Getting There. Being There

I believe there are two types of travelers, getting there types and being there types. The getting there traveler considers traveling to the destination just as important as the destination. You may find this traveler hiking to Machu Picchu or trekking the Annapurna trail. Their vacation begins with the first step out the door. Whether they catch a flight, hop a train, fill up the tank or grab a ticket on the Shoe-Leather-Express. It’s game on from minute-one.

The being there traveler wants little or nothing to do with “experiencing” the journey. It’s pack a bag, get them on the quickest mode of transportation, put a cocktail in their hand and don’t stop until Operation Toes-In-The-Sand is in full bore. Drive? You can’t be serious. Hike… That’s another word for walk right? Um, no. This traveler can be seen lying pool side at 9 AM. Bloody Mary’s, lunch buffet, happy hour, dinner specials, dancing then sleep. Sleep in a big. Soft. Bed. No trekking, unless it’s on Discovery Channel and the only walking will be done in Nordstrom or down the village streets among the quaint trinket shops and cafes, or to and from the beach. Provided there is no shuttle. Don’t forget the massage and pedi.

Now… The worst traveler is the one who thinks he/she is a getting there but is really a being there and visa versa. This can be disastrous for your spouse, co-traveler or frankly… the person in the seat next to you.

There is a third type but not really… this is really and oxymoron because it is the non-traveler traveler. You know them… you hate them… this is the person who, while in the TSA security line, decides just then to take off their shoes, while dropping everything else in their hands / purse, then forgetting to take their laptop out of the bag… And, “oh, yeah, my belt… oh yeah, the 17 liter bottle of water…” and on, and on.

Now in the interest of full-disclosure, I am a getting there traveler but of course you knew this. Our chosen mode of travel consists of five-thousand year old technology. The only other thing on the planet traveling by wind is a pigeon. And… dead, dry, earth… or dirt. That said, I like driving and detest flying. While amazed by DaVinci’s concept and the Wright Brothers implementation, I’d rather have needles stuck in my eyes than sit crammed in a tin can hurling through the atmosphere. No, I’ll drive, walk or ride horseback instead thank you. The problem arises once I get there… wherever there is. Benjamin Franklin once said, “Fish and house guests begin to stink after three days.” Well, I’ve discovered that so does a vacation destination. After three days in one place, I begin to ask silly questions. I begin to rearrange things. Fix things. Break things that aren’t broken in order to fix them. I meddle… poke, prod and get very antsy. Thus driving those around me, Melody (also on vacation), completely nuts.

We’ve been in Lauderdale for six months. Yes… six months. That’s roughly 180 days give or take a couple of days for instance, within the confused month of February. That makes 177 days longer than my 3… count em’ THREE… vacation day tolerance. You feel me? You picking up what I’m putting down? Com.pren.de?   I’m beginning to chase my tail, knocking over the proverbial coffee table if you will.