How hard can it be?

I had to make a trip to the shop today. For the past 2-3 weeks I've been dealing with a particularly stubborn respiratory infection which has made getting around even inside the flat.. interesting.. to say the least. Frustrating and extremely irritating to find myself out of breath from simply taking the few steps from sofa to bathroom or kitchen:  and since I have spent most of the past 3 days asleep, I was determined to get this done.  I knew it would take me a good while to walk there, so... out came the bike: and (bloody minded as I am) I set off on the 5 minute ride.
Except, because of the state I am in right now, it was more like 10 minutes, with me coughing and wheezing almost the whole way there: dragging myself around the shop like a 95 year old, and then taking a good 15 minutes to ride back (mostly uphill). It took me at least an hour to recover, and I was too exhausted to actually cook anything, so I ended up ordering takeout.. although that will last me at least 2 days, so I refuse to feel too guilty about it.

I hate being ill. I particularly hate being ill if it means that I struggle even more to do the day to day stuff. Living completely alone for pretty much the first time ever: having no family or friends nearby... being ill is not an option for me..  minor ailments are an inconvenience:  more severe problems curtail everything. Yes, I can go online and shop if I'm not well enough to go out and do it in person:  but what if all I need is a pint of milk?  or a loaf of bread?  do I really want to pay up to £5 to have that delivered?

it sounds like such a small thing when I say it.. but to be struggling so badly for even this long, is actually frightening. It reminds me that I am getting older:  it makes me think about how things could be in 15 years, or 20.  And it made me think also about how much I value my independence.   There are areas of my life when I am limited by disability: there are things that I find difficult on a daily basis. Days when I dress in pull-on skirts, and teeshirts or sweaters, because I don't want the embarrassment of having to fumble with fasteners. For the same reason, I have many pairs of laceless shoes... for those days when my fingers and hands are too stiff and painful, or too clumsy to allow me to tie a shoelace in less than 8 or 9 attempts: or to fight a button into place. it makes me feel old and slow and stupid, and I hate it. So I make ways around it... and the same applies to my travels.  when I am having the very worst of times, and I feel that my body is failing me, I have no choice but to accept it, and make use of the services offered to me:  less so on the days when I have a little more control and a little less pain. Its all a matter of degrees.  However much I might wish it, my difficulties will not go away: but there are ways that I can circumvent them, or avoid having to surrender to them entirely. Adapt and survive in a small way.

So.. I begin to plan for my next trip. I'm already familiarising myself with the website for an airport I never used before: I have looked up details of the hotels closest to it, because it will make more sense for me to travel there the day before the flight, and maybe for once, I should try to get a decent rest the night before so that I am rested for the flight, and can arrive looking a little less frazzled and exhausted.  I'm already making lists of the little I might need to take with me; and looking for trains and shuttles.  There is an excitement in it; an anticipation that I love. And of course, the knowledge that it means I get to spend a little more time with one who means the world to me.  in my head, I;m already on my way

There's always something

Today was hard.

I pushed myself to go out.. I belong to a writing group that meets once a month: and this month's meeting was today: so I went. It took days to persuade myself, not because I don't enjoy it; but because it is hard for me to be around other people when I feel anxious or stressed.  I know that both of my conditions are triggered and worsened by both of those feelings, and I become more and more uneasy and anxious that I will find myself overwhelmed, and not be able to control the trigger and the reaction.

In a room full of people who see me regularly, that is bad enough..  on a plane full of fellow travellers, and with no way of removing myself from the situation, the idea of it is terrifying. That is why I am so grateful that I enjoy the process so much.. and that every journey is made with complete strangers: people who know nothing about me, and who I will likely never see again... because if they were ever exposed to the strangeness and unusual behaviour that would result, I would at least have the comfort of knowing I won't be sitting next to them on the journey back....

There are times when it is very hard for me to be accepting of the way I am. I tell very, very few people my diagnosis:  in the past there have been those who have found out and immediately shunned me. people who for years I have thought of as close, dear friends suddenly became either dismissive and unavailable, or worse (for me, at least)  began to behave so nervously and cautiously around me that it made me impossibly uncomfortable. So now, I don't mention, disclose or discuss it, even with medical professionals, unless they are directly involved with helping me to manage it.

