Winning the travel sweepstakes

I have never cashed in big on a multi-million dollar lottery, but I do hold a winning trifecta in the global travel derby: health, resources, and time in a first-second-third finish.

I hold a fourth winning ticket too. And that would be having the world’s best travel companion, my husband Rodney, an international road warrior who for some reason of late actually wants me to travel with him on his frantic business journeys.  

Perhaps it’s my not having to get stinking drunk on airplanes which has made me a more desirable travel partner. Or it could be my ability to travel lightly with only a carry-on bag to hold a clean t-shirt, a toothbrush, and when required, his camera and his sunglasses.

Also helping my cause is that after two spectacular journeys last fall, I have mastered the art of distinguishing between his ‘working’ time (when he’s leaning over his iPad or fiddling with his phone), and his ‘thinking’ time, when devices are not being used but his brain apparently is not ready to engage in conversation with me. I have learned to take nothing personally.

Over thirty years and various careers (he went from government to the non-profit world and finally into the private sector now owning Maple Bear Global Schools) the percentage of time we calculate he has spent on the road always shifts depending on who is telling the story. There was a time, though, when he was gone so often that I identified myself as a single mother without dating privileges.

Like so many spouses of international road warriors, his business travel became the source of much tension when the children were young and needed two parents around. Murphy’s Law always dictated that the moment he headed for the airport, a child would fall sick, a car would break down, or he would phone from the road at ‘zero’ hour when my children and I would be running out the door to some activity. There were many irritants which would cause much resentment over the fact that he was away and could sidestep his guilt with:

“I’m in Dubai, working to pay our bills. What do you want me to do?”

Come home! I wanted to say but of course we long suffering partners of business travelers would never say that.

“Fine, dear. Everything is fine. Gotta go.” It was either that or send an EMAIL THAT LOOKED LIKE THIS!!!!

Of course, everything was not always fine. Take our bad water karma. On one of his trips, the dishwasher exploded; our water heater, meanwhile, burst and flooded our basement twice no less (a defective replacement caused that grief) and on two separate trips. What were the chances?

 

But all of that is forgiven and forgotten, especially now that I head for the airport with him.

Who wouldn’t forgive someone who would dress up like this to get in the spirit of a family event in one country on our way to another country for his work? 

Who is your favourite travel companion?

Travel is often a leap of faith...gulp!

In my early days as a global lecturer, I was invited to Prague to speak to parents at one of the international schools. Since my hosts lived in a housing district near the school, about a twenty minute drive from my hotel, it was more convenient for me to simply grab a cab on my own than to have someone come and fetch me.

It was early evening when I set out, and the light was fading fast.  There had been no time for dinner, so the tantalizing smells wafting over from the street food stalls, including the busy Czech sausage wagon next to the taxi stand, made me hungry. As my taxi driver did not speak a word of English and looked at the map I gave him with skepticism, a stressful nausea quickly replaced the hunger pangs. Without a cell phone (not that I would know who to call anyway) I felt like I was heading out to sea without a paddle.

Within seconds, or so it seemed, the populated part of the city vanished along with the daylight. Viewed through my nervous eyes, the city’s ‘outskirts’, the kind of scenery I probably would have enjoyed immensely if I was rolling by it in a train, looked ominous. Heart racing, I became fixated on only one thought:

“I hope to hell he’s taking me to the school!”

I quietly began to chant my new travel mantra: it will all work out. I had become a fatalist. It was either become one, or never leave home again.

Barely a few years later, new mantra in my head, I decided to take my biggest and furthest leap of faith.

This time, my journey began in Paris. I had met two South African Human Resource specialists at an expat conference being held there. At around two in the morning, I found myself in our hotel bar with them, drinking, laughing, and smoking way too many cigarettes.

“You should come and speak in South Africa,” they both said once I had lost count of all my sins that night.

“Invite me,” I countered, almost belligerently.

“Considered yourself invited.”

Six months later, I was disembarking in Johannesburg’s Jan Smuts International airport off an overnight British Airways flight from London.

“I can’t remember what Pierre looks like!” My faith began ebbing from the moment we began our descent. Luckily, Pierre was the guy who jumped out and handed me flowers. Phew.

As we drove to his home, a small holding outside of Johannesburg where I would be staying with his family, he gushed about the private safari he had arranged for me in Klaserie, the nature park alongside the famous Kruger Park where many South Africans kept camp sites.

