Superpowers

My father taught me to travel, not only because his job as a diplomat forced us to be reborn in a new city every few years, but, not content with that, every time the calendar offered a period of three days off, he would shoot his index finger over the map looking for a place to escape to... and we would run to hide under the table. We lived packing and unpacking, and although it might seem very adventurous, to our children's eyes who have not yet learned to appreciate the immense gift of travel, it was a cause for quarrels and riots... short-lived, of course.

The one in charge of putting out the fire between the two sides was Mom, who would come into our room before bedtime, sneak into one of our beds and tell us, by way of consolation, how strange her statement was when they were dating:

- Julita," said my father, sticking his knee in the ground, " do you want to travel with me until we get too old?

And she, who knew that it is impossible to put doors to the field, understood that this offer would be the closest thing to a declaration from that wandering spirit, who was the man she was in love with. She said yes without hesitation, still feeling her stomach turn every time he turned the corner and approached the bar where she waited for him every morning. That mixture of rebelliousness and poise was not abundant in the circles in which she had moved since she was a child and the fact of knowing that she could uncork herself without it meaning going with the first biker who stole her heart, made her reconcile with the refined lifestyle in which she had been educated. Traveling was not new to her either, after all, her childhood had also been nomadic at her parents', my grandparents', home.

Soon after, we began to arrive, bringing chaos, crying, disorder and a revolution in all the habits and good customs of my home (wherever we were living), but the first commandment of the roof under which we were born was never questioned: "we will travel together". My father managed to make diplomacy (seventh generation of diplomats), an anecdote, and our family, a continuous camp. How could we pretend to clip the wings of a man who wore them as a banner and were part of his declaration of fundamental rights?

We traveled together until we were old enough for all parties to accept, and even prefer, by mutual agreement, to travel separately. Law of life. Eventually my brothers planted roots. I never did. Correction. I planted them and I plant them every day everywhere.

My father taught me to pack my bags in record time, to not be afraid of destinations, to use my instinct, compass and passions; to uproot myself, so that it wouldn't hurt so much to pull up the incipient roots that struggled to cling to the new handful of earth. He also taught me to be wary of prejudices to new people and places, and to give them a chance (of at least a week) for the magic to emerge. "What magic, Dad?", I would say, gritting my teeth as tears streamed down my face. "Give them time to surprise you." The funny thing is, no matter how hostile or ugly or cold or dirty my new surroundings seemed to me, there was always a corner, a piece of music, a new friend, that made me start to gush again. The same thing happened with people; the prejudices that at first made me think that I would never understand my new companions, neighbors or tenants, fell to pieces when, after a week of adaptation, that magic he spoke of began to emerge. Over time I have developed the muscle and today I have a radar for virtues (and defects, of course), and I know which lens to use for each individual. With that tool I can travel around the world without needing much more.

That's why, last Monday, Father's Day in Spain, I wanted to remember his best gift to my life. Thanks for your prudence, your maps and your suitcases, Dad. And for giving me your superpowers to detect the good in everyone. The best superpower I could have ever imagined.