Chapter 9 - The Return FlightTen days after waving goodbye to Chicago, our tour group gathered in the departures lounge of Lisbon’s airport, our suitcases significantly heavier than when we arrived—stuffed to the bursting point with bottles of Portuguese olive oil, handmade ceramic tiles from Sintra, cork notebooks, and a ridiculous number of pastel de nata boxes wrapped securely in bubble wrap.
As we boarded the aircraft for the long overnight flight back to Newark, I took my assigned window seat (24A once again) and settled into my fleece travel blanket.
Joyce collapsed into the aisle seat beside me, groaning happily as she adjusted her neck pillow. “If I eat one more bite of custard or drink one more glass of vinho verde, I am going to permanently turn into a grape.”
“Worth it,” I laughed.
“Every single calorie,” Joyce agreed, closing her eyes as the cabin lights dimmed for takeoff.
As the giant jet roared down the runway and climbed into the starry night sky, heading west across the Atlantic, I pulled out my travel journal from my tote bag. The pages were filled with ticket stubs, pressed wildflowers from Sintra, handwritten notes about historic castles, and the names and phone numbers of two women from the travel club I now considered lifelong friends.
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I clicked my pen and wrote a final sentence at the bottom of the page:
“Someday isn't a place on a map. It’s a decision you make while the plane is still on the ground.”
