I cannot quite put my finger on exactly when the tides
turned against me. Perhaps it was the caviar breakfast on my flight
back from Australia. Maybe it was watching the sun rise over the chocolate
fountain at the breakfast buffet. Possibly it was when I danced around my hotel
room in my underwear surrounded by enough pink to take me back to the youthful
days of Barbie-mobile and hair ribbons. Whenever it turned, it is safe to say,
it definitely turned. I think I became a little high maintenance with this
whole travel thing..
Damn.
Isn’t it charming to read my own words that proudly
announced I merely require hair conditioner and ironing boards? I warned myself
about this and yet, here I am. Oops.
It has been one heck of a ride!
As my passport inches closer to its 8th
birthday, I suppose I can say I worked for it and had enough moments of utter hell often combined with sleepless nights that this eased the pain a bit. Work or not, it has been an
exciting, exhausting, exhilarating, eclectic and humbling sixteen months...
Flying to Australia for 2.5 days and Singapore too, to
kick-off workshops in 4 continents over two weeks time, eight countries in five
Showering in airport business lounges & hotels
more times in 16 months than my own home
Looking forward to the two homemade cookies in a
darling silver tin in my hotel room tucked into the countryside of England
Hugging my mother with the innocence of a child and my
feet firmly planted on the front step of my home in the States
Drinking cheap champagne in a hat and heels at the Royal
Ascot then teeing off for a round of golf with clients discussing acquisition
business the very next day
Straddling the Greenwich meridian, eating Chinese food
with my fingers and laughing for hours with my father in London
Running in the textured heat of summer time Madrid and
drinking cheap boxed wine with friends to rehydrate
Donning a mask to experience a night anonymously,
retracing cherished steps of adventures past and stopping to enjoy the acoustics
of New York City without a single word
Walking a bridge in Louisville no American would walk,
but every European would, to meet a cherished ex-roommate
Eating grapes and muffins homemade with so much love I cried alone in my hotel room
Eating grapes and muffins homemade with so much love I cried alone in my hotel room
Giving my heart permission to go see about a boy
Pausing. Breathing. Long enough to watch storm clouds
nibble away at a summer day just before the sun retired for the night
Celebrating love in Italy, London and Spain with faces
weathered by too many smiles and laughter
Mourning expectations gone awry in the cruelest of
ways so briefly as to not miss the kiss of new life from an easterly wind
Helping my feet catch up so I look up and ahead at what’s
to come with baited breath for the first time in forever
I also collected enough miles and hotel
points to go toe-to-toe with the stereotype I emphatically swore to avoid! Sadly…or even
pathetically…I am that business traveler that forgets the room number of the 4th
hotel I stay in within a week. The seasoned professional platinum flyer that
sits in the wrong seat because the last flight was 17F, this flight is 4A. I
wake up to a note-card with the name of the city I am in and require an app on
my phone to remind me the time difference back at ‘home base’. My relationships
with hotel staff have extended beyond cordial greetings at check-in to
voice recognition when I call to change my reservations last minute. And while
I loathe it, I can pack for any occasion, for any length of duration, in the dark, in ten minutes flat.
With the hint of a grin on my face, hard work and good fortune on my side and these memories
in my back pocket, I will take it and kindly acknowledge I have become a bit of
what I warned myself about…