HOWEVER...  now that my previous travel insurance has lapsed, I find myself in a quandary. I need to have cover, obviously: but to be properly insured, I have (again) to go through the explanations and confusion to make sure that if something should happen, my cover won't be affected because the company wants to suggest that the situation was due to my MH problems. It is far easier to get them to accept and understand a physical condition, and how that can affect me.  The initial application isn't the problem: its the follow-up call to get more detailed information that really does it.  I felt sorry for the person who took my call when I applied last time: they were unfailingly helpful and polite: but their confusion and uncertainty was obvious:  and I can guarantee that the 5 minute pause while I was on hold was purely due to the fact that they could not find my particular condition on their drop list.....

I know.  I'm talking a lot about 'conditions' and not offering any real detail to explain why its such a problem.. but that's the point. If I detail it here, there is a chance that at some point, others will read it. And that those others will include people who know me.. even under my user name:

and then the awkwardness...

One Way Thinking

It started off cold again this morning. I had the windows open to air out the room a little, and was listening to the dawn chorus wrapped in the biggest, chunkiest sweater that I own..

I am suffering, at the moment, from a weird version of insomnia. I am tired:  exhausted even: but sleep is coming in short bursts rather than full nights,  so I find myself using the time to catch up with things that I have been neglecting. writing letters that are long overdue: reading books that for months have languished on shelves (usually, a new book barely makes it over my threshold with at least half of the first chapter unread) sewing on buttons: dusting, tidying... catching up with the tv programmes I recorded,,, I'm used to sleeping badly:  its one of the more debilitating symptoms of fibro: but this is excessive even for me. And of course, I am making list after list in preparation for my next trip. At least the 'to pack' list is much. much shorter this time:  I'm not going to need to take very many clothes with me, as I was very generously invited to leave a bag behind the last time..

I guess. at the moment, I feel as though I'm kind of in limbo.. I'm doing what I need to here: looking after the flat: making sure I pay bills and buy groceries, and do the ordinary, day to day stuff, while I'm actually marking time until I can get moving on my next trip. It isn't that I don't like my home.. or that I don't like spending time here: its more that there is so much for me to look forward to that I can't wait to get going again.

There is a part of travelling that I seldom consciously look at: maybe because it isn't (for me, at least) exciting or fun: lately, it has been the part of my travels that I least look forward to: and that is the journey back. I spend weeks planning for a trip to the USA: choosing clothes to pack: deciding what else I'd like to take: looking at events or places that I would like to go to...  the only real planning that I do for the return trip is to make sure that I know from where, and when the flight leaves: and to be sure that I book the rail ticket (and can pick that up at the station)  Packing for that journey is usually a rushed, resentful affair, undertaken at the last possible moment, with the maximum amount of grumbling, and (usually hidden away in secret) a few tears, because leaving can be hard..  The trip back  from there always seems so much longer and more exhausting:  the weather darker and colder... and it always, always starts way too soon for me.

On my shorter trips: the occasional weekends away: rare visits to other cities, there is a difference. The reluctance  to leave: that unwillingness to return to the mundane and familiar still bothers me: but that feeling of being uprooted: of leaving a part of me behind is not there, I can be packed and ready to check out of a hotel hours before the required time: there is no longing for one more look around the place: one more hour just sitting peacefully:  a last walk down my favourite street..to a degree, I suppose that is because a part of me knows that I can always revisit: that there will be other weekends.  And, more importantly, on those trips, when I begin the journey home, all I am leaving behind is the place and the things about it that I remember. When I leave the US, I am leaving behind something far more precious and important to me: something, and someone that makes up a huge part of my life now: and no matter how hard I try to make it so, flying back here no longer feels like coming home.

