The Dude and I were on vacation this week. This was as close to a real vacation as we’ve had in the last twenty years. (I’m not including business trips with extra days or family trips in that measure. Trust me, not vacations.)

On the whole, I don’t like traveling. I’m like good brie — I don’t travel well. I hate the pre-vacation preparations: the packing, the asking of favors (“Will you feed the cats?” “Can you take care of the dog?”) and the inevitable moment when The Dude will get sick.

Now sometimes, he’s actually sick, but mostly he’s sick in an Alvy Singer kind of way. And if you haven’t seen ANNIE HALL, well, that last joke was completely lost on you. Sorry. My bad.

And I could handle the rest of these things were traveling not such a nightmare. I’ve heard stories about the golden age of travel. Apparently, you would board a cruise ship and sail off for exotic destinations whilst wearing fabulous clothes and dining on fine cuisine. Of course, to have this sort of experience you needed valets and maids and an assortment of people whose sole job it was to make your every moment as pleasant as possible. And assloads of money helped, too.

Nowadays, travel has lost any of the charms it once had. Especially airline travel. First class is what coach class once was and coach is now just a cattle car adventure.

So, we get to the airport early to go through security. I’ve prepared for this: I’m wearing slip-off shoes and an underwire-less bra. Because, you know, if my boobs aren’t sagging, the terrorists win.

I have all the necessities for air travel in Amurika 2007: a 3 oz tube (or less!) of lotion, water (this I’m forced to buy once I’m inside the terminal because unless I’ve paid four bucks for the same bottle of water I could bring from home, say it with me: The Terrorists Win!), Pop Tarts (the perfect food for traveling: requires no heat or refrigeration and it is, as long as you stick to the plain fruit flavors, non-contentious on the tum); and a warm shawl.

Now, most of you guys and some of you gals won’t get the shawl thing. However, I’ve rarely been on a flight that wasn’t like being in a meat locker. And no, I am not going to use that airline blanket. I’ve read letters to PENTHOUSE and I’m pretty sure I know what’s been going on under those things. Ewwwwwww.

After going through security, we look for a place to settle to wait for the boarding call. The options are limited. Either we sit in the seat with the questionable stains or we sit next to the guy who’s talking on his phone except he doesn’t have one. Stains it is.

At last we’re allowed to board. This means we’re fed into the jetway and get to wait in the heat until they decide to let us inside the plane.

And here’s the fun part – watching all these other passengers cram their possessions into the overhead bins because heaven forbid they should wait for their luggage at baggage pickup. My especial faves are the ones who put their stuff in a bin well ahead of where they’re sitting so they don’t have to carry it as far when they deplane. Jesus, dude, check that fricking bag and get on with your life.

I could go on about the guy who won’t stop talking to you, or the girl who decided to paint her nails, or the kid who won’t stop kicking the back of your seat, but we’ve all been there.

Yes, travel is broadening. But, like Dorothy, for me, there’s no place like home.