Tackling the Globe…

Hello, Faithful Readers of K.! Your dear, intrepid traveler extraordinaire is still gallivanting in Guatemala or Honduras or somewhere else where she’s likely not encased in two pairs of sweatpants, three layers of shirts, and a fuzzy blankie. That would be me, Lindy, aka K.’s non-traveling, non-blogging (and apparently cold-blooded) former roommate.

I wish I could recount a story about a crazy night—à la The Lemon, in a previous guest blog—when K. and I got trashed and embarked on a mission to meet heaps of steaming hot and sexy and famous men. But alas, I’ve only known K. as one half of a ridiculously perfect and photogenic couple (side note to K. and SVV: Twiggy told me to inform you that the camera loves you two). So instead, I’m going to ask you a question. And then give you my answer to the opposite of that question, because I am difficult.

Why do you travel?

Subquestions: Why do you shell out hundreds or even thousands of your hard-earned (or expensed) dollars for a single plane ticket? Why do you deal with greedy travel agents, gruff airport security, too-perky flight attendants, smelly cab drivers, snooty hotel employees, and just plain rude strangers all along the way? Why risk the possible flight cancellation or hotel-reservation loss or rental-car breakdown, thus ruining everything? Why does my passport photo look I DO DRUGS 24/7? (Okay! That last one was rhetorical.)

So, you can probably gather that I rarely travel far from home (which, right now, is NYC). When I do take a trip, I usually have an ulterior motive: I bopped over to Rome after graduation because I minored in Italian and figured I better check the place out*; I zipped down to Mexico with a cute boy because…hello, a cute boy was involved; and I’ve visited friends and family members in San Diego, Vegas**, assorted fun and not-so-fun parts of Florida. I don’t really travel, per se. I just go places and chill on someone’s futon and pray to get a decent tan and maybe go shopping if there’s no sales tax.

BUT! Things are changing. I call myself a non-blogger, but what am I doing this very second? I am blogging. And my spiel about being a non-traveler? Well, funny story…

Next week, I’m going to visit K., my own little San Francisco treat. (That is a direct dig at Rice-a-Roni, who is refusing to pick me up from the airport, no matter how many times I ask.) It’s another trip with a prize at the destination—this time, a spunky blond lass—but I’m determined to make it more than just a pleasurable visit to a friend. Which is not a problem for K., who sent me a tentative detailed itinerary—right down to the cable-car ride and gourmet breakfast—like, an entire month ago.

So, with K.’s guidance, travel wisdom, and valid driver’s license, I hope to not only have a fantastic time hanging out and lobbing small chocolate candies into each other’s mouths for an entire evening, (Editor’s Note: True story; we’ve been known to do that on many an occasion) but also to venture outside her cozy new house, learn about San Fran and beyond, explore the bits of California that K. now calls home, and basically have an authentic travel experience. Oh, and shop, obvs.

Who knows what will happen? Maybe I’ll go back to my travel-resisting ways upon returning to the Big Apple. But maybe I’ll get bitten by the travel bug, quit my day job, and start roving the world state by state, country by country, to make up for lost time. Can travel blogs spawn spin-offs? If so, be on the lookout for kittensandsnickers.com.

I sincerely look forward to learning why you travelers do what you do, especially if it’s not your main source of income. Because I know it ain’t easy.

*That, and the pizza. And the gelato. Aaaaand the limoncello.
**I highly recommend having a friend who is a classically trained-ballerina-turned-Vegas showgirl.