Who Says Getting There Is Half the Fun?

We made it home after a full day of what is euphemistically called "traveling." Calling it that is sort of like calling abortion "a woman's right to choose." Traveling sounds so romantic--daring and dashing and adventurous, like you're Errol Flynn or some jet-setter, wind whipping your hair as you dart across yet another continent. In truth, the actual travel part of traveling is more mundane, at times blatantly unpleasant, and nothing at all like Mary Poppins with her umbrella. (Now that would be fun.)

This morning we took a cab to the airport in Lisbon, then waited in the too-hot airport lounge until it was time to board, then walked for like a mile and a half to get to our gate, where we were packed inside an even hotter bus--standing room only, reminiscent of those train cars in Germany they used to transport the Jews-- which drove for like ten minutes out to the farther reaches of the airport. Just moments before I dropped to the floor in tears we were allowed to leave the bus and enter the narrow, claustrophobic tube we would then occupy for the next nine hours, give or take.

There was no wind whipping your hair. There was no wind. You were in an airplane. It was dire. The only fun part was one stewardess who announced, during the cheery safety instruction lesson about using your seat as a flotation device, that, "Smoking is not allowed in any part of the airplane. If you must smoke, step outside and see "Gone With the Wind."

Anyway, you get the point. Being in new places is exciting; getting to them is less so.