The Fading Allure Of Travel
The lifetime of this particular rolling stone has included millions of miles of air, ground and sea travel, fifteen countries visited, and about twenty-five permanent relocations. The experiences have given me priceless insights into what people in other lands think of us. As the Brits used to remark about our military men stationed in their land, “They’re overpaid, oversexed, and over here.”
Destinations that are still safe for us to visit are becoming less and less available. And the widely-touted hospitality aspect in many places is just a veneer to cover the myriad schemes, scams and other exploitations of the unwary traveler. They just want your money, Honey!
How many times have you gone on a cruise, gained five pounds, bought ‘way-overpriced trinkets from street vendors who will always give you a “special price?” How often have you been insulted by the rudeness of – guess who – your fellow passengers, who spend fortunes on gambling, art work, and sign-ups for future fun times, stay obnoxiously drunk most of the time, while losing whatever inhibitions and constraints they had back on the Big Island? Of course one should note that obnoxious drunks are those who have had one more pop than you have.
What about the joys of air travel? The airlines are forever squeezing more seats into an aircraft by shaving the space between rows. I’d hate to be a basketball player flying internationally in coach. The human body is simply not made to contort itself for hours in something resembling the fetal position, while the guy in front of you compresses you even further by reclining his seat to enjoy his nap. Your airline ticket used to include gourmet meals, usually of excellent variety, with free wine, coffee and desserts, all served up by
“stewardi” in white gloves and the most becoming short skirts. The incidences of out-of-control passengers were pretty close to zero. Men wore suits or sport coats with ties, and women usually wore nice dresses. Air travel was more of a social experience, compared with today’s cattle call. These days a typical boarding consists of those wonderful plods through security, where all manner of privacy invasion is likely to take place, including body wanding and exposure of your packed intimate apparel to the world. And in many cases the passenger must arrive at the terminal two hours before flight time, prowl the jammed lot for a parking place, schlepp their baggage from there to the check-in point, and wait in the first long line of the day. Bad weather? Be prepared to find alternative routes, change terminals, wait in the next line to go through yet more security, and roll the dice as to whether or not your flight will be cancelled. Ever spend the night in a waiting area chair? If you didn’t have neck problems before, this experience will be a gift that keeps on giving. Pain, that is.
On our last international flight arrival, my wife and I had to first operate a senior-proof computerized machine that ultimately gave us permission to go through customs, then walk a half-mile (at least) to the customs gauntlet, let them inspect all our bags, then leave us to wheel said bags to a people conveyer for our final terminal change to the final leg home. All this for three days out of the country. I almost forgot to mention that my wife has severe back issues (scoliosis), but there were neither wheelchairs nor attendants to be found in this, one of America’s busiest airports. We were quite a pair, limping together through the terminals with young people whizzing by us at olympian speeds. Not meaning to start any age-group unpleasantness between us and the Me Generation, but in all our fumbling along, not one of our junior fellow-travelers extended any kind of gesture of help. Instead of a relaxing three-day jaunt to an exotic overseas
resort, we arrived home more exhausted than when we left, and with a sizable dent in our bankbook.
Do I want to discourage anyone from fulfilling their dreams of seeing faraway places with strange-sounding names? To each his own, I say, but be forewarned that all that romance you’ve been reading about exists mainly in the prose of the ad agency writing the hype.
For my part, I’ve let my passport expire, and I’m going to limit my adventuring to yet-unseen places in the fifty states, preferably those I can reach in a day’s drive. Well maybe two, considering that we live in Texas, which is a two-day state to start with. America, after all, has the most gorgeous venues of anyplace in the world, along with the friendliest people, the most reasonable prices (on average) and the fewest wars of any place on the planet.
Take it from one who has been there and tried that, there really is no place like home.
George Thatcher – 2022
George is an American Bad Ass. He grew up in Jersey, flew B-52s in Vietnam, taught English, Spanish and other languages to children around the world, makes his own salsa, has been known to enjoy a beer or two and has called Lubbock home for a few years, just to entertain the locals. Welcome to Raiderland, Major. We are going to feature some of his writings going forward. Some new, some old. Some rhyme, some don’t. When it comes to George, there’s no box. So… enjoy our friend and enjoy his writings! – Hyatt
