But I was learning that wanting something didn’t always arrive with years of planning.
Sometimes it began with one empty Christmas table.
The Woman Beside Me at the Airport
At the airport, I nearly turned around.
That part isn’t romantic.
I was frightened.
I checked my passport six times.
I worried about my luggage.
I worried about getting lost.
I worried about falling.
I worried about becoming the elderly American woman everyone had to wait for.
Then a woman with silver-blond hair and bright red glasses stopped beside me.
She pointed toward my luggage tag.
“European Christmas tour?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
I blinked.
She held up her own tag.
Same company.
“I thought I was standing in the wrong line.”
I laughed.
“So did I.”
She offered her hand.
“Patricia Bell. Sixty-nine. Retired attorney. Divorced twice, so I’m very good at reading fine print.”
I laughed harder.
“Linda Dawson. Sixty-seven. Widow. Retired bookkeeper.”
Patricia looked at my suitcase.
“Traveling alone?”
“Yes.”
“First time?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You checked your passport twice while we were talking.”
I looked down at it.
“Three times.”
“You’ll be fine.”
She hooked her arm through mine.
“Come on. Let’s find coffee before they put us on that airplane.”
That was how Patricia entered my life.
Not dramatically.
She simply stood beside me in an airport line.
Christmas Looked Different From There
Germany was colder than I expected.
It was also louder, brighter and more crowded.
At the first Christmas market, Patricia disappeared for twenty minutes and returned holding two mugs.
“Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Something warm.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You ask too many questions for a woman who flew across an ocean without telling her son.”
I stared at her.
Then laughed.
Gerald overheard us.
He was seventy, a retired history teacher from Pennsylvania who had lost his wife four years earlier.
“Your son doesn’t know you’re here?”
“He knows I’m somewhere.”
Patricia lifted her mug.
“Linda is mysterious now.”
“I am not mysterious.”
“You crossed the Atlantic secretly at sixty-seven.”
Gerald nodded.
“She’s got you there.”
For the next several days, the three of us kept ending up together.
Gerald knew something about every building.
Patricia pretended to be annoyed by it.
“Please don’t tell me when this church was built.”
“You don’t want to know?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Fourteenth century.”
“Gerald.”
I laughed until my face hurt.
I bought a wooden Christmas ornament in Germany.
Then another in Austria.
I sent Mark one photograph.
Me beneath Christmas lights, holding a paper cup.
His response arrived eleven minutes later.
“MOM??? ARE YOU IN EUROPE?”
I stared at the message.
Patricia leaned over.
“You’re in trouble.”
“I’m sixty-seven.”
“You’re still in trouble.”
I typed:
“Germany. Having a wonderful time. Love you.”
Three dots appeared immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
“CALL ME.”
I put the phone in my purse.
“Later,” I said.
Patricia grinned.
The Photograph From Lucerne
Lucerne changed something.
Maybe it was the mountains.
Maybe it was the fact that by then I had stopped checking whether everyone else was comfortable before deciding what I wanted to do.
We were crossing the bridge when Patricia stopped a stranger.
“Would you take our picture?”
Gerald immediately straightened his coat.
Patricia groaned.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That funeral-home photograph face.”
“This is my normal face.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
I started laughing.
The stranger took the picture right then.
Patricia had one hand around my arm.
Gerald was trying not to laugh.
And I was in the middle with my head slightly back, smiling.
That evening, I posted it online.
I didn’t think much about it.
By morning, there were dozens of comments.
Friends from church.
Former coworkers.
Neighbors.
Cousins.
People I hadn’t spoken to in years.
Then Mark called.
I answered while eating breakfast.
“Good morning.”
“Mom, who is that man?”
Patricia looked up from across the table.
I nearly choked on my coffee.
“What man?”
“The man standing next to you.”
I looked toward Gerald, who was putting jam on toast.
“His name is Gerald.”
“Who is Gerald?”
“A retired history teacher.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then ask what you mean.”
Mark lowered his voice.
“Are you dating someone?”
I laughed.
Gerald looked over.
Patricia mouthed, What?
I shook my head.
“No. Gerald is my friend.”
“You met him there?”
“Yes.”
“And the woman?”
“Patricia. Also my friend.”
Another silence.
Then Mark said:
“I didn’t know you wanted to travel.”
I stopped stirring my coffee.
“You never asked.”
He didn’t respond.
I continued.
“I didn’t know either, actually. Not until recently.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before you booked it?”
There it was.
I looked through the hotel window.
Mountains rose behind the buildings.
“Because I didn’t want anyone giving me an opinion about whether I should go.”
“I wouldn’t have stopped you.”
“Maybe not.”
“Mom.”
“Mark, I’m not trying to punish you.”
“I know.”
His voice was quieter now.
“I’m sorry about Christmas.”
I waited.
“I should’ve called you myself.”
“Yes.”
“Hannah thought—”
I interrupted him.
“Don’t explain Hannah to me.”
Silence.
“If Hannah has something to say, she can say it herself.”
“Okay.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
After I hung up, Patricia was staring at me.
“Well?”
“My son thinks Gerald is my boyfriend.”
Gerald nearly dropped his toast.
That morning, I laughed harder than I had in years.
And for once, nobody in my family was the reason.
Patricia’s Question
Near the end of the trip, Patricia and I sat in a small café while Gerald disappeared into another bookstore.
Outside, people passed carrying shopping bags.
Patricia stirred her coffee.
“What happens when you go home?”
“I unpack.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
She leaned back.
“Are you going back to exactly what you were doing before?”
I looked down at my hands.
Before the trip, my weeks had been built around waiting.
Waiting for Mark to call.
Waiting for somebody to need dinner.
Waiting for a holiday.
Waiting for an invitation.
I hadn’t called it waiting.
I called it being available.
“No.”
Patricia nodded once.
“Good.”
“I’m going to travel again.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
She immediately took out her phone.
“Scotland.”
I laughed.
“Why Scotland?”
“Because I’ve never been.”
“That’s your entire reason?”
“It worked for you.”
She had a point.
