Come Fly With Me ... If You Dare!

I long to visit faraway places. Some I have written about in my fiction and nonfiction books and others I just want to see – like Scotland. I want to see Scotland. Yet, as much as I love travel, sadly, travel does not seem to have those same fuzzy feelings for me. Weird things happen to me when I leave home. Okay, bad things. It started with sixth-grade camp when, just a few days into our adventure, a contaminated water supply flattened most of my class. I got only mild stomach cramps, but most of my cabin-mates weren’t so lucky. A few had to be hospitalized. A year later, it was food poisoning at summer camp: undercooked chicken prepared by our perpetually-cheerful high school counselors. And this time, I was the one that had to go the hospital. In the years that followed, my camp experiences included a severe nettle-induced skin rash, a sprained ankle, a jellyfish sting, a lost suitcase key, a cut foot  .   .   .

I’d better cut the list short. I’m starting to hyperventilate.

I haven’t fared much better as an adult. While “on vacation” I have endured a severe gall bladder attack, been caught in the cross-fire of a police chase, and was stuck on a ski lift in Idaho at sunset.

Last year, my husband, Bill and I went to Whistler B.C., Canada for a few days. The first night there, the giant mirror in our hotel room came crashing to the floor at 2 a.m. The next day, I got bit on the neck by what we figured was either the biggest mosquito on the planet or a ravenous extra from Twilight. Hearing my travel woes, you may wonder why I venture outside out at all. Good question. I’m not sure I know the answer, except to say that I love a good adventure, even if it doesn’t always (or ever) end in triumph.

We are going to Canada again this summer. Wish me luck. And a good doctor. If I make it back alive, I’m going to Scotland next year. No matter what.