My friend and I were in Madrid, Spain, after 2 months of backpacking and hosteling throughout Europe. We spent our last dollar getting to the airport, where we would use our travel vouchers to catch the earliest flight back to the States. Exhausted and ready to settle into a long flight, I reached into my fanny pack where I had my passport, a few coins and other essentials I wanted close. No voucher. I felt around more; a little panicky I began to take everything out, flipping through to see if it had fallen into the folds of my documentation. Nothing. My friend Kelly stood close by, looking at me with a little horror and perhaps a little irritation.

“Lana, where’s your voucher?”

“I don’t know. It was in here. I don’t know.”

I don’t know if I had lost it or if it was stolen, but in any case it was gone. I had no way to get home. We had no money left. We were hungry and tired, and a sea away from anything familiar.

Bottom line, we we’re stranded in the airport, and due to different circumstances were unable to get money transferred to us until 3 days later. We slept on hard benches in the airport. Our stomachs growled to the ticking of the clock. We caught many glances of disapproving onlookers. Our appearance must have matched how we felt: weary, travel worn, dirty and relatively desperate.

For three days we watched longingly as travelers grabbed a coffee or a sandwich on the go. We tried to stay out of sight and smell of any restaurant or cafe. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a banana so badly.

On the day the money came, I had to hop the over gate to the transit system just to get from the airport to the Western Union downtown. I got lost along the way, almost missing my window of time to pick it up. I had no way of getting back to the airport other than to get this money. After hours of walking on foot, I finally found it. When the teller handed me the envelope, I think I cried. I walked fast, stopping quickly to buy a Magnum, a popular ice cream bar in Europe. It was the first thing I saw. The next thing I saw was a beggar, sitting on the side of the street up against a brick building. I ran to him, pulling out the first bill I touched. I don’t remember the exact amount, but it was no dollar.

I felt like he was my brother.

He is my brother. Does it have to take a little personal discomfort for me to deeply, actively care?