I overplan for life.  I consider every variation of circumstance and overplan accordingly.  There must not be an element of mystery.

I overpack when traveling.  “I must have multiple outfits per day.  You never know what the dress code of La Casa de McDonald’s will be,” is my reasoning.  I also stow reams of maps and general travel information.

I overprepare so that I don’t have to bear the anxiety unknowns bring to me.  Unfortunately, overpreparation means lots of baggage.

On a trip not long ago, a little toothless lady noticed my luggage struggle.  How small I felt when in her tattered dress, she helped me lug my abundance up the stairs of the subway stop, hugging me goodbye in joyful service.

My overabundance and embarassment led me to evaluate.  Is my overplanning a way to avoid faith?

So, the next jaunt across the big pond.  I packed way lighter, two pairs of pants to rotate, and no maps.

God took my small bet and upped the ante on a trip to Spain.  (Is it OK to use God in a gambling metaphor?)

Remember no maps.

We crossed into Spain from Gibraltar on foot in the pouring rain, rolling one little suitcase each.  We flagged down a Spanish cab to take us to the sea-port where we were renting a car to drive to the Andalusian coast, three hours north.

The only two wet Americans for miles, we completed the rental transaction and asked,   “GPS?”

“No,” the clerk answered.

“Maps?” we asked.

“No,” he responded.

NO?  We looked up maps in the translation dictionary.  The word in espanol was vastly different, so maybe he didn’t understand us.

“Mapa?”  “No.”

At this point, I’m coming unhinged.  No map?  We can’t look up directions on Dave’s cell phone because he doesn’t have European internet access.  We are ridin’ old-school and I don’t like it.  There’s a storm of anxiety brewin’ in my head.

“How are we going to do this?”  I asked my husband, annoyed.  He calmly replied, “We’ll get in the car and drive.”  Mr. Smarty Pants was not agitated at all.  He thrives on this kind of adventure.  Or maybe he just has more faith than me?

We know that our destination is in the middle of solitude.  Leaving the port, we asked the machine-gun-carrying-bullet-proof-vest-wearing police office which way to Cabo de Gata.  He pointed to a highway sign and said, “Norte.”  Got it.

Aside from the village name, we are armed with a phone number.  But at the moment, we have no cell phone signal and question whether it will ever appear.

As regular as labor contractions, we stop every 10 minutes to find a mapa.  They apparently don’t exist in southeastern Spain.  Or, maybe God was teaching me to trust.  With every breath, I check for cell phone reception.

We drive for our allotted three hours trying to decipher Spanish highway signs.  Dusk is hovering and we still have no mapa or specific directions.  My edginess is escalating, but the prayers I had been whispering all along kept me from full-blown panic.

Miraculously (God?), cell phone reception materialized in the empty Andalusian countryside and an English speaker answered the phone.

The very next exit would lead to our solitude.