Vacationing is stressful. The planning, the packing, the
traveling, each component is one small annoyance in an aggregated amalgam of
aggravation. The delicate balance that is supposed leisure is typically one
delayed flight away from a nuclear disaster in our first world problem lives.
There is one virtue, however, to a trip falling off the deep end into oblivion:
it typically indicates that you’re in for a good time.
I’m not saying every disaster indicates a good time. Missing
a flight, getting sick, arriving at your destination in time to enjoy multiple natural
disaster are proven vacation ruiners, but, like I said, in our first world
problem lives the mini-disaster; a forgotten camera charger, something left on
the plane, being selected for additional screening; is enough to elicit
exasperated sighs of “Oh, my vacation my beautiful vacation.” The mini-disaster
snuffs out our pretentions of having a perfect vacation and kindles our ability
to enjoy it.
Considering what happened to me last night, my mini disaster has
coaxed my enjoyment into a strong flame, as nothing on this trip could terrify
me more than my mini disaster last night.
Finishing my gorge on American TV that I had missed and
would be missing, I decided to check my itineraries again. Checking arrival
times, airport maps, and my hotel reservation, I was about to send a
confirmation email to my program coordinators when I asked my mother what I
thought was an innocuous question. “Yes, I know I have to email him, but I have
to email him my arrival time for Qingdao, all I have is my travel information
for getting to Beijing. Where is the Qingdao flight?”
…
“Where is the Qingdao flight?”? Where IS the Qingdao flight?
OH GOD, WHERE IS THE QINGDAO FLIGHT?! No
confirmation number, no contact from AirChina, no piece of documentation that
conclusively proved that the Qingdao ticket had ever been booked. My summer in
Qingdao was transforming into a summer in Beijing. My mother, paging through
months old emails, desperate to find something that would assuage both our
oncoming ennui, proved too grating, and, as is best in these situations, I
followed the Scarlet O’Hara Guide to Crisis Management, and took the dog for a
walk.
Since I decided to
check everything when the only person I would be able to get a hold of was a
machine, my Romantic escape to the beach to say goodbye to my dog and my
hometown, appealed more to me than panicking. By the time I came back, my
mother had already found train schedules and I began to look at the train ride
as a practice exercise before I had to go to class on Monday. Finally, a phone
call from my TA set all my worries to rest, as we were going to be in Beijing
at the same time and he promised to help me out. Considering that he’s going to
be living in China next year, knowing I had help and wasn’t going to have to
rely as much on my broken Chinese relieved me.
While my mini crisis was resolved, I didn’t realize how
nervous I was about this trip until I thought I wasn’t going to have a flight
to Qingdao. Based on what my friends said, I built this utopian view of what is
an exceedingly difficult program and expected everything to fall into place
perfectly, but honestly, for two months, I will be immersed in a culture I’ve
only read about and speak a language I’ve only spoken with mostly non-native
speakers. I will live with a person I’ve never met and will probably not be
able communicate with for the first two weeks. I will invade a family’s home
and live with them for two weeks. I will eat things and won’t even know what
they are. I will probably buy so much stuff I need a second bag to bring it all
back to the US. I am putting myself in a situation to be imperfect and by
getting over the lack of perfection now; I will be able to enjoy whatever.
Taking it easy at 20,000 feet*,
Mr. Mockler
*My row of two seats is empty on my first transoceanic flight. I'm all types of sprawled out and am enjoying the looks all the other cramped sardine passengers are giving me. Yay, me!
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