Wednesday, 4/19/2023

Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵

It’s 12:23, local time.  I’m finishing up what Londoners must consider breakfast - the Avocado on Sour Dough was edible, but I can’t make sense of the baked beans and “chips” (French fries). My stomach is still reeling from the week’s long abuse caused by Passover.  It seems us Jews are in a battle for last place with the English over unappetizing cuisine.  Certainly Spain will be an upgrade on that front.

I’m now awaiting my flight in the London-Gatwick airport, departing in a few hours to the town of Las Palmas on the Gran Canaries.  Upon landing at Heathrow, I flew through customs - it pays to be an American (or Canadien), when visiting England.  Apparently, much has been forgiven since our little uprising back in the 1700’s.  Putin might take note of the opportunities that blossom from friendship, rather than colonization, of your historical kin.  I digress.
 
After collecting my bags, I was met by Boris, clearly an immigrant of Russian descent, who helped me with my duffel and pleasantly escorted me to his German car.  I was instantly reminded of the culturally-diverse soup which defines Europe.  Even the two small dogs I passed eyed me in a foreign accent.
 
It was during the 50-minute drive, half asleep, that I had some quiet time to contemplate my journey and the lessons it might impart.  The word “patience” came to mind. 
 
Before leaving Denver, Tara and I took the girls out of school to have lunch before taking daddy to the airport.  They were borderline nightmares.  Fighting, roughhousing (am I my parents?), and ignoring our repeated attempts at encouraging “dining out” behavior.  I finished my lunch, excused myself from the table, and waited outside.  I lost my patience.
 
In the car ride, there was more fighting, crying, apologizing and again, losing my patience but unable to leave the situation, I turned up the music attempting to drown out the chaos.
 
In the airport, I felt impatience when the hugs wouldn’t end so I could get on with my journey. 
 
Now, as I reflect on the last 24 hours (what time is it?), I’m reminded that perhaps a trip across the ocean on the slowest mode of transportation, short of swimming, will break me of my impatience.  What took 7 hours to fly over, will exceed two weeks to sail back.
 
The fault doesn’t lie with my kids, although they would do well to figure out how to get along better and land more food in their mouths than on the floor.  The impatience is on me.  I miss them already.  They would liven up this dull cafe, and were those hugs really long enough?
 
Sitting in the unpleasantness or finding the bright spot in any situation, rather than speeding it along to the good stuff, doesn’t come naturally.  I’m going to work on that.   I hope this trip puts me where my feet are.  Relaxes my “what’s next” anxiety, and strengthens my patience. 
 
In the interim, I’d really love another cappuccino.  Where the F&ck is that waitress?!  :)