(My wife and I stayed in Valencia, Spain, from mid-January 2026 to March 1. Then we returned to a small town in the Sierra Nevada for three weeks. This post is about preparing to leave for Spain and the day we arrived. The photo is of Jorge, his father, his son, and me).
My late mother-in-law’s parents loved to travel until her father reached a certain age and said, “I’ll go anywhere in the world, as long as I can take my bathroom.”
I thought of this man, whom I never met, this week as we were packing for our annual winter trip to escape the brunt of a New England winter. Airlines limit you to one checked bag with a maximum weight of 50 pounds, so you have to carefully evaluate what is worth packing. Since we work four days a week while overseas, we have to lug a certain amount of work-related gear that weighs about 7 pounds. While 43 pounds might sound like a lot for personal items, you’d be surprised how quickly it adds up.
This year, I was surprised to find myself with an unusually strong desire to include my heavy morning robe and house slippers in the 43 pounds. I’d not had a desire to take these items in previous years, but this year it seemed impossible to wake up without them. I must have missed the memo that informs us that, as we age, we grow more attached to our creature comforts and routines. It kind of felt like I was approaching a slippery slope, and it will only be a matter of time before I would only travel if I can take my bathroom.
When we arrived in Madrid on Friday morning, we rented a car and drove an hour to a small town with the catchy name of “San Martin de Valdeiglesias” to spend the day with our “Spanish” son. Many years ago, Jorge came to live with our family as a high school exchange student. Originally, we agreed to temporarily host him until a permanent host family stepped up. Our daughters were a few years younger than Jorge and would have been very vocal in their opposition if he had been like most teenage boys. Fortunately, because he was so sweet and gentle, they accepted him, and he became a member of our family.
My wife, one daughter (the other is a teacher and couldn’t get the time off) and I attended Jorge’s wedding outside of Madrid three years ago, and it was one of the most memorable days of my life. The event started at 11 AM and ended after midnight (12 hours is not unusual for Spanish weddings). In between, we met most of his mother’s seven siblings and most of his father’s seven siblings. Families can be complicated, and not all of these siblings get along, but almost all attended the wedding because they were so fond of Jorge. The powerful combination of family, tradition, ritual, and, most importantly, love made that day unforgettable.
On Friday, we met Jorge’s one-year-old son, Michael, who inherited his father’s happy disposition and a nearly constant smile. It was fun to see how the pimply young teenager we had known had grown into a doting father.
Friday night, we returned to Madrid and took a high-speed train (200+ mph) to Valencia. Musicians talk about the thrill of reading a piece of music for the first time. For me, there is a thrill in seeing a new place for the first time. Some jet lag is creeping up on me, so I’ll close for now. More about Valencia in future posts.
