I give myself a trip every year for my birthday. Planning this gift distracts me from the steadily increasing number that represents my age.
Over the past couple of years, I have thought more about travel as it relates to who I am and how I want to travel.
Once, I wanted to be ‘that traveler’. You know the one that I mean.
‘That traveler’ who sprints through an itinerary of six cities, four hotels, two overnight train journeys, nine personalized tours of sites unknown even to the locals with a regulation-size carry-on that contains six pieces of sensible clothing that will provide unique, coordinated ensembles for fourteen days…with no assistance from a laundry or dry-cleaner.
Then I realized that it was time for a reality check.
After a good, long and slightly uncomfortable look in the mirror, I admit that:
1. I have a shoe fetish.
2. I will not wash socks…or anything other than my skin…in my hotel sink.
3. And finally, that I am not ‘that traveler’.
I will no longer feel guilty about checking a huge bag, and I will not feel guilty about schlepping everything that I can legally carry into the cabin. And I will enjoy it.