Travel quirks
I have been scarred for life, but to explain why, I need to give a little back story. For fifteen years, the extended Ditto family (around 35 to 45 people) vacationed at a lake house north of Seattle. This was not a spacious or fancy lake house, but it belonged to my sister-in-law’s grandparents, and they would let us use it one week out of the year. We accepted their generosity gladly.
Our time at the lake house was 99 percent wonderful, with only a few exceptions: some infighting among the tween-age girl cousins; the one year the hot tub gave everyone a rash; and the worst offender of all—the upstairs bathroom. This is from whence my trauma stems.
The relatively small upstairs bathroom saw a lot of action, as it was in a central hallway that almost everyone passed through each day. The first day of the vacation, all would be fine. The towels would be fluffed and the sink would be free of toothpaste globs.
But by day two—with throngs of children bathing, using the toilet, and changing into and out of wet swimsuits—that bathroom was a wreck. The adults tried to keep things civilized, straightening things up as we went along, but there’s only so much we could do in the face of the cousin horde.
The thing that grossed me out the most—the bringer of the trauma—was using the communal hand towels. These hand towels were perpetually damp, usually left on the floor, and quickly became smeared with various elements about which I prefer to remain ignorant.
Based on that experience, I now never travel anywhere without bringing my very own hand towel, which I guard as if it was the One Ring and don’t let anyone touch for any reason. It doesn’t matter where I’m going—a five-star hotel (not likely), grandma’s house, quaint Airbnb. If I know I will be sharing a bathroom with anyone, I will bring my own hand towel (maybe even a bath towel) along.
This is not the only one of my travel quirks; they abound. Taking flying, for instance. When I settle into my seat on an airplane, I do all the normal things: buckle my seatbelt, check my texts one last time, and look in the seat pocket in front of me to see if inflight magazines have somehow resurrected themselves, because they’re apparently not a thing anymore and I miss them.
But then I get down to business. I open up the safety briefing card and study how to open all the emergency exits, then check which exit I am closest to (remember: it may be behind you!). I mean, someone’s got to do it! Do you think that when the plane is going down you can count on the guy in front of you who has been playing Candy Crush on his phone non-stop since take-off?
No way. You need Julia Ditto, well trained in all aspects of airplane safety and proper exit technique. Have I ever had to use this vast bank of knowledge that I’ve amassed and continue to train myself on before every flight? No. But you better believe I’m not going to be the weak link come crash time!
A few more travel rituals: I must have the most recent copy of PEOPLE magazine to read, no matter how ridiculous the headline may be (Jane Fonda Welcomes New Puppies: Help Her Celebrate Her Joy!). I don’t read PEOPLE any other time besides when I’m traveling, but the relaxation center of my brain cannot be fully activated until it has been perused from cover to cover.
Also: Junior Mints. A box will be purchased before the trip and stashed in my purse if I’ve been thinking ahead, or bought at an exorbitant price at the airport bookstore if I have not. No matter the cost, the Junior Mints will be attained. Or a Twix bar. Either one works.
Am I alone here? Does anyone else have weird travel routines that they cling to like a downed airplane wing in the middle of the ocean?