Economy Fare Traveling Hardly Worth The Trouble Without The Money To Relax, Enjoy Trip
I once interviewed a senior citizen couple who were seasoned travelers. Married for decades, they marked the passage of their life together by trips to Disneyland and Disney World. They’d been to each place at least 10 times. Asked if he had any travel tips to share with the public, the elderly gentleman was succinct.
“When packing, spread all your clothes out on the bed,” he instructed. “Then get out your wallet.”
“Take half as many clothes and twice as much money!”
I wish I could convince my best friend Shelley of the validity of this advice. For her the concept of traveling light is limited to finances. Since I’m usually not much better fixed, trips we have taken together over the years have been fraught with misadventure, often directly related to too much luggage and not enough cash.
A vacation to San Francisco in 1988 is a perfect example. Shelley was already in the Bay Area on family business, tooling around in a rental car, courtesy of her boyfriend’s credit card. (She’d left the boyfriend at home, of course.)
She called to urge me to join her, a suggestion which merited serious consideration for all of two seconds. I hopped the next flight to California.
Hours later, so airsick I wanted to die, I stumbled off the plane in Oakland, Shelley showed up, and we began a vacation which was more National Lampoon than “Roman Holiday.”
We enjoyed the sun and sights, gawking at the fancy stores in downtown San Francisco, strolling along the waterfront and posing in front of tourist attractions, snapping photos everywhere we went.
Unfortunately, we soon ran out of clean clothes, and lacking money for the luxury of clean laundry, we settled for wearing the same outfit every day. This was obvious in the pictures. While the background differed, Shelley was always attired in her blue shorts and white shirt, I, for some reason, had opted for a green polo shirt and matching striped pants, a cheerful, clownlike look strangley at odds with our penniless state.
By day we were featured in a sporty, white car complete with sunroof and fancy wheels. The fine Pontiac was a free upgrade from the bottom-of-the-line beater Shelley had requested.
When the sun set, however, we holed up in our cinderblock motel, its sparse grass encircled by a chain-link fence.
Eventually the time came when we could no longer afford even those posh digs. The last night of our trip, we were forced to sleep in the car.
Anticipating this possibility, we’d scouted suitable sites, finally settling on the deserted parking lot of an office building. Tall, green hedges screened the Pontiac from view, so we bagged out about midnight.
At 6:30 we were awakened by a strident knocking on the driver’s window. I raised my head, bashing it painfully on the steering wheel. Two police officers stood there, staring silently.
Shelley, never at her best early in the morning, sat up, her frosted mop of hair sticking up in cowlicky clumps.
“May I help you?” she inquired, in the slurred tones of someone very much the worse for drink.
They’d come to warn us, sleeping in the car was illegal in that county. Besides, one of the officers said casually, the location was so remote, if something happened to us, “it would be several days before we’d find your bodies.”
On that cheerful note, we headed to the airport to turn in the Pontiac and board a flight for home. Shelley, however, wasn’t ready to leave without taking part of California with her. During the entire vacation she’d been obsessing about the huge, verdant trees and flowering shrubs we saw growing everywhere, the same varieties as the “house plants” she raised in little pots back in Spokane. She had diligently snipped cuttings and was determined to take them with us on the plane - a plan strictly illegal under USDA rules.
When we got to the terminal, she set about repacking our baggage, concealing the scraggly branches and vines at the bottom of tote bags, shopping bags and duffels. She was convinced spreading the clandestine cargo among so many items of luggage would protect it from the prying eyes of security guards.
The subterfuge worke but left us with approximately 10 carry-ons apiece to drag to the flight. I stuck my arms out like a hall tree, and Shelley hung four tote bags on each limb. Around my neck she placed my purse and in each hand, a small valise. She donned a similar mountain of luggage herself, and we staggered up the loading ramp.
As we entered the aircraft, all conversation ceased. We bumped down the narrow walkway, our bags and satchels swinging by their straps to smack the heads of people seated on the aisle.
At the rear of the plane stood a blond flight attendant, attractive and Barbie-doll prim in her navy skirt and white blouse. Surveying our wrinkled clothing, lank coiffures and wide loads, she inquired in clarion tones which shattered the silence like a sonic boom, “Whatever Happened To The FFA-Mandated Limit Of Three Carry-On Items Per Person?”
I wished for the floor of the aircraft to swallow me up and suck me down into the inky tarmac, but Shelley just scowled and cursed under her breath. Finally we claimed our seats and stowed the non-FFA approved pile of luggage, to the accompaniment of glares and whispers from our fellow travelers.
When the flight landed in Seattle, we waited for everyone to disembark, then covered each other with luggage and made our way to the terminal. Once inside, we discovered to our amazement, our overburdened state netted the sympathy vote rather than snide remarks. A friendly airline employee snagged a wheelchair and offered it. Whether she intended it for one of us or to help transport the albatross baggage we never determined.
I’ve been following the recent debate over mandatory limits on carry-on luggage with great interest. However, I think it’s going to be a tough sell for some passengers, including Shelley. Last time we reminisced about the ill-fated San Francisco vacation, she bragged to me, every one of those damned plants was doing just fine.
MEMO: Judy Fulkerson is a free-lance writer who lives in Yakima.