Where and When

I am not widely travelled,

There - I said it.  Much as I love every journey that I have made, I have actually been to very few places, and only 3 outside of the UK.  partly, this is due to my own issues: it took a lot of courage to close the door behind me for that first trip overseas (Paris, 2005. alone): but the whole, slightly crazy experience had me immediately hooked.
The other reason for my lack of cosmopolitanism (its a word.. !) was the attitude of the parents. The mother particularly did not hold with international holidays:  her attitude was one of 'why should we go overseas when there are plenty of lovely places here in the UK to visit.'  and besides, here, you know people speak your language: you recognise the food, and you can get a decent cup of tea when you want one...   so the family holidays I recall were usually spent in a static caravan on a pretty site in the West of Scotland. I loved them: revelled in the unaccustomed freedom of being let out in a morning, and only being called back for meals and bedtime. And I can't say that I felt deprived in any way:  we were not a wealthy family, so those holidays were hard-earned: paid for by creative adjustments to the weekly family budget, and as much overtime as they could squeeze out of their employers. Other times, there were daytrips to the coast (I remember many fish and chip lunches eaten packed into a car with The Goons playing on the radio, and rain hammering on the roof)  or being dragged around various churchyards so that the father could pursue his obsessive genealogy habit...  Durham.. Barnsley.. Stockport. All the beauty spots.

Later, if I got wanderlust, I would often just pick a place I'd not been to, or hadn't had the opportunity to explore on one of those graveyard safaris, get on a train and spend a day.. or a couple of days, wandering around in a blissful daze. Some places may well surprise new visitors:  Leeds, for instance, was lots of fun.. Durham has lots of little nooks and interesting back streets.. Leicester is a treasure trove of cultural variety (I have to drag myself out of the sari shops,  and close my eyes passing the bookshops!)

The trip to Paris, I made via the Eurostar. Maybe some time I'll talk about what happened after I arrived at Waterloo (what a fun, nutty night)  and I packed so much into the shortest 3 days ever..  I hit the Metro like a rocket, zipping all over the city to take in as much as I could....  I know I will be going back there some time, because there was just not nearly enough time to see, and explore, and experience..

Which brings me to the picture on this post.   Budapest: November 2007: an entire, blissful week.  and my first ever commercial flight:  2 hours with the most unpopular budget airline. It was cramped: overly warm, and loud: but I loved every second: pressing my nose to the window like an over-excited 5 year-old desperately trying to see through the cloud cover...   and once I was there, I left the hotel before 8 every morning, and was seldom back before 9 in the evening.  There is a fantastic Tram system that takes in BOTH cities. and a 4 day pass cost around £10 at the time: it could also be used on the metro and buses: so I made the absolute most of it, and hit every tourist site I could, as well as just hopping on and off in random streets and places so that I could look around. I found some amazing little green spaces: squares lined with trees and benches:  gorgeously ornate shop fronts still bearing bullet and shell scars from the 1956 uprising.. a huge shopping arcade, and at least six different supermarkets to try (I found it hysterically funny that Tesco had opened about 4 stores there not too long before my visit.. )  Not only that, but I found out that the main mobile phone provider there was the one I had my phone with... so I was able to top up, and make calls home.  I even found an internet cafe where i could get a bite to eat for less than a pound, and email pictures back home.. Budapest is a stunning, lively, beautiful place, even in the depths of a bitter winter (rain, hail sleet, snow, gales.. all in one day!)   I badly want to go back and see what it is like during the summer too: but that could be risky. I didn't want to leave at the end of my last visit:  the temptation to move there was so strong, that only the realisation that the one word of Magyar I managed to retain (tej=milk)  would hardly get me by... but languages can be learned: and there are some lovely apartments in the old city.....

Some Notes on Packing.. and why its so damned hard!

Until a couple of weeks ago, I had...*counts" five suitcases. Well.. I say suitcases:  it was actually two enormous wheeled holdalls. one huge suitcase, one small one bought two trips ago because I couldn't cram everything I wanted to take with me into one of the giant holdalls.. and the one I bought on my last but one trip that came with a matching weekend bag and toiletries case.  Five cases....  and three of them easily large enough to hold enough clothes and necessities for two normal people for a two-week holiday.

