A to B

The week before travel in our house is a mix of excitement at the upcoming holiday and mild panic that swings between what we have to do before we leave, and what might possibly go wrong before we arrive at our destination. If I’m honest, there’s little we in the latter and it’s fully I. Neil doesn’t panic often, although he has a good line in it when he spills something, then he flaps like the ends of a scarf in a Wellington southerly. His last was a jug full of milk he’d just frothed for coffee. Milk is a bad enough spill anyway, but he did it all over the stovetop, causing said stovetop to spit and fizz and blow the fuse it shared with the oven, meaning we had nothing to cook on for two days. (To be fair to him, I should point out that the other day I managed to throw an almost full cup of tea to the floor, via my pale blue dressing gown and breaking one of my favourite mugs. To be fair to me, I managed to mop it from the table, chairs, wall and, thankfully wooden, floor without any flapping. Even my dressing gown came clean.)

Back to panic. I don’t do the clichéd chicken stuff (spills tend to result in a Fuck, that’ll take some cleaning more than any other reaction). Instead I do the overthinking stuff. I mean, what’s the point of just letting fate take its course when you can let the possibilities of what might go wrong gnaw away at your sleep and sanity for days? I’m as prepared as I can be – you should see my lists (yes, plural) which, for the first time, are e-based and on my phone rather than on scraps of paper drifting around. I met a friend for coffee, remembered something to add to a list, then realised I’d left my phone at home. She sighed and picked up her phone: What is it? then sent me a message so I’d see it later. Good friends are like gold Koru club membership.

So prepared, yes, but what about the unforeseen? I can spend hours (days) thinking about what to pack, even though I know there will always be something I don’t have that I want, and something I have that I won’t wear. But what happens if, despite my careful planning, a bag doesn’t arrive with me? It’s the stuff of nightmares for someone who hates shopping at any time but when the pressure is on and you’re in a strange country it’s head-exploding territory. I always wave our bags off as they disappear through the hanging plastic curtains at the end of the conveyor belt: See you in *insert name of destination airport* as Neil walks away pretending he doesn’t know the loon talking to a suitcase, but what if, despite such encouragement, they decide not to make the journey with us? Or that they fancy a bit of independence and wing their way, literally, to some other part of the world? And we don’t travel light: friends went to Japan for three weeks with carry-on only – I lose the ability for coherent conversation when I think about it – our hiking boots alone take up half a cabin baggage bag (they never get packed in hold baggage).

A couple of days ago I randomly checked reviews of the apartment hotel we’d booked in Toronto, our first stop. Because I’m not stupid I’d done this before booking, but there were new ones, especially one mentioning the lack of kettle, which is not unusual in North America – even though tea drinkers founded both countries they’ve since moved to the dark side and coffee. But the response stated that, as student accommodation let to tourists during the summer break, the apartments had no pots, pans, cutlery or cooking utensils of any kind. Now I’m not about to start preparing a gourmet meal when I’m on holiday, but if I can’t have my morning cup of tea… Neil’s not stupid and he knows when there’s a good reason to panic. Once I’d talked myself off the ledge I noticed the magic words: free cancellation. Never has a Cancel Booking button been clicked so decisively (once I’d booked somewhere else, of course).

I love travelling but I can’t say the process of getting from A to B holds any thrall if it involves flying. Aside from the fact that airports the world over seem to be one of the best places to be if you enjoy a queue (and, despite being British, I don’t) can anyone, honestly, say they enjoy flying? Yes, there’s the may-as-well-relax attitude, but to say you enjoy being in a pressurised tube breathing re-circulated air from a few hundred other humans (hello, Covid) and sitting in one place for up to fourteen hours, then unfurling and trying to ignore the cracks and groans that come from various body parts? Only a masochist. I can’t even celebrate getting off the plane because I then have to face customs and immigration – uniforms intimidate me and I’m automatically guilty when I see one. Unless it’s worn by the snarky woman in US immigration when I transitted through there once. She took my passport, gave a snort of laughter and pointed to my middle name (Kim): What’s this, your Korean name? Uniform or not I wanted to poke her in the eye, which would have probably got me arrested.

There are two stages to my holiday starting and me being able to relax. The first is when I get to the airport (which is where I am now) and have merrily waved my bags off then, after weeks of doing and organising, have nothing to do for the next twenty-four hours plus except sit in a cramped seat and read/watch movies/do crosswords/eat, drink and try to sleep. The second is when I stand, propped up by a luggage trolley and trying not to fall asleep on my feet, by a carousel that has no brightly coloured horses but hopefully on which my bags will soon hove into view and glide towards Neil’s waiting hands. Then the holiday begins. But what if they don’t hove?