Plan Your Travel - But Not Too Much

An interesting couple of sentences appeared in practical nomad Edward Hasbrouck's newsletter this morning, as he was examining the gaming strategies of an Amazing Race pair:

The consequences of other travel mistakes are generally limited to minor delay and discomfort. Travel stress can easily lead us to invest travel decisions with much more practical and emotional weight than they deserve (emphasis all mine).

This is in line with what I've been warning about for years. Don't plan too much. Allow for late planes and trains. Allow especially for extraordinary detours that open up a new world to you. Don't get stressed out over missed connections. A missed connection can be your friend--if you let it.

Way back when I was intending to travel from Barcelona to Milan on one of Europe's then premier trains, the Trans European Express, TEE. Along the way, the train went progressively slower and by the time we got to the Italian border it was very, very late. We were loaded onto what appeared in the dim light to be a cattle car with wooden benches along the walls. It took us 20 miles to the Italian Riviera town of Ventimiglia, where it pulled into the station and stopped. Or expired; it was hard to tell which. The conductor then informed us that it was so late that the station in Milano would be closed, so we couldn't go further.

There were lots of American tourists on that train. Now they were up in arms, demanding to be taken to Milan. While they talked loudly to mask their inability to speak a word of Italian, I snuck off and got a hotel, reasoning that the massive influx of unexpected visitors would threaten the supply of rooms. Besides, it was The Italian Riviera, how bad a stop could that be?

And I awoke the next morning to twittering birds in the gardens I hadn't noticed in the darkness the night before, right outside my hotel room. Ventimiglia was beautiful on a shining, clear morning. I found out later that it was a resort stop for the middle class, not expensive but bounding on the same shimmering sea as San Remo or Monte Carlo. I liked it.

Today, when I'm tired from driving or from a long flight and I'm heading into Italy, I always stop at Ventimiglia. It's become like an old friend you met on a journey unexpectedly, warm and forgiving of trespasses.

I often wonder about those other people, though. Did they make it hard on themselves? Did they sleep on a bench in the little station so they wouldn't miss the first train to Milano, or did they pay through the nose for a cab to get them back on track?

We were both late to somewhere--but they were miserable as well.

Suckers.