I have been travelling ever since I can remember, and as I kid I thoroughly enjoyed it. Free plastic planes on the flight with colouring books and kids’ gift hampers, nice hotel rooms wherever my parents holidayed or when my dad was shooting, the lovely friends’ and relatives’ homes and all the pampering—it was wonderful indeed. I realise that all of this sounds quite spectacular but you are yet to realise what was so epic about my childhood travel—the packing. I never packed till I was ten, as my mom, the expert packer, would do it for me.
She would be done in minutes and always had this knack of picking out my favourite clothes(except for the one time in Disneyland, Paris, where I was made to wear an outfit that eerily resembled a buffet table of some kind). Today, I am not 10-years-old and for the last 6 years of my life, I have pretty much lived out of a suitcase, which is fine for the most part, except I’ve moved about a 100 times including a move from Chennai to Mumbai, Mumbai to Chennai, India to LA, LA to India, etc.
So, this wasn’t some basic packing course, this was like getting a PHD in packing articles without much damage and destruction. So you’ll say, no big deal, everyone moves and has professional packers, but what about separating your jeans and T-shirts and making sure you don’t have a major shampoo explosion in your toilet case? This clearly is one of my many travel sicknesses.
I love travelling. Something about walking through an airport to collect luggage with my iPod blaring makes me feel good, especially in a pretty and clean airport. I was born and brought up in Chennai and I fly there often for work and leisure. Going back always warms my heart, but here’s my first travel woe—with all due respect to Chennai—you really don’t land into an airport, neither do you take off from it. Sure they have a great runway, you get your luggage pretty much like any other airport, except for the fact that it’s like a dungeon/bunker and by that, I mean hot (as the air-conditioning was out the last time I was there) and grimy, as I feel they forget to clean the floor and overall chaos.
Travel sickness issue number two is the strange fellow passengers you sometimes encounter, like "I-want-to-fall-asleep-and-snore-in-your-face-till-we-land" uncle, or "I-refuse-to-turn-of-my-cell-phone" aunty or of course "the-when-are-we-going-to-land" passenger. Once you have braved them, you go out with your stain ridden luggage (luggage is always destroyed here, and how many black suitcases can you own anyway?). Truly another delightfully painful task— it’s like the airport is in London and your driver has parked somewhere in Las Vegas, thanks to the perpetual construction. So by the time you can rest your fine behind, its been ages. You do the math!