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The first time I ever left the United States, I was 16 years old, filled with fantasies of fantastic extravagance. Spain always seemed to be a place of promise and poise. Visions of a whimsical world full of wonder and possibility penetrated my thoughts, pervading my mind. The standard procedures were demonstrated by the flight attendants and I found myself staring out the window. All of this seemed so dull compared to the destination that awaited me 30,000 feet below. Two years ahead of the expected date, I graduated from my high school’s Spanish program. I had always been intrigued by speech and the connections made possible through language. Spanish was a portal to a whole different world. The language itself nearly satisfied my lust for adventure. I began to close my eyes and drift off to sleep when I felt a tap on my shoulder. A man in his mid-thirties flashed a soft smile. His dark hair lay neatly on his head, swept to one side and cut rather short. His brown eyes surveyed me for a second. In a rather thick accent, he asked where my final destination would be. I hesitated for a second, unsure if I should engage with a stranger. “Spain,” I respond, “with a group from my school.” His soft smile grew into a toothy grin and his relaxed brow raised with excitement. “Habla Español?” he inquired. I smiled and nodded in response. The man introduced himself as Miguel, a minor league baseball player, originally from the Dominican Republic. His wife was about to give birth to their first baby girl. Miguel and I talked for some time. My four years of practice in the classroom with the Spanish language resulted in my first real world experience: a very broken conversation. Miguel taught me a few slang words and the subtle differences between his accent and a Spaniard's. Our flight quickly turned into a Spanish lesson. Before I knew it, we had landed at our first layover stop in Miami. I bid farewell to Miguel, wishing him an abundance of happiness and good health. My small group and I eventually arrived in Spain after many more hours of flying. Our days were packed full of experiences, watching bull fights, praying in cathedrals older than our home country, sampling tapas at nearly every café we passed, and climbing clock towers to look out over whatever gorgeous city our tour group happened to be in that day. Spain was nothing short of magical. Coming back to the United States, I had a million and one stories to tell. I felt changed. I clinged to the most ordinary of instances. Everyone wanted to hear about the moments that made my heart skip a beat, got my blood pumping, took my breath away. They wanted to hear about the destination, but I found this magic moment in what others deemed the “plainest” bit of my entire trip: the time I spent with Miguel on the airplane. I think about him a lot. I wonder where he is in his baseball career. I think about the peculiarity of chance and of moments that are fleeting. I am thankful for all of it. His daughter will be turning three years old soon. I hope he teaches her what he taught me. There is beauty in simplicity. There is beauty in connection. There is beauty in the journey. There is beauty in the millionth and one.