“You’re going to Portugal with ten people you don’t know?” my pickleball friend asked incredulously. “You are really brave.”
I clarified that it wasn’t full-out blind faith, but maybe more like cataract faith. There were actually 12 of us going on the trip, but I had met both the life coach and the group leader at an Erma Bombeck conference in April and was pretty sure that they were fun and decent humans. So it wasn’t a full-out know no one trip.
“Life coach?” pickleball friend asked, picking up on an understandable travel oddity.
I fumbled my way through the explanation that I wasn’t sure how she identified – whether she was a certified master of transformation or “just” a bonafide author, team builder and life-changer. But I figured she was into all that touchy-feely stuff I love and oh, yeah – I saw her perform a pretty funny stand-up comedy routine.
Pickleball friend smiled and said, “Your serve.”
I met Desiree (the leader, not the coach) in the lobby of a Marriott hotel at the University of Dayton. She was holding court, touting a book she had written after gleaning inspiration from fellow conference attendees. She had a box of wine by her side (yes, a box) and introduced herself as “I know, I know, I have a stripper’s name.” Then there was Karen (the coach, not the leader) dressed in abstracts, chronicling her husband’s come to Jesus moment. He had been hanging a mega-huge and heavy cross (occupational hazard) when a cable snapped, taking him down and landing him in the hospital with myriad injuries. I followed her around like a puppy dog for the rest of the conference, though I didn’t see much more of Des once the boxed wine went dry.
But like so many random acquaintances in my life, I immediately requested their Facebook friendship. And like so many new Facebook friends, their feeds algorithimmed their way into mine.
Shortly after the conference, Desiree posted that she had lost her job and to stay tuned for news about her next venture. I followed with feigned interest and hearty likes (as opposed to hardy, though I'm fairly confident she wouldn't be able to tell the difference) as she unveiled her new business, Des Miller Travel Media. The plan was for her to serve as a hands-on travel consultant, organizer, leader, entrepreneur, friend. Another 💜 like.
One of her first trips was described as a What’s Next? women’s retreat to Portugal – you know, for anyone who is widowed, divorced, fearing (or cheering) the empty nest, searching for a new career, or just looking for new meaning in life. Oh, and by the way, Karen Grosz (as in Karen from the conference) is going to do the coaching.
True to form, I immediately messaged her.
“I’m happy as a clam, I have a pretty perfect life and I’m not looking for what’s next,” I wrote. “But if you need a body, I’d love to support you.”
I sent in my deposit and buried the itinerary in my Vacations folder. Time passed, as it does, and soon it was time to meet and greet on Zoom. I thought about making up an excuse for missing the call, I really did. I had been uncharacteristically good about not obsessing over this trip and knew that with a week left before departure, there was still plenty of time for fussing and fretting were I to see or hear something I couldn’t unsee or unhear.
“So, what did you think?” my pickleball friend asked the following day, knowing I had been uneasily anticipating this encounter.
“Put it this way,” I said, mincing words as I sized up this 52 year-old friend beside me on the court. “I’m at least 10 years older than most of them. I’m not looking to reinvent myself and my next is most likely the morgue. I’ve never had a life-defining tragedy or felt the need to do anything more than just keep on keeping on. They all have worthy “nexts” and I just wonder if I should make something up so I’ll fit in.”
Wide-eyed she tossed me the ball.
“Your serve.”
Despite a miraculously vacant middle seat, it was still a sleepless overnight flight to Lisbon. Desiree was there to meet me at the airport and with brilliant foresight, swept me away to a hotel room across the street where we waited for the next victims to arrive.
The first woman I met was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. A young single mom – with a kid who could easily be my daughter’s kid without raising any eyebrows. I loved her immediately. And I think she loved me too. You know in that motherly kind of way.
The next two were yes, 54 years old and best of buds from their college days at UNC. I homed right in and began regaling them with stories about my kid’s Chapel Hill experience as if they had been peers. They were polite and pretended they cared before leaving us behind for a wine tasting in town.
And that’s how it went. One by one I met my travel companions, looking for common ground with these random women whose lives couldn’t be more different from my own.
We started every morning with Coach Karen, who led us through exercises that unearthed our excuses, revealed our restraints, unpacked our fears, exposed our vulnerabilities, and unleashed our lives.
And then off we’d go to explore Portugal.
We saw mummified children, monasteries, convents, forts, and castles; ancient buildings that had been earthquaked and tsunamied; a Fado show (google it); and the Belem Tower. We walked along gorgeous coast lines in Nazare and Ericeira; strolled through Obidos, a medieval walled city with modern gelato; and ate in what’s got to be the hugest food court in the country. We shopped in the oldest bookstore in the world where I found the book I was currently reading (Sally Rooney’s Intermezzo) printed in Portuguese; boated around the caves and crannies of Berlengas Island; and visited a tile factory where we painted our own creations. We had two mouthwatering chefs over to our villa to concoct a mouthwatering meal; beheld breathtaking sunsets; sipped wine (boxed and bottled); danced in the villa; and slugged Portugal’s iconic cherry liquor out of chocolate shot glasses.
All the while we adhered to the rules of changing seats, changing up our buddies, and most importantly, changing ourselves. Day after day we dug deeper, got closer, embracing each other's pain, humor, and boundless beauty.
Then it was over.
Back to our divergent lives filled with all the people and places and circumstances that ultimately brought us together. Back to our dogs and kids and parents and pickleball, cooking dinners, running errands, seeing doctors, and raking leaves. Yet two weeks later, our phones are still pinging with affirmations and affections, reminding us of our tears and fears and triumphs and failures and the sacred specifics we shared with one another.
No matter What’s Next, and there will always be a next, I know that even the most skeptical of us will for a long, long time hold on to the inspirational love, trust, and encouragement that was spawned by the entwining of a dozen random souls for a magical week in Portugal.
Imagine that.
A bunch of women I didn't know and couldn't imagine caring about have weaseled their way into my heart (not to mention onto my Facebook feed) where they will reign forever and ever amongst the best of the best.