discovering bonnie

One Step—and a Few Missteps—at a Time

The idea of my first international flight to Europe carried a quiet kind of excitement. A seven-hour, overnight flight to Madrid, a connection to Seville, and I would arrive to see my son—settled into his life there, ready to share it with me—and explore a little of Spain together.

It sounded simple. Predictable, even. But I was about to learn how quickly the unfamiliar has a way of inserting itself—uninvited, and often at the worst possible moment.

We were supposed to meet in Madrid. He had flown in the day before. The plan was simple—find each other, grab coffee, and board the next flight to Seville together.

When I finally reached the gate, I couldn’t find him. Our prior texts had gone silent. He wasn’t answering my calls, and the flight was already on final boarding. My mind started to spin—what had happened?—but I had a decision to make: skip the flight or board it. There was no way to know, and no way to control it.

I boarded the plane.

Somewhere between takeoff and arrival, in the midst of my worry, I understood that this trip would not unfold the way I had imagined. It was going to require something else entirely.

When we later connected in Seville, things settled quickly into something easy. Once I stopped trying to make sense of how it had started, it simply became what it was. For the next few days, I stepped into his world—walking the city, learning the rhythm of his days, and tasting and exploring a part of Spain I hadn’t expected to experience this way. It was, simply, wonderful. And in its own way, reassuring—he didn’t need me to manage any of it.

Next up, Italy—after all this time, and on my own.

Flying into Milan, I expected a sprawling city—but that wasn’t the view at all. Instead, it was expansive Alps and countryside, with little sign of the city itself. It was breathtaking.

Getting to Rapallo from Milan meant navigating trains from the airport to Milan Central, then on to Rapallo—something entirely new to me. I was anxious—after all, I had heard plenty of warnings about theft—but I kept moving forward, one decision at a time.

Somewhere along the way, as the train moved south toward the coast, the process began to feel more manageable—less like something I was trying to control, and more like something I was simply doing.

By the time I arrived, it was getting dark. The view would have to wait.

The next morning, it settled in—the Portofino coastline, and with it, the realization that I was there.

Over the next few days, I continued exploring the coast by train and bus, growing more comfortable with each step. At one point, I considered renting a moped—a common way to explore the area, and something that, at first, felt like a step I would normally say yes to.

But the bus ride from Santa Margherita to Portofino told me everything I needed to know—mopeds darting in and out between cars and buses on narrow roads—and it helped me realize it wasn’t for me. Not everything unfamiliar needed to be navigated. And knowing the difference—what to step into, and what to step away from—felt like what this trip had been asking of me all along.

Not everything needed a yes.