Idiotic things I think and do when I go traveling

In over nine hours, I will take a taxi to Schiphol (as long as it arrives on time, as long as it arrives on time, my goodness, as long as it arrives on time). I get to enjoy the sun for a week. The United Arab Emirates it is, where our dear friends live, whom we do speak to every week but haven’t been able to hug for about a year and a half. I've been tap dancing under my desk all day out of excitement. The jars of peanut butter are packed, Pluk van de Petteflet has just been delivered as a gift and educational literature for their two-year-old sprout, and I’m buying my sunscreen tax-free. But when I travel, my mind does things. I have a repertoire of thoughts on the plane, but also beforehand…

I always think that my taxi won’t come or that the person who is supposed to drive me has overslept mercilessly, isn’t answering the phone, and completely forgets that he is supposed to take us. I set ten alarms myself, because imagine sleeping through that flight. How silly, how silly.

The bikini debacle is recurring, I’ve already checked that off. It’s resolved, you know, by house H&M in the form of a swimsuit, but it was indeed precarious. I was almost at a chic beach with a mountain of faded glory… on. My bikini body isn’t quite ready for it yet, so I’m taking advantage of the covering fashion in Dubai. Almost no one sees it.

My passport is valid for a long time, but really long into twenty-twenty, and yet I have the habit of always checking the expiration date of my document. Even though I know it’s still valid for a long time. The moment I open it, I still have a little thump in my chest, because imagine if it’s no longer valid… Even though I know it is. I find it complicated myself too.

I make checklists. Nothing strange about that and even almost organized, you would think. Only to check them off one minute before departure. You don’t get the satisfying feeling you’re supposed to get from checked-off lists, with the annoying fact that you have only one minute left for everything you’ve forgotten. And while the taxi is almost there (as long as it arrives on time, as long as it arrives on time, as long as it arrives on time).

Those kilos, those kilos, and I don’t mean the ones on my hips (even though I worry about those too), but the ones in my suitcase. I’ve already tackled one thing: I’m going to try an e-reader for the first time. My boyfriend is especially happy about that, because I always used to stuff six or seven books into his backpack. I think ten times a year that I need to buy a luggage scale (what do you call this?), I did it last time but have no idea where it is. Result: fumbling with a suitcase on your scale.

I find the airplane food such a waste of calories, and that’s why I always neatly get snacks and food for the flight (Simone is a proud mother), but on the way back, I always end up with one of those double, soggy sandwiches in exactly the flavor I don’t want. Because the ones you do want are sold out, because the outbound flight was busy. Why? Then you save half for the return? Really, first world problems. I know.

But otherwise, I can’t wait, I’m tap dancing out the door. Bye.