Burn after wearing

Adelaide from the airport

Saying adieu with Hannah

On the flight back to America, I collected a few more travel tips to share with my savvy readers. If there is one universal law about life I think it’s that you learn the best lessons the hard way.

Travel Tip #4: Clothes expand in your suitcase

It’s a fundamental law of traveling. What was an easy suitcase to close when you left becomes a wrestling object that makes you pant, sweat, jump up and down, and squash things that are likely to squirt gooey substances all over your clothing.

Only once in my life did I listen to my inner voice of reason and pack light. It was dreamy. I spent 10 days in Belize with a backpack smaller than the size of most school backpacks. Sure, I wore the same clothes nearly every day, but I didn’t have to hunt to find that one thing that I knew I brought but I didn’t know where I put it, or wait for baggage claim, or worry about thieves.  

Unfortunately, I didn’t learn my lesson, and this trip I packed about five books too many (gearing up for the long plane ride), not enough underwear (you can’t depend on finding a laundry), way too many clothes (at a certain point I couldn’t tell what was clean or what was dirty so it didn’t even matter), and a curling iron (what was I thinking?). I should have brought about half a suitcase full and left the rest.

Packing is really an art form that should be taught in high school right along with typing (or keyboarding, as they say these days). Next time, I vow to pack light.

Travel Tip #5: If you’re panicked about missing your flight, don’t try and rush through customs.

Ok, I’m more than a little ashamed of this story. We arrived at the Adelaide airport several hours early for our international flight. No problem. We lingered with Hannah until she boarded, and then sauntered the few gates down to where we should be boarding. Oh. It’s glassed off. Oh. We need to go through another security point. Oh. We need to go through customs.

At this point, I’m sweating it. It’s boarding time, and the customs officials are taking it slow and easy. I put on my most charming voice and ask two couples in front of us if their planes are boarding right now, and oh please, would you allow us to jump in front of the que since our plane is about to take off for New Zealand without us? Thank you.

Then, we finally get to the customs official, and she helpfully says, “Ok, it looks like everything is in order except you haven’t filled out this form. You’ll have to go fill that out over there and bring it back to me.”

Next, I got a little crazy, and tried to tell her that our plane was leaving and couldn’t we just fill it out right there? I swear, when stressed, I could feel the rude American just creeping out from under my skin where I had tried to bury it and deny that it ever existed. For two weeks I had been as quiet as possible (trying to dodge the loud American stereotype), polite in line, smiley with strangers, and very clear with taxi drivers that I loved Obama and never voted for Bush.  

All of that goodness fled in a mere five minutes until Doug, seeing reason, pulled me over to the table to fill out our forms. Then, he told me that he wasn’t wearing his reading glasses and couldn’t fill out the form. I think I had a panic attack right there. In a split second, I started to fill out my form, hyperventilate, and read off the various lines to Doug. “First line is first name,” I shouted. “Second line is your birthdate!” while he muttered, “Damn. I think I put my occupation where my country of origin is supposed to go.” Ahh!!!

We finally return to the desk, and the customs official smiles at us and says, “Don’t worry. They won’t leave without you. They come back here to find you if you don’t show up.” She leans in closer to me and delivers the final blow, “No panicking. We don’t panic in Australia.”

We made the flight in time for economy class boarding and for Doug to ask me if I needed medical attention.

Travel Tip #6: Don’t wear fleece clothing on an international flight

So, I bought this really cute gym outfit from Eddie Bauer at Christmas that doesn’t look like sweats, but really is (it’s tailored fleece after all). I thought, “This will be perfect for the plane. I won’t get cold. It’s comfy. I can sleep in it.”

Well, I could sweat in it too. After my panic attack at customs, I still had about 20 hours of travel left to go and I was already afraid to lift my armpits up. I applied some wet towels and new deodorant but the damage was already done. My other clothes were checked and there was little I could do when the airplane didn’t cool down from tropical temperatures. Even in good times, when the airplane stays cool and I stay cool and I wear enough deodorant, I want to burn the clothes I wear when I travel. This time, when I got off the plane, the urge was almost unbearable. If I was a little more off my rocker I would have started a fire made from fleece in the airport bathroom, but instead I just changed and have banned the said items from my sight for the next millenia. Still, I wouldn’t put it past me to do it in the future.

