Travelling comes with pros and cons. The much-needed time off. Those unique places you have yearned to visit.
Some of us pack the bare essentials. I fall into the category of packing everything, even the kitchen sink if I could. My logic is why buy it if I already own it. Perhaps it is not logical, more like my own stupidity.
My suitcases are always packed to the maximum weight, leaving only a few ounces to spare.
Next time I travel, I’ll pack lightly, repeating to myself after each trip. What a joke; until today, I have not yet learned a lesson. At the airport, I find myself dragging around two suitcases and a purse. The feeling of a donkey overloaded suddenly creates a picture in my mind.
Standing in the long line at the airport, I look at myself in disbelief to have done it again. I push one suitcase with a foot while dragging along the other.
I finally reach the airline counter, droplets of sweat are overcoming my body with fear of my suitcases been overweight. The luggage has finally made it through the conveyor belt without penalty. A deep breath of relief overcomes the fear.
” I did it,” Repeating to myself with enthusiasm and pride. Until the next trip, I suppose.
Coming back from Italy is not different. When I see an object costing less than what I would pay in Canada, I’ll buy it. I saved myself a few dollars.
Last year while in Italy, I bought cheese every time I went to the market, not thinking about its weight. By the time I began packing to return home, my suitcase was thirty pounds overweight.
I had a big dilemma, leaving my clothes behind or the cheese. I couldn’t come to a compromise.
After a few days of thinking, I decided to buy a new suitcase.
The suitcase cost me about one hundred and twenty Euros. At the airport, I had to pay an additional hundred euros for extra luggage.
Was all that cheese worth my pain and suffering? Hell ya!
Adding the cheese bought in Italy to my food, is like being home.
My mouth explodes with fireworks. The saltiness, the creamy milk, and that tad of bitterness create a perfect marriage, called cheese, playing a harmonious dance on my tongue.
Pasta in my house, it’s music in the heavens, immersed in cured buffalo ricotta and my homemade tomato sauce.
Boarding a plane is a joke, waiting for hours. When the boarding is finally open, everyone stands up, resembling a herd of cows entering the barnyard. Most people move with the flow while others push themselves through to get ahead. Everyone gets called by the first letter of their last name. By the time my turn arrives, I find myself the last one in line due to my last name, starting with the letter J. I push myself through the overpacked aisles, dragging the hand luggage and an overstuffed purse.
The struggle begins the minute I need to get into my seat. The luggage spot above my seat has being taken by some inconsiderate individual a few rows down.
“How dare you come and invade my space; I paid for this spot, you wild ass.”
The reason for rushing ahead suddenly makes sense. I squeeze myself into the tiny 18-inch seat, feeling like a stuffed sausage. With no room to move, more like a planted tree trunk.
Flying for nine to ten hours straight with my ass cheeks planted in one spot is cruelty.
Hardly any room to stretch my feet, never mind eating. I have dreams of seeing many places, but the nightmare of boarding a plane takes a vacation to another level.
Now I have a clear vision of how animals feel being caged and shoved into small places.
I feel for them deeply.
Years ago, I travelled in first class. I had a family emergency back in Italy; there were no seats left in second class; they decided to put me with the diplomats. My seat was a sofa chair, soft and comfortable; I sunk into the comfy chair like your head sinks into a pillow. I had plenty of space in front of my feet and my side. I could probably fit another person beside me. First-class is the way to travel.
Just imagine yourself having to toot and stuck by a window seat. Either you clench your butt checks very hard with the hope that nothing will escape, not even a tiny squeal or try to make it to the bathroom.
In many cases, you will never make it to the bathroom without leaving a trail of foul odours along your way.
Oh the joy of travelling.
