Travel, as gratifying and life-enriching as it can be, also includes a certain amount of stress. Unless you have Oprah’s money, you have to manage getting from Point A to Point B (and then C, D, E, etc.), consume food that isn’t part of your regular diet, sleep in beds and on pillows that may not be the most comfortable, and deal with situations that are well out of your comfort zone, often while living out of a suitcase that is only slightly larger than a toaster oven.
Even before 9/11, travel—especially air travel—was getting more and more challenging. Long gone are the days when flying on an airplane was considered sophisticated and an occasion to dress up. Now, many modes of travel are over-crowded and frustratingly convoluted due to bottom-line corporate decisions and the need for heightened security. On top of that, with the ever-shrinking size restrictions airlines are putting on luggage, it can be difficult to get everything into your luggage that you need for your trip.
But, despite the stress and hassle, travel can be rewarding and even addictive. Often after being home for only a few days, we are starting to think about our next adventure. No trip is perfect (thank goodness—where would the adventure and grist for subsequent stories be in that?), but I find that our perception of each experience is much more positive if we remember to pack just one more thing in our suitcase: an attitude of flexibility, patience, and understanding.
By maintaining a positive attitude in the face of stress, your blood pressure remains in check and, often, you can influence the outcome. The person who is behind the counter usually isn’t the one who caused the problem, but they can help resolve the issue to your satisfaction. Long waits in line can seem much shorter if you strike up a conversation with others in the queue.
I am so very grateful that my husband and traveling partner routinely packs his positive attitude. He is always polite and empathetic even when dealing with a less-than-ideal situation. He can usually coerce a smile from someone who is determined to be crabby. And, he is a master of starting simple, but interesting conversations with strangers. I have witnessed the ugliness when someone brings a bad attitude to a stressful situation; I am so grateful that we don’t make room for any of that negativity in our luggage.
I am rerunning a few of my earlier posts over the next few weeks. This one, about my father and our shared love of paper maps, was from October, 2013.
Several hours and a few hundred miles away from home, I realized that I had forgotten to bring my beloved road atlas with me on our trip to northern California. My husband and I have driven these freeways many times before, and it’s a pretty straight shot, so getting lost was not a worry. Both of us have smart phones, so both Google Maps and the ability to call for help and directions were both readily available. Still, I wanted a map.
I like being able to plot our progress; I want to see what little towns are up ahead, and, during the especially boring parts of the journey, to see how much further we have to go before something more interesting will appear. What’s the name of that lake over to the left? Which turnoff did we take last time when we visited that great little winery? Have we passed from Kern County to Kings County yet? Without a paper map, I am left with a blue dot moving through the state on my iPhone screen. Empty and soulless.
I inherited my love of paper maps from my father. He kept a large stack of them on his bookshelf – many were of often-visited locales, some he picked up on his and my mother’s journeys around the country and the world. He found it difficult, if not impossible, to throw any of them away – even when he picked up newer versions of ones he already had. It became apparent when I was clearing out his home for sale after his death that I not only had inherited his love of maps, but also his reluctance to throw them away. Each was a souvenir of a trip taken and a physical memory keeper of his and my mother’s journey together.
The California road atlas I had inadvertently left home last week was one that belonged to my father. It is dated 1986 and contains notes he had written on many of the pages. Not all of them are trip-related: on the detail street maps showing the city of Los Angeles, he made notes indicating where the 1992 L.A. riots were occurring. I can picture him sitting at his home in San Diego, watching the news on television, the map book opened to the pages showing the parts of L.A. that were on fire.
As my father’s mind slowly slipped into the fog of dementia, and his earlier memories were clearer to him then recent ones, I discovered that he had adopted a ritual using the local newspaper’s daily U.S. weather map. Every day, he mapped his journey – across the country, and then overseas – that he took as a young recruit during the Second World War. Every day, he plotted his movements, from Cincinnati, through Denver, to California (where he met my mother), to Las Vegas (where they married three months later), to New York. Then he drew an arrow to the right towards Europe.
I don’t know much about his experiences during the war, but I do know that he was one of the lucky ones. He avoided the worst of combat and came home physically and, I believe, mentally unscathed. What he plotted every day on the newspaper map were memories of a great adventure. I wish I had kept one of those sweet, precious maps.
It’s probably time to buy a new California road atlas (assuming they still make them). I know that many roads have been added to the state since 1986 and a newer one would be more useful.
I also know that I will not throw away the old one that belonged to my father.