever progress I’d made in calming my back down before the trip. Walking was agonizing. Standing still was worse. It still hurt when sitting, but not quite so loudly. I was pissed and cranky. I didn’t know how to articulate what I needed from my friends, or from the trip itself. As time went on I figured out ways to make the trip bearable, but in the early days of the trip I was a whirling mess of contradictory expectations and self-recrimination.
Day one we headed out to see La Sagrada Familia. I was kind of iffy about going. I’ve spent time in Europe. I’ve seen cathedrals. But La Sagrada is fabulous. The sun shining through the rainbow-colored windows made the air itself seem like stained glass. The walk there was tough but I gritted my teeth. I think I still believed that if I just kept going I would start to feel better. When we got inside the cathedral, the rest of the group went to climb the stairs to the top to take in the view. I knew that wasn’t possible for me. I wandered a bit. I found a little interior window where you could look down into a small chapel where they were having a service. I recognized the passing of the peace and although I have not practiced any sort of religion in years, with no desire to return, for a moment I experienced the awe of shared connection that religion can sometimes bring.
I spent most of my time in the cathedral sitting and taking it all in. After the group was done we went somewhere to eat I think, a touristy place near the cathedral, and the group talked about what to do next. Tired and exhausted with myself I opted to go back to the apartment where I collapsed. When the group returned with tales of their adventures, I was not excited for them. My pain and exhaustion made my heart bitchy and resentful, and my crazy made me angry at myself for being a terrible friend.
Our days in Barcelona were divided into tourist-ing around Barcelona days and bus tour days. The bus tour days felt less intimidating to me, since I knew there would be at least some scheduled sitting down time. One day we went to Montserrat, a monastery and museum in the mountains near Barcelona. My friends broke into groups for exploring and I drifted around more slowly. It was breathtaking. I walked around a bit and then sat outside in the cafe. I ordered two coffees since by then I’d figured out that one Spanish coffee was not enough for this Pacific Northwesterner. I went to the gift shop and stocked up on gifts for people back home.
I experienced the monastery like I experienced a lot of the trip: alone. It wasn’t on purpose exactly, but I hated the feeling I was holding anyone back. I was also in a bad enough mood that I didn’t want to share it. We were a group of five, so it was pretty easy to split into groups of two and two and one, or four and one. In retrospect I wish I’d been more transparent. I wish I’d said I’d like to be a part of the group, but I need to go a bit slower, or, alternatively, I need to go a bit faster so I can make it to the bench on the other side. I wish I’d said that I can’t really walk that far, but I’d love to take a cab and meet you at a bar near where you’re going. In retrospect these requests seem perfectly reasonable. I just didn’t know how to ask for them.
On New Year’s Eve we had plans to go to a dinner and a flamenco show at a restaurant in Barcelona. We’d reserved it through one of the travel websites and didn’t really know what we’d signed up for. The restaurant was in a place called the Spanish Village. We headed out to get there by metro then walking, and immediately ran into roadblocks shutting down areas for New Year’s celebration. After a lengthy trek, much of it uphill, I came to a difficult decision. I was going to need to cut my trip short. I didn’t want to do this anymore.
When we arrived at the Spanish Village, we discovered that it was a picturesque warren of buildings exemplifying different Spanish architecture, connected by cobblestone pathways, alleyways and courtyards. Still in my own head, I pulled Molly aside and told her I didn’t think I could do this anymore. I was in so much pain. I needed to go home. She said all the right kind things. She didn’t want me to go, but she didn’t want me to be suffering. Saying it out loud released something in me. The worst possible outcome had been spoken aloud and I didn’t disintegrate. I would go to dinner and the show and then the next day I could figure out what would come next.
What followed that evening was one of those magical moments that cannot be planned or arranged. We located the restaurant down a charming alleyway. We were led to our table near the stage. Our tickets were for dinner, a full open bar and the flamenco show. Sangria began to flow. Dinner was delicious and exquisite. Delicate soup followed by one of the best steaks I’ve ever eaten and finally a chocolate mousse pyramid studded with nougat and fruit. The flamenco band and dancers were wonderful. As midnight approached the staff handed out silly hats and noisemakers and the traditional 12 grapes that Spaniards eat at New Year, one grape for each toll of the midnight bell.
After the noise and merriment, our group began to get up and gather our things. The hostess hurried over and breathlessly asked us if we were leaving so soon. We admitted we assumed it was all over now, what with it being past midnight. Oh no no, she assured us. Now the dance floor would open and the bar would keep serving until 2. She urged us to stay. For the first time since we arrived I was legitimately enjoying myself more than I was hurting. We stayed for about an hour more, soaking it all in. When we finally left the restaurant we emerged into a courtyard where someone had set up a tent selling grilled cheese sandwiches, which we had to have. We ate our sandwiches and wandered out to the main road, passing all the younger folk heading into the village for the late night raves starting in other parts of the village. Just as my mind turned itself to worrying about how to get home, a cab pulled up and gallantly ferried our Cinderella butts back to our Air B&B.
The night did not magically cure me, but it gave me a lift. I realized I wanted to at least make it to Madrid, where my niece lived so I could give her all the goodies from home I’d brought for her. It also occurred to me that perhaps I could find a massage therapist in Spain, so I texted my niece to ask her if she knew of one in Madrid. She did not, but her husband knew of a physiotherapist near his office. They called and made an appointment for me the morning after I was scheduled to arrive in Madrid. The knowledge of this buoyed me through the days to come.
The morning after I arrived in Madrid I made my way to the physiotherapist, a nice young Spaniard who spoke English a little. We communicated as best we could, and I received a combination of massage and ultra-sound treatment, after which he very apologetically charged me about $35. I felt better. Not cured. Not pain free. Just marginally better. More in control. I went back once more during the trip, happily shelling out the $35 despite the therapist’s pain in charging it to me. (Author’s note: the American health care system is broken. Just fucked up beyond all belief broken. You can tell it’s broken by using the health care system in almost any other country.)
Madrid is where I finally began to let go of the trip I thought I should be having, and settled into the trip I could have. I took cabs everywhere. I found cafes to sit in and watch the world go by. I sat often. I acknowledged when I wasn’t feeling up to things, even things I’d previously said I wanted to do. I found the tv channel that showed dubbed American tv shows, and enjoyed A-Team, Miami Vice and CSI en espanol! I’m sure I wasn’t the most fun travel partner, but I allowed myself to have the experience I could have, rather than the one I thought I should have.
I have fond memories of my trip to Spain that make me happy, because I can enjoy the memories pain free. If I had to do over again, would I make the same choice? I honestly don’t know. If I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have memories of flamenco and grilled cheese sandwiches in Barcelona on New Year’s. Or enjoying grilled squid with my niece in Madrid. Or seeing Guernica, or the Salvador Dali Museum, with my own eyes. My biggest regret in traveling with a non-functional back, is a big one though. Although I went on the trip with four friends, my memories are really about my vacation with pain, rather than my vacation with them. Both my friends and I deserved a better travel companion.
Random Knowledge Syndrome 