What exactly is a private safari? Obviously, it’s one that is not planned with military precision, walkie talkies or fancy facilities. For me, it meant riding into the beautiful South African sunset with my two hosts, the teenage son of one along with his pal. That meant our group was me and four guys. No guide but lots of rifles and enough booze to last us well beyond our three days in the bush.

Before we left Johannesburg, I confess: I freaked out and started calling everyone I know in the world to say goodbye. And this was before I ever knew that a poisonous green mamba snake would be trapped by one of the teenagers in the tree next to my mattress on the elevated sleeping shelter I was going to share with the men and any wild animal that wanted to wander underneath.

I stayed pretty cool throughout the safari: showered like the men did, fully dressed in my clothes and then stretched out in the afternoon heat to dry; I dutifully would ask one of my hosts if he could grab his rifle if I had to go to the bathroom (and had to be guarded); I didn’t jump entirely out of my skin when our Land Rover, driven by one of the teenage boys, broke down at 10 o’clock at night in the middle of nowhere as we returned from the bush pub and we silently stared out at eyes staring back, everyone holding a rifle but me and a cloud of testosterone hovering over our jeep.

“Did you even know those guys?” I heard constantly before and after that trip.

“No, but they seemed nice.” And they were. It was the trip of a lifetime.

I like to believe that serendipity does indeed exist, but only when someone is open to it and ready to trust, full stop. Travelers especially must be prepared to leap without looking...except, of course, if it’s at an elephant standing in front of you.

A shopping traveler I'm not....

There are many reasons why I failed as an expat wife. The fact that I would rather have a root canal than go shopping ranks high on the list.

My lack of enthusiasm for wasting hundreds of hours (and dollars!) roaming through faraway markets to buy cheap tchotchkes that will eventually languish or worse, tarnish in my basement alongside my four dozen bronze goblets of all sizes from Thailand, goes completely against the natural order of life abroad. An eavesdropper on an expat-to-expat conversation typically overhears something like this: “Do you know what I would have paid for (fill in the blanks) back home?” 

Living in Asia back in the days when boutiques were rare and market stalls my only option, shopping for clothes became my worst nightmare (along with having outfits made from scratch by a local seamstress. I always managed to look like a re-upholstered sofa.)  Can there be anything more humiliating then a size 0 Thai market vendor shaking her head woefully at a giant farang woman, informing her that absolutely nothing in her kiosk could fit the big white woman in a million years?  No wonder shopping became such a demoralizing experience.

And don’t get me started on bargaining. That’s a skill that eludes me to this day, much to the dismay of my husband. He once soundly reamed me out for revealing—in front of the vendor, horrors!—how much I wanted a rattan bag while we were wandering in the souk (warning: place-dropping alert!) in Marrakesh a few years ago. Bargaining over pennies in a developing country just seems wrong to me, no matter what the guide books may say.

My personal philosophy is that it’s better to collect experiences rather than to buy stuff I don’t need. Presented with a choice between shopping and exploring, I will always opt for the latter. But I’m not made of stone. It isn’t always easy to avoid being tempted by some of the gorgeous items on offer, especially if I’m looking for gifts.

On a trip to Rajasthan late last year, we had to come up with a new strategy in the interests of marital harmony: I now wait for my husband to say the words “leave Robin!” before taking this none-too-subtle cue to shut up, exit the scene, and leave the haggling to him.

This can often be easier said than done. We were completing negotiations for the purchase of pashmina shawls for Christmas presents in Jaipur near the gorgeous Hawa Mahal or the Palace of the Winds, when Rodney gave me my marching orders to make myself scarce. There isn’t much room to wander off, though, along the busy main street of Jaipur’s chaotic, over-stimulating Old City. I looked out onto the crowded street scene and imagined being carted off into the sea of humanity—and cows—never to be heard from again.

I didn’t need to worry.

“Getting you safely across the street is my job description,” our pashmina vendor assured me, taking my arm and guiding me to another store he just happened to own, this one offering jewelry.

“Well, I’m an old woman,” I responded, losing sight of Rodney. “I hope that makes it less than likely you are going to sell me to the white slave market.”

Now that would have been a priceless experience! Thankfully, I confess I did buy jewelry. And at a good price too, negotiated by my husband of course.