Go West, Old Mom

I’m not a fan of “solo travel.” By which I mean, going anywhere much by myself. I see pix of intrepid gals (of all ages) gleefully alone, bar-hopping through Egyptian pyramids, surfing in Venice’s famous canals, perched atop ancient Galapagos tortoises. Bully for them! Apparently, they enjoy their own company PLUS they don’t have a video titled “Horrible Outcomes” playing 24/7 in their heads. Alas, I am the polar opposite (I’m not wowed being with me; I always play the scary interior vid). 

So, when I hatched a plan to fly out (just me), to the West Coast (the “W.C.” as it’s called by the locals—unless I’m mistaken?) to visit Evan in Seattle, and attend the premiere of Sheridan’s new piano trio in Southern California, my excitement was matched by my dread. Dreaded the airports and the flights! Dreaded the shady Ubers I’d be taking here and there! Even knowing my sons would be with me most of the time, I still regretted not taking a traveling companion along. Someone to keep track of my I.D. and boarding passes, to distract me with chatter during take off, landing, and at 30,000 feet! 

Well, as it turned out, I was never really alone. 

A couple of weeks before my journey, the osteoarthritis in my left knee flared up. Shortly thereafter, I developed a large, painful cyst in the middle of my back. These two nasty ailments accompanied me everywhere I went. To give them their due, they did keep my mind off possible midair collisions and Uber driver/kidnappers. When you’re in such extreme discomfort, you don’t even notice that your 3-minute ride from hotel to concert hall cost almost $30 (oh that pricey W.C.!), and that there was no food offered, and only one appearance of a beverage cart, on a 6+ hour flight. 

But that “plus” aside, my medical issues were pretty dreadful travel companions. They were constant reminders that I will be navigating their like (and worse) pretty much from now on. I'm very blessed to have been spared serious illness and injury so far, but those days are numbered.

Meanwhile, pesky physical annoyances like bum knees have been cropping up more as I've aged in the past few years, and they seem more pronounced when I’m on the road. Was it only nine years ago that I climbed the endless flights of stairs inside the Arc du Triomphe in Paris?  

Nowadays it would be a “triomphe” to tackle even five or six STEPS. I was recently tempted to leave a negative review of Prague Castle on Tripadvisor: “Why is this at the top of such a steep hill?? No matter that the elevation was an effective defense in time of war! Very thoughtless of those 15^th century castle builders! Zero stars!"

I’m home now, after a (mostly) lovely trip. Next time, though, I won’t let my aches and pains tag along. “Art” and “Cys,” you guys are officially uninvited. Those kinds of travel buddies, I don’t need.