An Appreciation for a Bit of Pansy

I was walking at a pretty steady clip. I could hear the crunching under my feet: a mixture of sand, broken shells and a strange, colorful mixture of porcelain tile rubble.

There was no sidewalk, so I was keeping as close to the jagged edge of the curvy pavement as best as I could. My backpack was heavy, but I picked up the pace, breathing in the cool sea air. I neared the dreaded corner of tall bamboo-like stalks that obstructed my view of the rest of the road so I quickly crossed to the other side and headed down the hill.  

That’s where the pavement ended and the dirt road began.  

I was in Santa Cruz, Portugal, or as my husband jokingly calls it the “Mother Country” since both of his parents grew up there. I was thousands of miles from home, both literally and comparatively.

As I headed down the dirt hill, avoiding the dog doo and broken glass shards, I wondered how I had done this walk with all three kids just days before. I noticed how much easier it was to do the walk by myself without the stress palpitations every other minute when I did it with the kids.

At the bottom of the hill was a large dirt embankment that served as a sparsely populated parking lot, but more often it served as a make-shift soccer field worthy of a “Jose +10” commercial from the last aoccer World Cup.

I slowed down a bit as I watched the kids playing the country’s favorite sport. There must have been 20 boys out there, playing a competitive game. The ball zigzagged down the field amidst the white dust kicked up from the running boys.

At the end of the embankment I came to a small sidewalk, followed by a narrow street leading to a gate on the other side.  As I entered the gate I continued down an uneven pavement to the Internet café, passing a playground along the way.  Just a few days before, my three-year-old had gone down the slide head-first and bumped his head on the concrete ground of the playground flooring.  I realized that I should take solace in the fact that he hadn’t cut himself on some of the broken glass (yes, more of it) scattered under the play structure.

As I reached the café, I sat down at a table and set my laptop up. And as I did, it occurred to me how lucky we are in America. My husband and I sometimes make fun of the extreme safety measures we see, but to be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Our kids have a multitude of grass fields to play their sports on, mulch or soft flooring under playground equipment, and a tremendous number of highly-maintained county parks to visit and enjoy.

And although our European trip was full of charm and adventure, there was definitely a harrowing element to it, considering we had three young kids en tow.

So my point?  

Visit Europe before you have kids.  Just kidding (sort of).

I guess I should learn to appreciate what we’ve got at home, and maybe hope a few helpful changes occur between now and the next time we visit.  

Either that, or bring helmets.