I’m not going to even try to convince you that I travel well. I am not portable, I struggle to remember that clothes can be washed, and I don’t trust public toilets. Because of this, I confess to being the very opposite of a seasoned traveller.
Allow me to introduce you to the bland traveller:
I am the bland traveler. I am not seasoned. I find car trips exciting, even when the destination is the garage. So to jump on a train for three hours, then a plane for five, then a car for two more – holy crap. I am sure to be a pro by the return trip. A pro, but probably not seasoned.
I had some dramas on the way to my destination. I think the fact that I am seeing them as issues only serves to prove my blandness as a traveller. See what you think:
1. Somewhere between zipping it up and putting it on the scales at the hospital, my case had gained three kilograms. I’m assuming it had raided vending machines when I changed to the Airport line. This is the only reasonable explanation, because the bits I had forgotten and jammed in at the last minutes surely didn’t weigh enough to put me slightly over my baggage limit.
2. Sharing. I don’t like to share with strangers. I don’t want someone to sit next to me. What if they have a smell? I discovered that shoving my case in the leg area of the seat next to me proved enough of a deterrent to put most people off. Talking to my suitcase convinced the stubborn few that looked like they might attempt to ask me to move.
3. Impulse yelling isn’t generally smiled upon. My beloved and I play a game called Windmill. The rules are simple. When you see a windmill you yell out WINDMILL! It,s pretty easy, but exceptionally competitive. Sadly, unfortunately, terribly… I spotted a windmill out the window on the train. Enough said.
4. There was a toilet on the train. A toilet! Who can’t hold a wee for a few hours? What has happened to humanity that we can’t just hold it anymore? Why are there always men pissing on the sides of the road? OK that’s an aside, but it’s true. Sometimes driving on the freeway, the amount of males peeing on the side of the road – it’s like the apocalypse.
5. I didn’t use the toilet on the train, but by the time I got to the airport I was busting. Floating back teeth and everything. I checked my case and found a toilet. Here is the scary bit. The toilet flushed all by itself. I could have been sent through to Sydney Harbour at a million kilometers an hour. I could have been injured. I could have gotten a very wet bottom. I could have experienced a non-consensual colonic irrigation massage!
6. Is it any wonder, therefore, that I was too scared to wee on the plan? What if it flushed while I was sitting there and my bum was sucked out the exit hole? What if my arse ended up performing a nationwide brown eye? What I ended up with a massive hickey on my butt from the suction? And even worse… What if I wound up with a prolapse?
7. Boredom. I got bored very early in the trip, which resulted in all of the above thought processes.
So, friends, suffice it to say I am not a seasoned traveller. I enjoy mischief too much to be in a confined space for an extended amount of time. Maybe it’s just not for me. Which I reminds me of something.
My beloved often recommends long distance train driving as a potential career option for lots of different people. Her daughter, her best mate, her ex husband – lots of different people… But not me. Never me.
I think there’s a certain wisdom in that.