Traveling is stressful and requires loads of patience. Any seasoned traveler will attest to this. Even the most detailed plans can go awry. Learning to accept that something will not go as expected, then adapting accordingly is the key to keeping one’s sanity. Maybe there are a few folks who actually like sitting in an airport surrounded by thousands of harried people, grumpy TSA agents processing long lines through security, but I am guessing that most of us would rather be anywhere else. Airports specialize in a sort of commercialized impatience, designed to keep people moving.
I am experiencing a little impatience of my own right now. I am supposed to be in Kenya. The plan was for me to return in January 2021 as a follow-up of my 2020 visit with the Kenyan deaconesses of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Kenya. Obviously COVID altered many a plan, including my own. I am learning, along with the rest of the world, a new sort of patience.
Despite travel’s inconveniences, and there are many, I do love to travel. (or perhaps it is more accurate to say, I love being in other countries and cultures, but don’t enjoy the long flights and layovers), but it wasn’t always so.
In 1985, a year after we’d been married, my husband, Dennis and I embarked on a six-week trip to Europe. A sort of delayed honeymoon. I had never traveled abroad, and truthfully had traveled very little period. But Europe! Who doesn’t want to travel to Europe?! I was full of anticipation and excitement which came to an abrupt halt the moment we landed in Amsterdam on a wet, drizzly October morning. I was jet-lagged, bedraggled and disoriented. My ever-patient husband did his best to make things go smoothly, but I was like a fish out of water. There are photos of me, in Amsterdam, at the Van Gogh Museum, standing next to a Van Gogh, Sunflowers, looking glum and tired. Seriously—while standing next to a Van Gogh.
The proof. 1985
Not looking much better. Amsterdam, 1985
Eurail passes in hand, and backpacks strapped to our backs, we traveled from Amsterdam to Germany, where we met up with a high school friend who was living there, and I began to adapt.
Livia, Pamela (with a smile!) and Dennis, Germany, 1985
But once we hit Venice, a tsunami of homesickness washed over me. I couldn’t appreciate the beauty of this ancient city; all I could see were canals full of dirty water and trash. The smells and ever- present flocks of pigeons didn’t help. I cried buckets of tears and if I could have gotten on a plane home, I would have. By the time we returned to California after six weeks of traveling, I could have kissed the ground. This is not to say that the trip wasn’t fabulous, it was, and I have many fond memories and can even laugh about my mishaps. However, I decided back then that I was more of a homebody than a traveler, and I told myself that for many years. I realize now, I was simply not comfortable enough in my own skin to relax and let go. So, the mere fact that a year ago, I was traveling alone to Kenya with a long layover in Qatar, a middle eastern country, was really quite remarkable. Even more remarkable was that this was my eleventh trip to Kenya.
I have learned over these past fifteen years of traveling to Africa and other faraway places how to prepare. I get organized. I do research. I make lists. I get prescribed medications to guard against malaria and other calamities, make sure my travel immunizations are up-to-date and, most importantly, I stock up on Hot Tamales and SweeTarts. For instance, in preparation for last year’s trip, I had carefully packed two huge suitcases full of water filters, medical supplies, books, and a few clothes. I planned a curriculum for our deaconess seminars. I made sure my colleagues in Kenya had my itinerary and the list of items needed to be purchased in Kenya to make this trip a success. I checked my list once, then twice.
On a wintery January morning, my husband got a sub for his first-grade class and drove me to the Sacramento airport so I could catch the first of three flights to Kenya. The initial leg was a no brainer—a short jaunt to Los Angeles, then a shuttle to the LAX international terminal to wait for my next flight to Doha, Qatar. (Qatar is on the Persian Gulf in eastern Arabia, north of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. Even though it sits in the Middle East—an often-volatile area—it is generally a safe country).
In the LAX International terminal, I breezed my way through security, so happy that I’d gone to the trouble of getting Global Entry (sort of like a fast-track TSA Precheck for international travel). My small backpack, the one item I was allowed as a carry-on, was crammed with items I thought I needed for the long flight—16 hours on this one leg alone. I had my kindle, audio books, noise cancelling headphones, a change of clothing (I learned the hard way on one trip, that suitcases can get lost), gum, almonds and trail mix, lip balm, hand sanitizer, notebook, seminar notes, prayer chaplet, inflatable neck pillow and my trusty aluminum water bottle that has traveled with me across the world. I was ready to settle in on what I thought would be a decent flight, given that the summer before, Dennis and I traveled Qatar airlines to and from Kenya and Barcelona, Spain and were delighted in the legroom, the service and the food. However, the moment I boarded this particular flight I could sense something was different. The seats were crammed tightly together and there was little legroom. Envision shiny silver sardines packed tight in a little tin can. The aisles were narrow. The plane was packed. The flight crew was harried. I learned that Qatar had partnered with Sri Lanka airlines for this flight and the majority of people were headed to India. (No big deal, but this was NOT the Qatar I’d flown previously). The woman in front of me insisted on tilting her seat back ALL THE WAY, THE WHOLE FLIGHT, even after I kindly asked her to move it up a little. (As did the flight attendant). I almost broke down and cried for my mama. Note to self—if the price of a flight looks too good to be true, it probably is.
Obviously, since you are reading this, I survived the flight…..(to be continued in the next post).
