Sweating the transfer

Even tough I am wholly unafraid of flying, I still turn into a nervous wreck when  travelling. Flying is enjoyable for me. All the parts that freak the shit out of people – the take off, the landing, the occasional turbulence and the falling free feeling – are worlds of fun.

Making the flight on time, however, is the constant beating of a hammer against the top of my head. Stressing over not forgetting anything, as I always do forget something, stressing over being late, although I almost never used to be, stressing over the obligatory beeping, because I never just get to pass through security.

And worst of all: changing planes. Transfer nightmares. Unknown airports. Train rides in the wrong direction. Even when I am not flying all by myself, transfers make me nervous. I fear airport lounges.

A long, long time ago in Florence, I met Sanchia, a girl from Johannesburg. She told me that she considered it a huge achievement, the fact that she flew from South Africa to Italy by herself. I thought she was crazy.

The very short 60 minutes I have in Frankfurt to chase down the Emirates flight that will take me to Dubai and then to Perth on Monday and the fact the my GUFF trip to Australia will be my first intercontinental trip all by my lonesome has made me revise my initial impression of Sanchia’s trip.

I know I will be fine. I just have a hard time believing it.




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