Now.. admittedly, I was going to be staying for longer than that:  and a couple of the trips were made in winter, so I needed to have sweaters and boots (ahem.. well.. maybe I didn't NEED the boots.. but hey.. girls do this stuff)  but I really needed to get a grip.... dragging a 23 kg holdall, an 18 kg carry on case, AND a handbag the size of Wales around 3 airports was ridiculous.

It isn't exactly that I don't know how or what to pack.. but because of my 'condition'  my packing has been somewhat.. eclectic. I like to have a variety of outfits.. a couple of casual things.. flat shoes. maybe something a little more formal in case of unexpected nights out: nightwear or a robe in case of late-night/early morning fire alarms (having been around on a couple of occasions in my distant past where that happened, and caught one or two nude sleepers unawares... I really don't fancy traipsing out to a windy carpark at 3 am wrapped only in a bath towel... or a sheet) a handful of teeshirts: sweater.. underwear...  so I set out with the best of intentions. What tends to happen is that I open the case a few days before I'm due to leave, and find that somehow, although I have stuck to my formula, I have managed to cram in at least 3 different versions of each outfit: so that it looks like I packed for 3 people: one of whom is a 3 year old with no eye for colour...  

Fortunately, I have my own version of OCD: so before every trip I take, even just an overnight visit, I will pack and re-pack a bag perhaps half a dozen times.. laying out everything I had originally packed, and switching items around: removing what I feel I don't need, or am just taking 'in case'...  the last re-pack usually being the day/night before the trip, to catch any last-minute changes, or bits that have managed to sneak in when I wasn't paying attention.  

I was challenged, (actually, it was more like requested)  for the last trip, to see whether I couldn't reduce everything down to just one case, and maybe a handbag. I have to admit that although that did leave me a little anxious, I was curious to see whether it might actually be possible.....   it was. Kind of.  it took a lot of willpower, and a little brutal honesty: but when I headed off for the station this time, it was with a single, small suitcase: its matching overnight/carry on bag (about the size of a large handbag) and a laptop bag. I was, I'm a little embarrassed to say, oddly proud of myself:  especially as when my bag was weighed at the airport, it came in at less than 13 kg.. it felt odd, in the best way, to be heading for the security checks carrying only one bag: but the speed that I was through the checks, and off to my gate was a real eye opener, and I had an unaccustomed pang of achievement when I was able to slide both of my carry on items under the seat in front of me on the plane (no more struggling to drag an unwieldy bag into and out of the overhead locker when I wanted to find another book: or a sweater... it was a real epiphany.)  So.. this time, I want to see just how small a case I can get away with. One small carry on size bag? maybe. whatever I do pack, though I know I'm NOT going to be taking the enormous, clumsy behemoths that I have previously had to manhandle through an exhausting assault course of trains, stairs, lifts, belts, cabs and uneven pavements.  I have already given one away:  another is now filled with the flotsam that I regularly sort to be given away to charity shops, and tucked away in my storage area: and the third is currently acting as an additional wardrobe for all those lightweight, bright outfits that only ever emerge when its warm enough NOT to turn my fingers blue..  I finally found, after all these years, that I LIKE travelling light:  it has its own kind of exhilaration: its own aspect of risk..   and, well... no-one ever died from a shortage of teeshirts.. and they sell deodorant and sunscreen in OTHER countries, right?

The Thing Is......

Today. I have (after sleeping: which believe me has become no easy task lately!) been comparing travel insurance quotes. (Yes, I know... I am just THAT exciting...)   I can't believe how quickly the last year has passed, and how soon the expiry date has come around.  So much has happened, both during, and in between my trips: and my life has changed so drastically over the past couple of years, that I barely recognise it.. or me.

