Travelling’s one of the few common things that both Mr. P and I love to do.
Our greatest dream as a couple is to see as many countries as we can.
But even if we share the same joy when we travel, our travelling style is totally different. I’m an A-type kind of person- detailed, meticulous, OC. Mr. P is laid back with a great belief that things will work out fine even without much planning. We’ve had several conflicts because of these differences. I’ve sworn a couple of times not to travel with Mr. P anymore. But year after year, Mr. P finds a way to creep at the plane seat beside me. Then somehow, even if I get annoyed with him, I know my travels with him are more beautiful.
The article below perfectly illustrates how Mr. P and I travel together.
All Credits to: Matador Network
by: Laura Roberts
I AM A DIAGNOSED Obsessive-Compulsive and my husband Shawn has Attention Deficit Disorder. As such, our vacation preparations unfold differently: I read hotel reviews, pore over maps, and note our proximity to major hospitals while he steps onto the airplane without a clue where it will land. I prepare for diarrhea, malaria, guerrilla warfare, and hangnails; Shawn forgets to bring pants.
We are going to Costa Rica for our anniversary, leaving the children with their grandparents. My travel anxiety engages as we drive to the airport. The interstate is a brilliant red pinball machine, and I am the silver sphere trapped in its walls. The underground tram to the terminal is a tunnel that could collapse at any moment and bury me alive. If I lose my footing on the escalator, it will scalp me, and behind the counter at Au Bon Pain lurks a botulism-tainted scone. I scan for terrorists, zeroing in on anyone who looks more nervous than I do, including an elderly man with a cane — the aged and infirm are highly under-scrutinized.
At security, my shoes, belt, coins, and keys go into the tray, but Shawn seems to be clothed in chain mail and steel-toed lace-up boots. TSA relieves him of the large can of spray deodorant he always packs in his carry-on bag — one never knows when he might work himself into a stink, he says — and he stands in the thick of the exiting throngs as he re-threads his belt through his pants, loop by loop. I find myself flummoxed and begin to back away, only to hear his sorrowful voice call, “Honey! Wait a minute! I’m trying to get my belt on! Why aren’t you waiting for me?” The last time this happened our little boys tugged at my hands and said, “Mommy, Daddy looks like he needs some help.”