Travel is in my blood. Travel permeates the fiber of my being like a siren song demanding to be heard. Exotic locales at home and abroad eternally beckon me like an insatiable lover, seducing me time and time again. An inveterate traveler, it did not occur to me that my footloose and fancy-free nature could ever be curbed. Blindsided I was, however, by the emergence of a condition that irrevocably rocked my travel world.
Throughout my halcyon youth, I studied in college and worked steadily in order to pay for my next Italian or Greek or French voyage. Yet travel steadily began to take on a different complexion: Somewhere along the line, I developed claustrophobia, a thoroughly most sensation when flying thousands of feet in the air. Medication has provided some relief from the panic attacks that would overtake me during take-off, the flight itself, and when landing. Until I sought medical help, I am quite certain I struck panic too in those unfortunate enough to have been seated next to me.
My conundrum was that taking prescription medication in order to fly on a plane offended me even though I felt certain others do this, or assuage their fears in alcohol. Consequently, I have turned more frequently to drive vacations. When I mention how much I enjoyed travel by car, people fired back that “more people die in car accidents than in plane crashes.” It perplexed me that some see this as some sort of competition. These days, I simply want to get my kicks on Route 66.
Now, where did I put that atlas?
Ciao for now.