You’ve heard of “unlucky in love”? I present to you, “unlucky in travel”:
March 2017: Dangerous Dave and I plan to attend the Hollywood Collectors Show in Chicago, including an epic 50th anniversary reuion of the “Batman” TV series cast. Trip aborted due to winter storm. Flights canceled.
Winter 2019: Planned trip to Los Angeles. Recovering from illness. (This could basically describe all of 2019.) Trip aborted.
April 2020: Planned trip on Amtrak to San Francisco, a 9-day adventure including live theatre, the Walt Disney Family Museum, a sugar coma at Ghirardelli, etc. Trip aborted due to pandemic.
September 2020: Planned humble, low-key weekend in Denver. Tripped on curb in Alliance. Sprained wrist. Trip f#$%^ing aborted.
Now, let me be clear about something: I know not getting to go on vacation is extremely low on the list of human atrocities. I get it, this is not a crisis or a legitimate concern.
Having said that, two thoughts come to mind:
1. I’ve had enough of this shit. Honestly, how many trips get ruined in one adult life? I think I’ve earned my quota.
2. I am now super hinkey (a real world, look it up) about the subject. I have a trip booked March 12th. COVID stuff aside (just for the moment! It is on my mind), I keep flip-flopping between feelings of giddy anticipation and abject terror that I, or forces beyond my control, will do something to screw this up.
It helps, one would think, that this trip is coming up pretty quickly, less than two months from today. That gives me less time to trip and crack my head open or develop hoof in mouth disease or any number of calamities that could queer the deal.
The weather is always a kick square in los cojones. There is only one flight, a little puddle jumper from Alliance to Denver. I am unfamiliar with what makes Amtrak cancel (this is only my second trip with them). I mean, you would think by March things would–wait, let me check what I just wrote 8 minutes ago–yep, the Chicago Collectors Show trip was in March. And we couldn’t go. Because the airport was shut down. Because Mother Nature hates me and wants me to be unhappy. What a harpy!
If however, the weather cooperates, and IF I don’t break both legs–actually, screw that. If I break both legs I’ll rent an electric wheelchair and STILL GO ON THE DAMN TRIP! Unless of course it’s cancelled by weather.
This has been my internal dialogue for the last week.
I just want to go away. That is all I want. I want to not be here. Don’t get me wrong. I like here. But I don’t like never leaving here. Leaving here, for a short period, will make me appreciate here.
Such is the peccadillo of my fevered brain.
Footnote on the pandemic: I’m traveling in a sleeper car all by myself. I’ll bring a different mask for every day, and although I plan to visit a couple of museums in Chicago, I will socially distance at every turn.
If I end up going.