I think I was born to be a travel guide.
When little more than a starry-eyed girl with ridiculously complicated plaits on my head I announced to the adults around me that I wanted to be a vet. My mother’s response was a question: How would I feel about “sticking my whole arm, elbow deep, up a cow’s bottom?” she asked. Ok, I responded quickly. Then…I want to be a travel agent! “What, and sit around planning everyone’s else’s holidays all day?” she said…
So instead I dated one. He had sandy blonde hair, a big smile and bite-sized historical facts to share. I was sick with envy that his job was to help people have a good holiday. Ironically, it’s the antithesis of being an airline agent who faces grumpy people with delayed flights. I was reminded of this dream, and of him, when I passed the oversized swaying tourist-filled buses headed for Cape Point en route to work each morning. I took on my duty as a Capetonian specimen, waving at their confused faces.
It’s true. I get so excited when people come into town. In fact any coming and going, in any direction excites me. Of course, it’s all related to travel, which is one of those things everyone says they love, but few really, definitivly do. My mom is the only person I know who is honest about being a “bad traveler”. She’s just awful at packing, unpacking, finding things, and being without the general orderly array that is her life. Let’s face it, any sort of travel confuses her.
Most people say they love travel, but what they mean is that they enjoy the resorts of Hawaii.
But I do genuinely love travel. I don’t mind waiting around in airports. Flight delays translate into added excitement, and more time en route. I secretly covet that long-haul 26-hour gruel to Cape Town. Packing is a passion that starts a week ahead, and my organisation would make Martha Stewart look like a slob. I ache for that dusty beach in Vietnam, the scary airport in Naples, and those cocktails that made me sick in Tanzania. Alan and I have always picked the dubious and the divey over 5 star retreats.
So, it makes sense that I would end up spending my life split between arguably the two most beautiful cities in the world. I fail to get my head around a) people that ask me what brought me to San Francisco, and b) those who choose to live in identical housing units in the scrappy landscape of suburbia. I secretly placed myself in the path of tourists tripping their way through the most scenic cities in the world because Iwant to be a guide. When friends come into town I put away my life and dedicate myself to their desires, wishes and needs. I could no more schedule a dentist appointment on a day with visitors in town than I would poke my eyes out with a rolling pin. It is play time! I set my sights on detailing a special event-filled day coffeeshops, the best pasta in town and views to die for. No one visit is alike, as itineraries are plotted and planned with the precision of a general going into battle, according to individual energy levels, median age, penchant for wearing high heels or need to be seen by the scene.
My friend believes I should join one of those agencies who plan thousand dollar tailored weekends for people who work too hard and want to cram two days with tropical fish, smelly cheese, ancient Turkish tapestries or whatever. But for now, I think I’ll just continue to write and sell guides. And during my coffeebreaks, I’ll slip out to show my mum the best tapioca shop in Japantown.
