People fall into two categories when it comes to travelling: the prepared and the ill-prepared. Generally speaking I fall into the latter and The Mom into the former.
When I am preparing for a little holiday, as I ought to be, currently, as I’m away to visit a friend in Barcelona this week, I realise there are things I should be doing in order to ensure my trip is a successful one. And by successful I mean, I am able to do all the things I would like to do whilst away. However, there is one small problem. And that is I tend to be unable to plan that far in advance. I hardly know what I’ll feel like eating for dinner of a given morning, and so the idea that I could somehow have an inkling as to what I might want to do or wear in a week’s time is just out of the question.
Though, living in the UK, and without easy access to a tumble drier I know that there are some things I will have to deal with, in advance. So, to that end, I’ve done two loads of laundry. And I’m going to hope that by the time Thursday morning rolls around, that laundry will be dry. Or dry enough to stuff into a bag and drag over to Spain.
Were The Mom here, she would already be ready to admonish me. Because I have done nothing else in the way of preparations. I have not changed any money into euros. I have not considered what I might like to bring with me. Or what I might like to do, beyond having a stiff drink in the sun and going for a swim in the sea. Thankfully those two activities require very little in the way of foresight to achieve. Worst case scenario and I’ll just go into the sea in my bra and knickers and call it the worst bikini ever. One can always have a stiff drink in the sunshine, and should that happen after I go for a swim in my underpants, then so be it. I’ll either sit in the bar soaking wet, or sit in my friend’s flat, soaking wet. Or maybe I’ll borrow a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, instead of being soaking wet.
Generally speaking, I tend to pack the morning I’m about to fly. Which in the case of Barcelona, is fine because I don’t have to be at the airport until after lunch. But when I go back home to visit the flight usually leaves at stupid o’clock in the morning and I am, if past performances are any indication, usually a bit hungover. So, when I wake up after a fitful drunken sleep, which sees me waking up every hour or so to check and make sure I haven’t overslept, I stumble about the place, trying to not wake my flatmate up, while tossing things that look like they might be useful into my case. So I end up back at The Mom’s with a bunch of mismatched socks, two jumpers, a swim suit, a laptop and little else.
This drives The Mom up a wall. And I can see where she’s going with that. I’m sure it is very annoying to have to keep lending me clothes and hearing me complain that they’re not quite the right style for me. Which would of course not be an issue if she had not got it into her head to have a big spring clear out and throw away my At Home clothes. These are old clothes that I keep in Canada, to be worn in Canada. It save me having to be sensible about packing.
In some ways, then, one might say that I’m actually beyond super organised. That I’ve been packed for any and all transatlantic trips since the day I left. One could say that, but I suspect The Mom won’t.