Today I traveled the last stretch of the Oregon Trail, meandered up a sleeping volcano, and assisted an 80-year-old man with a broken nose to the hospital. Last week I chased a lost woman through the Redwood Forest, had a flirtatious conversation with a 69-foot tall man, and visited the World’s Smallest Park and Leprechaun Colony. Last month I danced with a Rockette on the stage of Radio City Music Hall, recovered a samurai sword from the guards at the 9/11 Memorial, and climbed atop a giant troll.
Just another day at the office.
I am paid to vacation. Rather than the doldrums of an Office Space existence, trapped in a cubicle day after day, my office is a moving motor coach traversing coastal road, mountain range, and city street. I explore local attractions, sample new cuisines, converse with quirky yet fascinating people. Then I am required, by job definition, to communicate all this newfound knowledge. As in, I have a microphone. And a guaranteed captive audience for every bad joke, every irrelevant story, and every odd historical fact I choose to share. For those of you who know me (probably everyone reading here, since this is a blog and not a reality TV show), you can understand my astonishment. And feel something akin to pity for the unsuspecting oldies who climb aboard the motor coach with me and my microphone riding shotgun. I love every minute of it.
BUT. Before you stop reading due to intense job jealousy…let’s be real. I am taking others on vacation. This is quite a bit different from going on vacation yourself. Making 40+ people happy, 24-hours a day, for days on end, is no easy task. I have so many (cough horror cough) stories…lost people, lost luggage, cancelled flights, broken down buses… And while my life might not resemble Office Space, it definitely looks a lot like that George Clooney movie, Up in the Air. Which, if you remember, ends with him sad and lonely. But let’s not focus on that…there’s still time. As a sweet little oldie on every tour reminds me, all the while giving me a sympathetic look that says I’m clearly destined to end up living alone with 10 cats unless I change my wicked, wandering ways.
It’s true that the traditional white picket fence family will probably take me a little longer to find. Maybe because I spend close to 200-days a year on the road. But I have made creative substitutions. For example, my traveling prevents me from keeping so much as a plant alive in my apartment. So I have “adopted” a 400-pound, 10-foot long sturgeon named Herman at the Bonneville Fish Hatchery as my pet. I have a “mom” in San Francisco, a “dad” in Knoxville, a “brother” in Seattle, and friends (without the sneer marks, those are real) all over the country. I also have a “boyfriend”, the aforementioned 69-foot tall man and lumberjack. Who has a rather large pet of his own: a big blue ox named Babe. I will refrain from mentioning normal-height men in my traveling tales, but they’re real, too. And strategically located. ;)
Maybe you think is a terribly pathetic way to live. Maybe you have the same freak genetics that I do and think it sounds like an adventure. And a great way to rack up frequent flyer miles.
Believe it or not there are quite a few of us ‘professional gypsies’ out there. People who breeze through airport security and can pack a suitcase faster than most people can drag theirs out of the closet. We see a flight delay for what it truly is: a traffic jam on the daily commute where it is both socially acceptable and legal to have cocktails while you wait. We see a hotel as a home where someone else washes the linens and makes the bed. A home that buys you more shampoo if you run-out, and gives you toothpaste if you forget. Most times I even find my dirty clothes picked up off the floor and my toiletries straightened on the counter. Name one person in your home that will do that. (I can almost hear my dad sighing as he reads this and realizes how much time he wasted parenting me. Love you Dad!)
The last and most challenging truth about being a gypsy is that it forces you to develop the ability to be alone. Which is daunting for many, and for some, impossible. Despite traveling with a busload of my beloved oldies, I am often alone. Dining alone, sleeping alone (well usually…), and visiting some truly romantic destinations alone…it’s not for everyone. For this I am grateful. It keeps me employed. On the other hand…
Niagara Falls is breathtaking late at night when parents and their screaming children have gone and you stand alone, hearing nothing but the roar of the Falls.
The people I have met would have passed me by if I had been too engaged with those in my comfort zone to listen to the life stories of those outside of it.
Traveling alone forces you to enjoy things for no one’s sake but your own. To feel only your emotions. To hear only your thoughts. Alone does not mean you are lonely. After all, if you don’t enjoy your own company, why would anyone else? And by finding your own way through the unknown, you tend to accidentally find yourself.
So enjoy my explorations of self and the world. And feel free to add your own misadventures and musings.
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