This famous opening monologue of Ryan Bingham in ‘Up in the Air’ is one that has been a regular reference point as I share my travel-blogging tales however, this holiday weekend, as I sit amidst the laundry of a southern hemisphere suitcase and plan the contents of an uncertain weathered northern hemisphere suitcase, I have stopped to consider if my cinematic counterpart is, in fact, more of a nemesis than an alter-ego.
My accrued April airtime, so far, has crossed 3 continents in 15 days and has resulted in a climate control and sleep navigation system urgently requiring re-engineering. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing as rewarding than the great fortune to travel the globe and see so many far flung places but, as I unpack and repack I wonder perhaps…is the real redemption for frequent flyer air miles a catalogue choice of multiple personalities every time we cross multiple time-zones?
When the novelty of life in a suitcase becomes commonplace it is hard to recall the glamour of the jet set that is so commonly perceived by the average land lubber. We may no longer have to face the early morning daily commute at the wheel, but I wonder …does the jet-set rush-hour road-rage simply check-in as a new OCD in the sky-high human bird cage, or is the trauma of travel a dilemma that evolves with age?
I never feel too great after a flight, regardless of travel ticket class. Thinking back I recall days of the girls summer trek to the Costa, where tightly packed on an economy flight with a paid-for piña-colada was a dream come true. Now, by comparison, even with silver service meals, a personalised protein menu, cashmere flight socks and sound proof earphones ...how is it that the only thing I really want to do when I reach my destination is to get on a plane for a vacation?
A flat bed is a must, unreservedly. But, regardless of 8 hours DVT preventative sleep, there are certain lines of latitude and longitude where travelling elegantly seems to take a leap from the plane in parachute silk, only to be replaced with the prospect of excess baggage charges on arrival rather than at departure and, despite checking in for top-deck jumbo, I am sure to check out as ground-level blimp...
On-board, my gold membership of the frequent flyer club boasts an obsession with cleanliness that would be the envy of any terra firma home-maker. My roll-on bag, forever electronically equipped for a full shift of onboard business, is now as chemically ready for a total blitz of airborne germs and illness and, as I stock-check what were once dedicated pockets for sockets with new wipes and antiseptics I wonder .....at what stage will my in-flight oddities qualify as an on-board paramedic?
So, as I fast forward airport CCTV to complete my latest travelling photo album I wonder ....does the essence of being a frequent flyer simply mean the airplane cabin is now my castle or, just how many miles remain before I claim squatters rights?
'Til next time, Pandora
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