Sandra’s Saga: Chapter 13 – Boarding Pass to a New Life

“Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated” ———— Confucius

There’s something surreal about holding a passport again.

It had been years. The photo was outdated, of course—me in a stiff blouse, with tired eyes and the ghost of a smile. But still, when I ran my fingers over that little navy book and saw the blank pages waiting to be filled, it felt like opening a door I thought had closed forever.

This time, the trip wasn’t theoretical. It wasn’t a someday. It was booked.

Lisbon. Portugal.

I chose it for the color, the light, the gentle hills and tiled streets. I chose it because it had a rhythm I longed to hear with my own ears—fado music at dusk, church bells echoing through narrow alleys, and ocean wind brushing across ancient stone.

The weekend trips with Dilma and Frank had built my confidence. They weren’t flawless. I forgot medications once. Got lost twice. Tripped over a cracked sidewalk and scraped my palm on cobblestones. But I also laughed harder than I had in years, watched the sunrise with tears in my eyes, and danced barefoot in a hotel room with Dilma while Frank shook his head and filmed us on his phone.

I came home from those trips sun-kissed and soul-fed. And more importantly: ready.

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The Final Preparations

I made lists. Then lists of lists. I wanted to be ready, but I also wanted to leave space for spontaneity.

Packing light was its own revelation. I didn’t need ten outfits—I needed four good ones, two scarves, a hat, and a pair of sandals that felt like clouds. Dilma helped me put together a capsule wardrobe that could go from morning coffee to sunset terrace in style.

Frank, ever steady, double-checked flight insurance, downloaded the translator apps, and made sure my mother’s care schedule was airtight. He wouldn’t be joining me on this one—he wanted to stay close to home this time—but he supported me with quiet pride.

“I’ll hold down the fort,” he said. “You go find stories.”

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The Blog Begins

I’d been writing privately for months, but now, it was time to go public.

“Wandering With Sandra”—that’s what I called it. A little corner of the internet where I could document my travels, not just in miles, but in meaning. The layout was simple: journal entries, a few photos, and a section called “Notes from the Inside”, where I wrote about what it meant to travel with aging knees, a full heart, and a suitcase full of wisdom.

I clicked publish on my first post the night before we left:

“When the world feels small, go outside. When your life feels paused, press play. You are never too old to begin again.”

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Takeoff

At the airport, I felt butterflies—not from fear, but from arrival. Real arrival. Not at a destination, but in my own story.

Dilma wore a sunhat and carried a journal of her own. “We’re doing it, Sandra,” she said as we waited to board. “We’re actually doing it.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “And we’re going to write it all down.”

As the plane lifted into the clouds, I closed my eyes and whispered to the version of me who once felt so lost:

Look at us now.

I am Sandra. I am no longer waiting. I’m wandering, wondering, and writing—one cobblestone step at a time. And this… this is just the beginning.