For some people, this kind of blogging seems pointless and self-indulgent. I can understand their point of view: there are those who think that a blog should maybe be educational: informative.  I tend to just empty my head onto the page, however inane, and perhaps edit it later if it makes no sense, or is too off the wall even for ME to read...Doing this, for me, is a way to create order inside: to perhaps calm my thoughts to the point where I can make sense of them; sometimes, I even find that I discover things about myself, or my ideas, that I didn't know existed...  I try to read every entry as though someone else wrote it: hoping that if it appeals to me, it might appeal to others. I kind of made a promise that I would:   1)  make an effort to write more, generally (I've been struggling, I can't deny it)  and 2) once I did start writing, that I would also make an effort to publicise it a little. hence settling this up as a blog, rather than making an online journal that only I can read.  Right now, I seem to be stuck on a travel theme: not necessarily a bad thing: but it is unusual for me to write about anything in quite such personal detail: and I very rarely make my inner ramblings so public (for the sake of others as much as my own)  But...  a promise is a promise.


 I journal and blog to clarify my thoughts: to create some order in my often chaotic head...  I do have a couple of private blogs, which I visit infrequently, mainly because as I cycle through my weirdness, I forget that I created them, and am generally reminded by emails telling me they are languishing in the ether.  I also have a physical journal, which I usually try to use every day (not always possible, but I try)
The physical act of writing:  of selecting just the right pen:  just the right page. |The movement of my hand over that page: the sight of the words flowing (or even being slowly squeezed) from the nib of the pen, is calming to me. It causes me to slow, in order to allow the transfer of what is in my head, through my hand, to the page with some degree of coherence. That in turn can often ease the rush of ideas, thoughts, feelings, and allow me to sort them, catalogue them, Recognise each for what it is, examine it, and set it down, happier that I can at least find it again and revisit what it has meant for me.

I realised that I instinctively apply that same principal to other areas of my life. When I am at my most anxious, distressed, or overwhelmed, I find myself looking for chores around the flat. I dust: tidy, fold and re-fold sheets and towels. Re-order books on shelves. go through the cabinets in my kitchen and move things around: and all the while my hands are busy doing that, I am settling my mind.

When I know that I am going to be making a trip, I have ways of doing the same thing,  The moment I decide on a date to travel, I am instantly anxious: not about the journey itself, but about what might go wrong before  or during. I make endless lists - 'to-do' lists so detailed that they are all but moment to moment. lists of what to pack, and which bag to pack it in.  I pack and repack.. amend lists, check and double check flight details and bookings...  I assuage that anxiety by overplanning: even creating an itinerary that I would be highly unlikely to be able to keep to, but which offers a sense of security that helps to maintain a degree of calm. I'm ok.. I have a plan.
I was also given a kind of 'emergency pack' by my very understanding boyfriend.. it contains a list of contact names and numbers so that should there be a problem while I'm travelling,  I (or anyone else on my behalf) can contact him. it has a typed statement explaining my condition just in case it should be triggered:  and his address, because if my physical problem starts affecting my memory, I might well struggle to remember where to ask the cab driver to take me.  All of these things help:  as does making sure that I have some familiar things with me:  I always carry phone, notebook, pen. usually a couple of books to read (although I read so fast and intently I often finish these mid-journey)
Part of my hidden condition that I have great difficulty approaching strangers to ask for help or information...  so when I am going away, I also try to make sure that I not only know which gate I need to find: but have a rough idea of the layout of the airport I'm travelling from/to so that I can navigate a little more easily.  part of me wishes that it was possible to maybe just link in to a wireless information system, like an internal GPS service within an airport, that would guide me to where I needed to be: but I doubt there is any such service developed yet... (although.. if there is anyone reading this, I may well just have given away a damned fine idea.....)

