Sabrina. Ben.

We were waiting for the plane to accelerate down the runway and lift Ellie into the sky for her very first air travel (notwithstanding the many boinga launches we’ve done in recent months). The odds were stacked in our favour — we’d passed a peaceful couple hours in the Edmonton airport’s spacious and empty baby care room, Ellie was in a clean diaper and her last feed and nap were precisely timed to afford take-off coping mechanisms — but Ben and I were each still nervous. To our great relief, Ellie simply turned on the charm.

She smiled every time she saw the woman sitting behind us, and I heard her say, “are you a silly baby?” And she giggled at the flight attendant who couldn’t help but return the smile while giving us the first time flying with baby spiel. It was so pure. Seeing the effect she was having on others made me feel misty, and when I looked at Sabrina we realized we were feeling the same thing.

A thousand unspoken words passed between us as our glasses threatened to fog. Meanwhile, the third in our three-seat row started the flight as he meant to go on, by completely ignoring our existence and offering our joyful bundle of chaos neither smile nor scowl.

We tried to time the feeds for takeoff and landing so that the swallowing motions would help with ear pressure. She did cry a bit, but in general she just slept. It was so much easier than I was braced for. On the second flight (a red eye) Sabrina and I were not able to get more than a few minutes sleep. It gets harder and harder to be comfortable as we get older, and Sabrina had the added worry of holding Ellie.

I think for the first time in my life I actually fell asleep (however briefly) with my head canted over to the side. I awoke with a jolt, unsure of how long I’d been in that position. Upon touchdown, Ellie was still asleep and we waited until everyone else had gotten off before disembarking ourselves. Customs passed with nary a wait, and we walked swiftly toward baggage claim, where all swiftness ceased. Being as we were at the tail end of our flight group, we could see that most people had already gotten their bags and left. A few stragglers were still waiting alongside us, but once the baggage belt stopped moving and our bags were still nowhere to be found, we knew that Air Canada had done as we expected, and lost our luggage. Or at least not brought it to Madrid at the same time as us. We lined up, filed our reports, and moved outside to pick up our rental van.

In the European parking lot, the Kia Sorento felt big. We couldn’t open the doors on one side, so I reversed at 3 inches per hour, foggy brain overwhelmed by the flurry of alerts and indicators on three screens. We got on our way about an hour later than planned. We reacquainted ourselves with Spain’s funny custom of constantly changing the speed limit on highways. For 10 seconds the limit jumps to 120, then back down to 80, then in a minute it’s 100 and so on. I started to appreciate a fancy modern feature of the Kia – the dash displays the posted speed limit as soon as it changes, and alerts me if I’m over or under. We stopped for gas and a sandwich and I took a Red Bull. We hadn’t gone far but I was struggling to keep my eyes open and focused. I dug out my sunglasses. That helped my eyes more than the energy drink, and I felt much more comfortable during the second half of the drive. Spain’s great central plateau began to break up into higher hills and deeper gorges, which also helped keep me awake.

Down, down down the country we drove, winding through the foothills that flow between the Sierra Nevada mountain range and the Sierras de Tejeda y Almijara. With maybe an hour and a half before final destination, Ellie woke up. She’d finished up her “night” of sleep, and was now ready to move after being in the car seat for four hours. We were able to keep her mostly calm, and to my immense relief she fell back asleep to the dulcet tones of fingernails scratching against my waistpack just as we started the ascent from Nerja up the winding mountain road to Competa. After half an hour of careful twisting and Jen bemoaning the lack of guardrails, we made the left turn that marked the final few kilometres until our villa. This road was even narrower, though blessedly mostly empty of other cars. At last, our driveway. Craggier than expected, it ascended over a final rise in the ridge and as we inched our way up we spotted my mom at the top, waving her arms and near tears with worry that we hadn’t arrived yet. What a relief!! We hit the park button with maybe 15 minutes to spare before nightfall. By the time we’d unloaded the car and dug into the Moroccan dinner Abuela Keith had prepared for our arrival, the landscape was blurry with the dark blue filter of nautical twilight.

We all slept well and woke late to a warm sun shimmering on the Mediterranean at the bottom of our valley. We had time to look around at the villas and farms sprinkled on the hillsides; the terraced orchards of citrus fruits, olives, and almonds; I listened to the birds (Serling, Greenbill, Tit, Goldfinch), the lazy buzz of the occasional fly (we love Spain for the benignity of the insects), roosters, the clank of bells on a herd of goats, the lowing of a cow far below, the bark of a dog.

We left on Sunday and, because of the time change, landed Monday morning. We drove all Monday. So today was now Tuesday, our “day of travel” having eaten up February 2 and 3. Today we set a modest goal of visiting the nearest town, Cómpeta, getting groceries, a little exercise, and the lay of the land.

At the end of the day, Ben suggests he and I go for a run. As my fitness has gradually improved in the lead-up to Spain, we’ve both been eager to run together. Ellie has thus far been too small for us to _run_ with the running stroller, so with the abuelas available for babysitting, this was our first opportunity in months to lace up together. We set off at a loping pace, eyes set on the little Cerro that blocks our view of Competa. It wasn’t long before our triumphant return to running became a power hike up a steep slope. When I looked at the time and saw we’d been gone for twenty minutes, I felt itchy to turn back, nervous about being away from Ellie for longer than a half hour. As soon as I was able, I opened my stride and dashed the final kilometre home, arriving sweaty and convinced that my baby would be distraught. To my chest-clutching relief, I walked in the door to find Ellie cradled face out in my mom’s arms, fast asleep.

It was our first run together since Ellie and it was a celebration. We were in Spain, thriving as a family and as a couple. We jogged through curtains of golden light as we wove up and around the hills. The sun sets fast here. Within fifteen minutes the southwest ridge our deck looks out on blocks the light. A misty orange glow and the first bright stars in the deeper blue above. The day cools off just as fast, the crisp air reminding us that even in Andalusia, it is February. It reminds me to be grateful for the afternoon sun.