The Unexpected Gift of Goodbye**

Barcelona, 09:13 AM

The airport taxi honks below my window, right on time. My suitcase is zipped shut, Marcos’s paper creations safely tucked between layers of clothing like secret talismans. But I’m not in it. Instead, I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, running my fingers over a coffee stain on my favorite notebook—a souvenir from yesterday’s rushed despedida at the café.

I was supposed to be in Istanbul by now.

Then came the email last night: “Flight cancelled. Next available: 72 hours.” My first reaction? Panic. The meticulously planned timeline for Home Base unraveling before takeoff. But as I stared at the blinking cursor, something unexpected happened—relief.

Three extra days.

Marcos laughed when I burst into the café, waving my phone like a white flag. “El universo te quiere aquí,” he said, sliding over a cortado. The universe wants you here.

And so, instead of chasing golden hour over the Hagia Sophia today, I’m watching sunlight drip down the brick wall of my courtyard. Instead of stressing over lost time, I’m remembering the elderly neighbor who stopped me this morning—“¿Ya te vas, niña?”—and pressed a sprig of rosemary into my palm “para protección.”

It strikes me how often I’ve treated obstacles as thieves, stealing progress. But this delay? It gave me the gift of slow goodbyes. The barista’s stories I’d never heard. The hidden plaza my neighbor insists I photograph before leaving. The quiet realization that roots aren’t just where you’re planted—they’re where you’re seen, even (especially) when plans go awry.

The taxi honks again. This time, I rise.

Maybe the best journeys begin with what we didn’t plan to carry.

—Sofia