Getting There (Part Two)

Sometimes, I find myself looking at a photograph, and struggling not just to recognise its content: but to know why I have it. It isn't that I pick up random images.... I'm talking about pictures that I obviously took,  but have no memory of taking,


I stopped typing the last entry at the point where I was mortified at finding myself using the services put in place by the train company and airlines for disabled travellers. Partly, I stopped because I was struggling to know what else I wanted to say, and how to say it:  but it was also because once I started thinking about that, I also started thinking about how my other, less obvious condition influences the way I go about getting from one place to another.
It isn't so so much that it can affect how I travel: it is something that affects every aspect of my life, day to day.but travelling: and specifically flying, brings its own challenges.  Already I have found that it has manifested during a couple of trips, and while that concerns me a little, it also made me think a little more about my reluctance to explain it to other people.  Maybe if I told the airline when I booked my flights:  or the flight attendants once I was aboard, I would be less worried about something happening: but again, embarrassment: uncertainty, and awareness of the stigma that people attach to conditions like mine, which are usually described as Mental Health problems.   Two trips ago, while waiting to clear passport control at the airport where I was due to catch my connecting flight, I was called aside to be interviewed by a customs/passport officer.  I was absolutely terrified that I was going to be sent home, and had no idea what I might have done to warrant it.  I was talked to initially about my reasons for making the trip: and once I explained, was asked the usual questions about why I was staying for the length of time that I was:  and about my means of supporting myself.  I was unhesitatingly and completely honest and open: explaining with some embarrassment that I am, at the moment unable to work, but have an income from benefits, and that I save that money to enable me to travel, and visit my American b/f.. That led to questions about the nature of my disabilities... and while it was easy for me to explain the physical condition that I have,  it was far, far harder to describe and explain the other one.  I have an relatively rare, and complex condition that can cause my behaviour to change: affect memory and concentration, and cause severe anxiety and confusion. I don't tell people my exact diagnosis because there are so many preconceptions and myths about the condition: but in those circumstances, I felt I had no choice but to be completely open.  The first question I was asked was whether I had ever been a danger to anyone because of it.

Until you have been asked something like that, not just by someone that you know and trusted enough to divulge so difficult a secret to, but a uniformed stranger with the power to deny you entry into their country, it is difficult to understand the depth of humiliation, pain and hurt the question can cause.  I have lived with this for as long as I can remember... (and I can remember stuff that happened to me when I was less than 2 years old) and no-one around me has had the slightest idea that there was anything different about me. No.. I'm not a danger to anyone.. no, I don't fly into uncontrolled rages or have sudden, uncontrolled verbal outbursts.  I may, occasionally sound a little different:  look a little different, seem unduly confused and have memory lapses.  There are occasions when my behaviour may seem a little peculiar to people who don't know me, and I am well aware that there have been times when I have been overheard saying things that have seemed strange and more than a little eccentric,  On my first long-haul flight, the attendant was most amused at finding me,at one point, all but bouncing in my seat with the excitement of finding myself able to look out of the window and see the tiny world passing by beneath us, through the clouds..  She was, therefore a little bemused when, 10 minutes later, she returned with the trolley, distributing drinks, and found me immersed in a book, completely uninterested in the joys of flight....

Yes: I was honest, open, and I was able to alleviate any concerns that the officer may have had about my situation... but I was in tears as I walked away from the desk and headed for the gate where my flight was, at that point, in the final stages of boarding. Despite knowing that it wasn't the case, I was left with a dull feeling of being, somehow, found to be 'less'... less welcome?  Less deserving?  I wasn't sure:  but I boarded that plane and spent the flight in silence, unable to look anyone in the eye, and feeling for some reason that I ought to be looking for someone to apologise to.

I am not the most confident person in the world generally... and if I feel that I have somehow messed up, it destroys what little faith I do have in myself... but to be looked at with what I perceived to be doubt and suspicion by another person simply because my brain does not work the same way that theirs does... and they don't understand that difference../ I can't really describe that feeling, except to say that it left me withdrawn.. unwilling to risk accidentally communicating my difference to other strangers.. and terrified that my secret would be discovered.

The only thing that scares me about travelling, is the thing I carry with me.

Getting There. (part one)

No.. its NOT in Paris....

Ok.  THIS post is being written back in my tiny flat in deepest, darkest UK, while I hack and cough my way through the crappy chest-cold I caught within days of getting back.. I still haven't completely unpacked my case:  I guess I'll get around to it in the next few days, but for now, its out of sight and mind in its place in the cupboard, and I'm thinking about the journey.

