When I die, I want to come back as my kids!

   

 A few weeks ago my wife and I picked up our daughter from the Atlanta airport.  She was returning from a "Maymester" in Ireland.  This is a new concept to me which I found out was a clever semantic substitution for "vacation."  Colleges make reciprocal arrangements with foreign universities for study abroad programs and then give a few hours credit for classes like "media studies" and "Living History."  I guess when students come to the U.S. they can study "Imagineering" and "The Broadway Experience".  I must admit some genius administrator was sitting around the faculty lounge one day, eating his bologna sandwich between lectures to sleeping freshmen, and thought there must be a better way.  Why not set up a program where I get paid to tour Europe, spend two hours a day talking about a subject that I mastered from an online Khan Academy course, and then drink wine all night.  Thus the birth of the travel abroad program at your local university.

     I'm sure these kids have a great time, but let's get real as Dr Phil might say.  They are not getting a massive amount of edumacating!  Some of these classes claim to cram three credit hours into two weeks of backpacking through Croatia.  That's like saying I can learn astrophysics while strolling around Disney World.  It's hard to see how intensive instruction can be wedged between touring various pubs and kissing the Blarney Stone!  After all, if you tour enough pubs everything begins to sound like Blarney.

     My oldest daughter also did a stint in Europe.  She was in London, Rome and Florence for about eight weeks.  This was a bit less of a whirlwind tour of the breweries and a bit more of the classroom, but it was still a pretty sweet deal.  The best part of her extended stay is that my wife and I could use it as a rationalization for us to visit.  We had no doubt that she would completely decompensated unless we arrived to bolster her and take in a few wineries and museums while we were there.  We didn't get any college credit however, and she would have done just fine without us, but we went anyway.  The most recent excursion by our youngest offspring was, alas, too short notice for us to plan a visit, and I suspect she planned it that way.

     It had been a while since I had been in the International terminal at Hartsfield International airport and it was a pleasant surprise.  Being used to the cattle call that is the main terminal, I bathed in the relative spaciousness of the international terminal and never felt I was being groped liked I often did on terminal A-D, or especially on the germ infested people transporter claiming to be a tram system.  The international terminal actually had Muzak you could hear (a nice mix of Burt Bacharach tunes), relatively short lines and TSA agents who looked like they wanted to be there, and a nice place to meet deplaned loved ones.  Both Susan and I had a grand time watching arriving passengers being greeted by what appeared to be family, friends, lovers, acquaintances, and drug sniffing dogs.  It was so fun to imagine the stories behind each arrival.  Being the international terminal, we didn't much have to worry about people hearing what we made up because English was definitely a second and possible a third language.  Whatever the story, they were all punctuated by joy, relief, and not a few tears.  If you ever want a pick me up, go watch families greeting each other at the international terminal.

     The reception area where arriving passengers depart is a bit deceiving however.  There is the main chute where it seems the majority of folks arrive and run into the arms of awaiting family and friends, and then there is a back way that allows some passengers to go around, passing directly behind those anxiously awaiting them.  I mention this because Susan and I were standing at the rail, waiting to completely embarrass our daughter with a totally unnecessary display of affection, until we got a text asking where we were.  Of course my genius answer was "here".  She appropriately replied, "and where might here be?"  At this point I decided instead of thirty texts to clarify the matter, I was better off actually having a conversation so I called her.  It seems she had cleverly bypassed us at the gate and had already picked up her luggage and was waiting rather impatiently for her chauffeurs...us.

     I am thankful that I have the resources to let my girls experience the travel and study abroad phenomenon.  They both appreciate and understand that they, like many of their peers, are blessed, and they both came back with a special and unique perspective that they couldn't get anywhere else.

     When I die, I want to come back as my kids!