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Tales from the Road: The First Law of Travel

By Melany Bendix

The TSA guy looked up without moving his head, in that eyebrow-arching way only security-trained people seem able to do. “Rough day?” he asked rhetorically.

Sweat was pouring down my beetroot face. My hands were stinging from where they’d hauled hand luggage across three massive terminals at Los Angeles International Airport at a speed that would make Caster Semenya proud. My shoulders, carrying the full weight of a 16-kilo three-year-old (still slouching casually in the carrier on my back), ached in a way that I knew would be the source of headaches for weeks to come. And I had a bad case of The Crazy Eye.

Fairy boat watching along the Doha Corniche

It had started six hours earlier, in Phoenix, where one perfectly weighed suitcase was now inexplicably overweight. In a queue that gave me insight into how cows must feel when they’re led up the slaughterhouse ramp, I had to unpack a kid’s suitcase and ignore her wails as I tossed a few beloved books. Not a good start to a marathon journey from Phoenix to Los Angeles, to Doha and, finally, home to Cape Town. 

Not one to be deterred by the drudgeries of travel, my daughter was on fine form throughout our first flight. She suggested to the man in the adjoining seat that he should brush his “yellow teeth” lest they fall out, asked – and not in her inside voice – why the cabin steward had a “circle with no hair on his head” and bleated out a profanity (mea culpa) when she spilt her juice. That was all in the first hour of flying. We had another 35-plus to go, and things were about to get worse. 

When in Rome...

We had spent four hours killing time in LAX. This mostly consisted of being fleeced for over-priced airport trinkets because, like a circling buzzard sensing weakness in its prey, so too does the human child sense parental weakness in transport hubs. It was while fending off a well-timed swoop for the Frozen box set that I realised something was very wrong: 30 minutes to boarding and our flight was still not on the board. With the child still belting out Let It Go in a last-ditch attempt to coerce me to do just that with more highly priced post-NeneGate dollars, I frantically searched for anyone vaguely official looking. I found her, chewing gum in an airport buggy. “You’re in the wrong terminal, honey,” she drawled. “This is four. You need to be in two, and you need to clear security again to get in. You’re never gonna make it.” 

Which is how I came to be in front of the TSA officer with The Crazy Eye. “Rough day for you,” he smiled, “but she looks like she’s having a good time.” I turned to see my kid grinning: “Do it again, mom. Faster!” 

Kids' playground at Hamad International Airport, Doha

And so, as the plane lifted off I left our bad start on the tarmac. In Doha we took advantage of Qatar Airways’ offer of complimentary transfers and a hotel stay so that we could enjoy a middle-of-the-night jaunt in a new city. We swam in an Arabian Nights-style rooftop swimming pool overlooking the twinkling city, ate a feast of curry and naan with freshly squeezed lemon and mint juice in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant for the princely sum of R40, and walked the seaside Corniche to look at all the “magic fairy boats” with their blinking neon lights. We continued the midnight jaunt at Doha’s incredible Hamad International Airport (my new world favourite), where she frolicked in the playground with kids from around the globe while I sipped a frappe in a cushy armchair. 

Because, in her finding fun in the worst of travel situations, my intrepid little partner had reminded me of the first law of travel: it’s all about your attitude.  

Go there!

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