I travel alone. Regularly - not just on my trips to the US, but on occasional weekend jaunts here in the UK too...  (sometimes its fun to just get on a train and head for somewhere you've never been before.. spend a couple of days exploring: be a tourist. Sleep in a hotel for a night or two - try the contrast between a cheap and cheerful B&B and an upmarket hotel.. spoil yourself, Its worth doing, even just once....)    I love travelling, Mostly by train while I'm here ( I get terrible motion sickness on even mid-range coach trips, and sometimes in cars too) but flying is still a huge novelty and a treat for me too. I love the anticipation:  the preparation, and the actual journeying itself...  but I don't find it easy. I have a terrible tendency to over-pack (6 different outfits for 1 weekend stay) although I am toning that down more as I finally figure out what I actually need to take, and what I can pick up at my destination.  Mostly, my difficulties are due to issues that I don't usually admit to: and I'll come to that later.

I find people's reactions to finding that I take off alone on these trips interesting,  in some ways.  Mostly, the few friends I've talked to about it tell me they think I'm brave: that they couldn't head off to a strange place alone; and then ask whether I'm not scared.   When they asked, I answered straight away that of course not... but later, I sat down and really thought about both the question and my too-immediate response.  I hadn't really ever considered that there might be a reason for me to be afraid of travelling:  while I have a long-standing and intense anxiety when around large numbers of people, and am very uncomfortable and wary around strangers in general, I find travelling relaxing and exciting. Although I would struggle to explain to many people who know me, I actually feel freer and less self-conscious in new places... admittedly, the week I spent wandering in blissful ignorance around a bitterly cold and magical Budapest MIGHT have been a little easier at times if I'd been with a tour group and had a guide, or at least someone with me who spoke Magyar: but then I would never have been able to wander away from the usual tourist spots and find some of the gorgeous little corners and squares that I was able to explore without being rushed on to the next attraction.  The same with my brief and adventure packed 3 days in Paris. I planned as though for a military exercise: using a city map and the timetable for the metro to be able to squeeze in as many of the main sights as possible, while still being able to do some of my usual aimless rambling...I can honestly say that I wasn't, for a single moment, afraid. not even when I DID manage to get myself a little lost, and had to blunder my way back to a street that I recognised by pure luck.

I love exploring, I love dipping into the life of a new place; tasting and learning it. and I love the journey: the planning of it: the preparation, and the setting off:  long train journeys and flights are not boring to me. At least not so far:  perhaps there is still a degree of novelty to them that is still to wear off: but to me it is all a part of the joy of the thing.

My 'difficulties' are more prosaic.  I am, (and many might agree)  ridiculously stubborn and independent at times: often too much so for my own good: and since I started my long-distance trips, I have had to accept that there are times when I will have to swallow my pride, and allow myself to admit that I CAN'T always do everything myself.
I have what have been described as 'invisible disabilities'.  I look perfectly healthy and able: and mostly, that is the case.. or so I tell myself. However, one of the conditions that I find myself subject to causes severe pain, fatigue, and, during severe flareups, a degree of cognitive impairment that makes me look like an exaggerated stereotype of an absent-minded, eccentric Englishwoman. Generally, it is the pain and fatigue that manifest the most, and the more tired, stressed or anxious I am, the more frequently and strongly that will happen... and unfortunately, my mobility suffers. So. when I travel, I carry a folding walking stick, which I can open up to use if I have to, but fold up and hide away in my hand luggage if I want to try to struggle without it.  The first couple of trips I made to the US I stuck to my bloody-minded plan, and left the damned thing in my bag, and just gritted my teeth and battled through it: dragging my increasingly exhausted self on and off trains, through airport terminals, security, passport control, and more terminals, until I was so exhausted I could barely stand, and every muscle was screaming at me. The third time, I had to admit defeat before I even got on the train to the airport... and that was when I found that people's attitudes to disability are often far more accepting and helpful than I thought.. and that some companies make a point of looking for ways to make it easier to travel with them.
The guard/conductor on the train insisted on helping with my case. At the airport, I was offered wheelchair support: and ushered through the fast-track channels for passport control and security, so that I did not have to stand for long periods. I was encouraged to board the plane as a priority passenger, so that I had a little more time, and fewer people to contend with when finding my seat.... and at the terminal, I was firmly but politely escorted to a chauffeured electric buggy to be whisked to my gate, sparing me the 15 minute trek.  I was mortified and delighted at the same time:  delighted that the service was available; but mortified that I was using it...  

