My friends travel, while I… don’t. I don’t even have a passport. I did go on a three-day cruise to Mexico in 2006. The best part was buying drugs that are illegal in the U.S. without a prescription, and cheaply at that.It’s not that I don’t like seeing other places. It’s the getting-to-them that presents the obstacle. The crowds, the packing, the delays, the flying. Not the flying so much as the potential for crashing. And don’t give me that crap about it being safer to fly than to drive on the freeway. I drive a Volvo.
Besides, I mean really, isn’t it all on DVD now anyway? If I want to see Italy can’t I just pop it into the player and relax in the comfort of my own home with a plate of lasagna? China? Hey, pass me the egg rolls. And who wouldn’t rather see Paris all cozy on the sofa with a savory Coq au Vin while avoiding all those annoying French people.
The last time I flew anywhere was in ’93, from L.A. to Pennsylvania. To save myself the trouble of having to check a bag I decided that I would simply wear everything I would need over those next three days. It worked for “Heidi.” Stoked by my own brilliance, I planned my wardrobe carefully and began to layer, starting with several pair of undies: a thong, a bikini and a brief, in that order. Next some leggings, a pair of knee high socks, low-rise jeans and finally a long, black skirt. On top I donned a tank, a tee-shirt, then a black turtleneck and finally a large wool, cable-knit sweater. For shoes, black cowboy boots which went nicely with all my planned ensembles. Clearly, these were the days when you could still fly without enduring a cavity search.
Although it should be obvious, I will mention it anyway. The ingestion of any liquids that day was strictly verboten as peeing would be out of the question. This presented a slight problem, as I prefer to be dead-ass drunk when I fly, but the downing of a single 10-mg tablet of Xanax proved surprisingly effective. Were it not for the fact that even if you drink nothing for hours on end, the body will continue to produce waste fluids and deliver them oh-so-efficiently to the bladder, my plan would have been flawless. This I discovered about one hour from landing and by the time we taxied to the gate, the whole “Heidi” thing no longer seemed like such a stroke of genius.
Trains and buses aren’t much better. You’re still jammed together with a lot of strangers carrying God only knows what germs. You’ve got some Einstein train engineer texting his girlfriend just when he’s supposed to be switching tracks, and buses without seatbelts going off the sides of overpasses. Yes, I know. When my time is up it’s up and God will initiate his own personal search-and-destroy mission. I could be securely ensconced in my own bedroom having safe sex with myself (all the safer) only to have a plane land on me. It happens.
I’m sure that I would enjoy lying on a white, sandy Caribbean beach, my toes dipping into the clear, blue waters of the Atlantic, while a large alcoholic concoction of some kind is served to me by a half-naked native Adonis. There are many places that I am sure I would enjoy, and it is my fervent hope to live long enough for the words “Beam me up, Scotty” to become a reality.
But until then I’m afraid I will just have to remain the reluctant traveler.
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