Travel Tip #7: Don’t watch sad movies on the airplane

I knew what I was getting into. I avoid movies where the animal dies at the end for a good reason. I just couldn’t help myself. I deliberately chose to watch Marley & Me on the airplane, knowing full well how it would turn out, but resolving that this time, just this once, I would be able to control my emotions.

Yeah right. I collapsed into hysterics at the end, trying to rub the tears off my face slowly, like I was scratching an itchy spot, so that I wouldn’t scare the little old lady sitting in the window seat who probably was wondering why I hadn’t taken my meds that day.

All during the movie I had been laughing and chuckling, pretending that it would be a happy ending and telling Doug, “Oh, you have to watch this. It’s really funny!”

And then, the dog died, and I couldn’t bear it, and all sorts of totally humiliating fluids were coming out of my face like a storm and Doug was trying to calm me down saying, “Well, I guess I won’t be watching that movie.”

Travel Tip #8: If your flight is over 12 hours long, business class is worth the extra money

Filing on the plane from Auckland, New Zealand to Los Angeles, I couldn’t help but stare at the pods in business class with outright envy. They had space, real space, enough space to lie down and maybe enough space that they could avoid having their feet swell and pure hypochondriac, “oh my god, I’m going to get a blood clot” moments on the plane.

I’m not going to lie. I had the worst seat. We were seated in the middle aisle (the dreaded middle land of nowhere), Doug on the aisle, and I in the middle of the middle aisle seats, next to a man who had one foot in my seating area and who refused to speak when spoken to. I swear he was meditating the entire time on me disappearing.

In crowded situations like these, every little thing starts to disturb you. For instance, Doug’s stuff had started to wander into my space — his shoes, his travel pillow, his book, and when he was a little bit grumpy when I woke him up to go to the bathroom I admit to being a bit more emphatic than necessary when I plonked everything back into his space and then leaned in. “Just because we’re married does not mean you get to hog my space on the plane,” I whispered passionately in his ear. Fortunately, he was asleep again by then.

Travel Tip #9: Don’t go to the bathroom after you’ve run through the entire airport to catch your flight.

It was the last flight. The flight that we had been waiting for, dreaming of, for over 20 hours. The flight home. And if we missed this flight we would be stuck in Salt Lake City overnight, if not longer. We had ten minutes. We ran. We ran like we had never run before. From terminal D to terminal A. Past bathrooms, past the obese person being dropped off at his gate by cart, past food, down escalators, up escalators. At one point I almost had to cry, “Go without me. I can’t make it. You can! Save yourself!”

Then, relief. A line at the counter, people were boarding at our gate, so Doug fled for the bathroom.

 ”Bozeman!” cried the man at the gate. “Yes,” I panted. “We’re right here. My husband. Is just. In the bathroom. He will. Be back. In a minute.”

A minute went by and the man looked at me. “We’re closing this flight in one minute. He needs to be here by then or we’re closing this flight.”

I ran towards the bathroom, not knowing if I had the courage to run into a men’s bathroom and yank my husband out by his unzipped pants but willing to do so if I had to.

He saw me coming. I waved and made a face like a close family member was dying. He ran. They scanned our boarding pass and urged us to hurry.

And then we ran some more. To the furthest gate in the extension off of the main terminal.

I slid into my seat like an animal dying from respiratory distress and the second little old lady to sit next to me asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be. All right. In a second.” Cough. Inhaler. Cough.

And then a voice on the loudspeaker. “Folks, this is your captain speaking. We’re just going to be a few more minutes. Looks like we’re still waiting for some delayed passengers to reach the airplane. Sorry for the delay. We expect them here in the next 15 minutes.”

The next 15 minutes? I just ran like a track star with a heavy suitcase for probably a mile and nearly had to drag Doug out of the bathroom by his pants and you’re waiting another 15 minutes for more people? We were supposed to leap on and you were supposed to take off! That’s the best ending possible! That’s the only ending that justifies my heart rate!

I don’t know what to say to conclude this long rant except that we did eventually make it home. I showered three times before I felt clean. I buried my washed fleece outfit in the back of the closet where it may stay forever. And I swear to you that I will never, ever run through an air terminal again.