Confessions of a not so great traveler

 Confessions of a Not-So-Great Traveler

It’s confirmed: I’m a terrible traveler. Okay - let me not be too harsh on my poor self- I am not a very good traveler, and I am too old to change now – so be it! 

 The chaos begins with booking tickets, where I spend far too much time triple checking my passport details, than I do, deciding on other important aspects. One typo, and I’m convinced I’ll be detained at immigration and will probably have to return home. Seat selection? Non-negotiable. I am ready to pay.  As a claustrophobe, the aisle seat is my lifeline; I need the illusion of escape, even if it’s just to stretch my legs.

Then comes the Packing, which is an Olympic sport in our family. I weigh and re-weigh suitcases & bags a dozen times, like my entire trip depends on it (which, frankly, it does). My wife, however, treats packing as a philanthropic mission. “This is for family members, this for the neighbours,” she says.  I fret while calculating how many extra kilos we’ll be charged for. We argue over packing and the weight of our luggage every time we travel, and my blood pressure surely rises – she wins in the end – wives always do. We invariably end up carrying coal to Newcastle and I have never understood why. Once the luggage is weighed for the nth time, I lock it, in fear of more articles being slipped in – invariably that ruse fails, and I am forced to open it to add in a towel, a tissue box, more shoes or whatever else the wife feels we will find nowhere else on this planet. And I won’t even start to mention those miniscule locks and even tinier keys that mysteriously disappear after every trip. 

Ordering a taxi ride to the airport is a gamble. Will the app work “Will the taxi show up on time? Will we show up on time? What about traffic? What if we arrive late and the gate closes just as we are walking up to the counter? By the time we are in the taxi and on the way to the airport I am on edge. I look at my watch often and open my bag to ensure the passports have not gone for a stroll. 

Then come the queues at the ticket counters that snake around endlessly. Here is the fear of getting someone push their trolley on to the back of my heel and maim me before the trip commences – it has happened, so I am always looking over my shoulder and glaring at anyone attempting to crowd me in. 

 At check-in, the airline’s scale inevitably adds an extra kilo, leaving me suspicious of their accuracy—or my math skills. Immigration is always so stressful - will my passport photo match my face? What if it doesn’t. The way the immigration officer looks at me is enough to send me into a panic. Do I resemble a wanted criminal!

In fact, airport staff rarely help my nerves. Even the pettiest among them exude an air of authority, determined to remind me of who’s boss. The questions—"Where are you going? Why? Where do you work?” are delivered by bored individuals at grimy counters, and their monotony makes the entire process feel like an interrogation from a disinterested cop.

Then comes security- the dreaded security! Shoes off, belt off, laptop out, charger out, purse, & watch put into another bag, liquids separated. Inevitably, my bag gets flagged for inspection for the number of keys we carry. Watching a stranger rummage through my knick - knacks socks and snacks never gets less awkward. I have been guilty of leaving my watch and phone at the checking post and having had to return for it, rather sheepishly.  

Flying business class, the first time was a revelation—clean lounge, lovely toilets, sumptuous food, drinks, comfy sofas, legroom in the plane, soft blankets, champagne, proper cutlery and above all no wrestling for armrests! But in economy, it’s a battle for survival. It’s almost a jungle out there! Between cramped seats and over-shared armrests, I’m reminded why I prefer solid ground. Travel broadens the mind, but it also tests my sanity.

 And I always pray that we have a good pilot who won’t drop off to sleep at the controls or lock himself out of the cockpit.  

Once we reach our destination- it’s not over – what about the luggage. I rush to the carousel- are we at the right one – I scan the crowd to try and see a familiar face from the plane – no such luck. I stand there, eyes scanning the endless stream of luggage, my heart skipping a beat with each new bag that goes by. There’s my suitcase—or is it? The bags blur into a chaotic sea of size and colour, all adorned with colourful ribbons, tape, and those little “fragile” stickers. Like everyone else, I lean in closer, hoping for a sign—anything to help me distinguish mine from the rest—but it’s all so confusing. To top it all, I am colour blind. I rush forward, grab a bag, scan the tag, only to realize it’s not mine. Oh, the awkward dance of pretending I didn’t just almost steal someone’s suitcase! And then, the thought creeps in: What if my luggage is lost? That’s happened before, and now the waiting is a jittery, suspense-filled ordeal, each round of the carousel feeling like an eternity.

Finally, I breathe a sigh of relief as I haul our luggage off the carousel and onto a trolley.

 I often get trolleys with a mind of their own- I am pushing in one direction, and the trolley seems to want to go elsewhere. Then comes the exit gate with uniformed, burly men with beady eyes looking for suspicious passengers. At times I have been signaled out to get my luggage scanned. After seeing umpteen “Airport programmes” I worry, – “what if someone has slipped something into my luggage!  My wife says I look guilty for no reason – now that thought plays in my head every time we are at an airport.

And then we are home or in a hotel at last. My mind then starts thinking about the return journey!

 I can’t help it – that’s me!