What I do, I do badly

I believe that, sometimes, the middle is the best place to start.  Not because it leaves room for lots of misty-eyed, reminiscent flashbacks, but because sometimes it really isn't necessary to have pages and pages of uninteresting background and buildup to what is going to be just an expression of ideas and thoughts.  Besides, I always think its kind of conceited to assume that people would want to wade through all that, anyway.

Ok. For those of you who don't know, ( which, lets face it, is anyone but me reading this)  I am currently in the US.  For my 4th visit: . I didn't want to start any kind of blog with the first few - I always get so stupidly over-excited and gushy, and sound like an idiot, enthusing about everything (don't ask... )

Its also that things are a little more involved than just a couple of weeks doing the tourist thing and looking at the sights. I don't just want to talk about how new and different everything is to me. That's an obvious given. I actually like this place, despite its flaws, problems, and reputation:  it reminds me very much of some of the places I've been back home: and while I accept that there are differences that could make it more .. not dangerous, but risky, perhaps:  I actually feel safer here than I have back home at times.

So.. where am I?   New York?  Los Angeles?  Detroit?

Nah.  Not for me.  I hit the real fleshpot, and I'm exploring a little more each visit.  Las Vegas:  Sin City?    trust me:  no more than Soho, or any other place in the UK that I have visited, Yes, Vegas is big, loud, brassy and blousy:  kind of the 'Bet Lynch' of the US, IF you take it at face value, and only read/listen to the hype and tourist brochures. I just think that there is more to this city than just The Strip.. and even that gets a poor press, in my opinion.  Yes: it is pretty touristy:  but in a place that makes so much of its revenue from visitors, what else would you expect?  And yes, there are sooo many casinos along it:  but they vary so much in style. decor and appeal;  visiting The Strip is NOT like walking along Blackpool seafront and popping into a couple of the amusement arcades.  I have visited a few of  those casinos, many of which have hotels attached (and some extremely nice ones at that) and they offer such a variety of entertainment. Gambling (of course)  but also, live music: bars, cafes, coffee shops:  quality shopping, fine dining:  you can even catch a show or two if the mood takes you. And that is all fine and good, if that is what you want.  But that isn't ALL there is to Las Vegas.

I'm not going to pretend that Vegas is a cultural capital; it's not. But it does have a growing arts quarter: there are writing groups, arts groups:  music, theatre...  and yes, Freemont Street is a focal point for that: but if you care to look a little deeper, its easy to find venues beyond the arts district, (like, for instance, the Freaking Frog) which hold open mic events not just for musicians, but poets, writers, other performers. There are city parks, lakes, mountains:  areas of natural beauty that should draw visitors just as powerfully as the bright lights.  And yes, I know I'm making this post sound like an advert for the Las Vegas Tourist Board so far:, but there is a point to this.

Most visitors to Vegas only ever see the Strip, or the other areas geared for holidaying.  That makes it all too easy to forget that there are people who live and work here every day: that this is a working, living city, with all the same flaws and failings as any other. There are people sleeping on the streets here, just as there are in London. There are less privileged areas:  Crime, poverty and deprivation haven't bypassed Vegas: people here struggle to pay mortgages:  there is unemployment: there are neighbourhoods considered less 'safe', or savoury.  I grew up in a city in the UK, in an area very much like those... fewer guns, perhaps: but with no fewer problems.  My point is, that the more I visit: the more I explore and learn about this place, the more I like it. maybe, as I have been told, I'm a little weird:  but for all its problems, this is a vibrant, unapologetic, in-your-face, take-it-or-leave-it town, and I can't help but be drawn to it.