This ‘alternate viewpoint’ post originates from the keyboard of ‘L Rambit’, one of ‘The American Beagles’ millennial consultants.

My dream vacation involves TV and takeout, enjoyed from the comfort and privacy of my bedroom. For me, travel is an uncomfortable inconvenience, a means to an end. I have no desire to “see the world…” What’s so great about the world, anyway? The “outside place” has people and noises, textures and situations. All things I prefer to avoid.

If I go through the stress and expense of booking an airplane ticket, of squeezing my pained, disabled hips into a boxy seat, of requesting a seatbelt extender from the nearest flight attendant whilst other passengers shoot me dark looks for committing the unforgivable sin of being fat in public, there’d better be something amazing waiting for me on the other side!

I had the privilege of being raised by a father who works for a large airline, meaning low-cost (often free!) travel was at my fingertips. My family took full advantage, and I experienced many vacations across the US, from California to Florida; Hawaii to Alaska. I spent many nights crammed into tiny hotel beds between my poor sisters, rabbit-kicking their shins black and blue.

Even then, I preferred the familiar “inside” to the world beyond. I begged to swim in hotel pools, rather than the beach just two blocks away. I spent curious hours seated before the safe in our suite, spinning the dial and hiding everyone’s shoes inside. When my family drove to a beautiful Tennessee waterfall, I clambered back into our rental car and buried myself in my Barbara Park novel, insisting that the natural wonders were “too loud.”

Some might call me ungrateful. I like to point out that neurodivergence often goes undiagnosed in female children.

Which is all to say, my mother was very surprised when I asked to go on a week-long trip with my history class, following my junior year of high school. Even I am not sure what possessed me! But she kindly forked over the $2,000, which covered my travel fare, hotel stays, and meals. Into the plane I hopped for an overnight jaunt from Phoenix to Salem.

The history teachers of my school bravely corralled our motley teenage crew all across the eastern US, Our charter bus ferried us from the Liberty Bell to the White House to the Lincoln Monument, with pit stops at the Kennedy Cemetery, Mount Vernon, and Harvard University. I discovered that, while the crowded chaos of Times Square made me wish to rip my molars out with rusty pliers, I quite enjoyed Boston’s “ghost tour.” Seeing a play on Broadway was a real treat, and I would not be opposed to spending the rest of my life exploring the Smithsonian.

The story I recount for this blog takes place on a little island called “Ellis.” We’d taken the ferry to admire the Statue of Liberty (which was, indeed, large and green). (I wish I had more to say about it, but I’m not one to be impressed by architecture. It exists. That’s nice, I suppose.) Our class was invited to split up, to enjoy the shops and touristy areas of the island. If we were given a time and place to return to, I did not hear it.

Nor did I have a group to explore with. For reasons unknown (but strongly suspected), I’ve never had many friends. Everyone went their separate ways, and I was not included.

So… I shopped. I bought an Abraham Lincoln mug for my dad and a comically oversized pencil for my mother. My sister was very pregnant with my second niece at the time, so I checked in on her until my phone died, and then I wandered around some more. I found myself cornered by a man who asked for my age and phone number, and informed me that I had “very pretty hair.”

This sort of thing happens to me a lot. I am a magnet for the strange and unwanted.

In lieu of having a fight or flight response, some have a “fawn” response, and that’s where I fall. I stared uselessly at the man as he played with strands of my pink and blonde-highlighted hair. It wasn’t until my teacher from the past two years found me, dragging me away by one of my backpack straps, that my “fawn” response was broken.

Poor Mr. K had dialed my dead flip-phone half a dozen times already, leaving increasingly frantic voice messages. Presumably, “losing a minor 2000 miles from home” was not something he wished to include on his résumé. And now he was using language I never thought I’d hear from an instructor!

He cursed me out. He cursed the man out. He hauled me back to the ferry, which had been threatening to leave for the mainland without me. My classmates stared like I was a particularly repulsive new species they’d never encountered before, and I couldn’t stop shaking until our charter bus reached Central Park.

I won’t say the experience ruined my trip, but it certainly soured things. My teacher was angry with me, my classmates were annoyed at me, and my confidence had been punctured. I clung to groups of students after that, refusing to go anywhere alone despite my awareness that they didn’t want me around.

I don’t like travelling. I don’t much like going outside at all. Is there any wonder why?

Cheers, L Rambit

 

L Rambit is an independent author, guest posting for ‘The American Beagle’. You can read more posts by this author, linked here on goodreads.  Her current novel ‘Deep Water’ is available via Amazon at this link.