How to Travel II

Every single time I've walked off a plane I've felt like death. This time, I marched off like a human being. The secret? Don't eat.   

Hold on, hold on, I'll explain. 

I'm a suicidal eater; if they put it in front of me, I'll take it, so the first time I heard this was a revelation. It was from a cousin of a cousin, who goes to Israel regularly for her father's yartzheit. She's also like me, happiest at home. On earth. As in the ground. 

I experimented with the idea, which was to refuse supper but accept breakfast. Nope, still felt like death. On this past trip I only sipped water. 

Not for me, thanks.

I hopped off with such energy and verve—both coming and going—that I scared myself. 

Maybe because one's body is going at 500 miles an hour, one achieves a state of suspended animation. Maybe airplane food is prepared by the devil. All I know, I felt dope, an experience which has never yet happened. 

But the body is no machine, and after sailing over my threshold upon my return I got the shakes. Oh, jet leg, you sneaky thing. Dizziness, world-twirling, disorientation, the works. 

For the sake of my skin, I avoid the sun. To be honest, the sun sucks the life out of me. My brother-in-law, I joke, is solar-powered; he drapes out beneath that yellow orb for hours and arises refreshed. I can't move if exposed to strong sunlight for less than ten minutes. 

Yet like a hungry flower, I planted myself in the sunny kitchen, drinking it in. My symptoms eased along with the exposure. My office desk has no window, which I think set back my recovery. If circadian rhythms are out of whack, your body will be coaxed back into shape from the sun's rays. 

I also took melatonin . . . when I remembered to. 

I still required the ministrations of my acupuncturist to fix me up, but for those leery of needles . . . 

How to Travel I

I, once again, sheepishly admit (or brazenly confess?) that I am a sucky traveler. The destination has to really attract me (and Miami doesn't) to tempt me to board a plane. For Israel, ah, Israel, for there I shall happily gird myself. 

Yet, weapons are needed to survive the journey. It took months of research for a week's "vacation," and I now clobber you with my helpful finds: 

1. Alaska Bear Silk Eye Mask: I have used many an eye mask, but this soft, non-shvitzy one is my favorite. It's so light that it didn't even muss my eye makeup, yet kept me in the dark.  

2. Travelrest Neck Pillow or the Comfy Commuter Neck Pillow: Overwhelmed by reviews, I bought three highly rated neck pillows and returned one (it was hard as a rock, but everyone had it strapped to their bags in the airport). The Travelrest supports my (long) neck while the foam on the sides snuggily gives. Ma preferred the Comfy Commuter, which I found to be too mushy and not supportive enough for my neck. (Ta can sleep anywhere and was content with the previously owned bean-bag version).  

3. Xenics Humidifier: Airplane air is notoriously dry, and I had been on the search of a small, desk-friendly humidifier anyway. This one is closed, although it does inevitably leak if it falls over (the carpet under my seat was soaked going and coming after knocking it over in my drugged sleep). But it is refreshing and skin-preserving. (Press the button once, and it goes on along with a night-light; press the button again to continue steam but turn off the light.)

Now it's by my desk.

4. Travel Kosher Lamp: Blessedly, this comes with an adapter for foreign plugs. Awaking at the 2 a.m. is unpleasant enough, but at least with this I don't have to blast the whole room with light to read. It's also quite convenient for Shabbos if staying in a hotel room with no zeigers programmed. 

I tote it along with me if going away locally for a Shabbos.
 
5. Dramamine: It's not only for motion sickness, folks! A lovely side-effect is intense drowsiness, to the point that two can knock me out for seven hours, at least. It's an antihistamine, as opposed to stronger sleep aids. Yet it won't provide the same knock-out results two nights in a row; there has to be a week in between, at least. Use it wisely.

Next week: How to walk off the plane like a mensch! 

TGIF

• "Traveling Is Not Always Right" by Rochel Spagenthal; and 

• "How to Change Your Life: Need vs. Want" by Erika

I Really, Really Don't Want To Know

I've become a Facebook cynic. When people post photos of their families being oh-so-happy, I'm the Scrooge that eye rolls. "My husband is the best! #breakfastinbed Love you sooo much." That translates to me as, "I'm insecure so I must let everyone know that I am totally enviable!" 

Am I just being jealous? Perhaps. Yet my reactions are the same when it comes to vacation shots, and I'm a terrible traveler who dreams of her own bed. Seriously. The last time I went to Miami I packed so reluctantly I wondered if I was getting sick. 

Henry Alford's "Wish You Weren't There" researches yet-another oversharing situation.

While it’s fairly easy to categorize the photographically incontinent under the headlines Narcissistic and Insecure, or some combination thereof, the photo-posting folks may not have the same clarity about themselves. “People often don’t know that they’re the culprit,” said Marla Vannucci, a clinical psychologist who is an associate professor at Adler University.

In my tolerant moments I cringingly recall my early relationship with Facebook, where I felt obligated to post photos of my life. There wasn't really any thought behind it. FB is constantly begging and wheedling for me to share so they can blast me with targeted advertising, and my giddy young self succumbed. 

Yet the people posting aren't giddy young things anymore. I passed a mother and child on the street the other day; the mother had her phone up to snap a picture; the child threw her hands up to shield her face, wailing "NO!" The mother, flat-eyed with intent, grimly tapped away; she's taking the (unnecessary) picture. It was a mindless, and so thoughtless and inconsiderate, action. 

The Jabba in me was cheered by the news that the IRS now prowls through social media for proof of expensive lifestyles. "Can't pay your taxes? But you could pay for Disney World?" 

Hee hee.   

Time Warp

"Now slide your body forward from downward dog to plank. Breathe." 

I slide my body forward from downward dog to plank, and breathe. I love doing yoga from a DVD. My schedule, my rules, and I can cheat if I want to. 

Breathe. Mmm. Gettin' me some biceps.

*PIIIING* 

Dang. Who is it? Yeah, I have to answer her back. Finishing stupid plank. Pause DVD. Quickly text back. Play. Alrighty, now into forward fold.

*PIIIING* 

Oh, bite me. I'm in forward fold now, you'll have to wait. But remember, Lea, to text her back. Remember remember remember. Now my whole cleared-mind-meditative thing is shot. Blaaaaaah. Pause. Text. Play.

*PIIIING* 

Blargle! 

That's why I hate the phone. Just when I'm enjoying myself, or not even enjoying myself doing yoga, it interrupts me, jarring my groove, man. Not cool. 

Nick Bilton complains about technologies intrusions on vacation in "How to Vacation Like It's 1999." 

The second you land, you check your cellphone and are greeted by a flood of messages. After an hour sitting in your hotel room replying to work emails, you finally go to the beach.

You pull out your iPad to read a book and, oh, look: You have a message on Facebook, not to mention WhatsApp, Snapchat and Twitter.

And because the beach is so beautiful, it’s probably a good idea to take an Instagram. After a hundred attempts to capture the best and most original photo of a beach ever taken, you spend another hour seeing how many “likes” your photo got.

More messages come in. You end up getting stressed about all the work emails you have to respond to back at the hotel.

Luckily, he has remedies, like airplane mode, which allows access to camera and books but no internet. Oh, and those so-called "emergencies" from work? Most of the time they aren't "emergencies"; the office is just calling you because they can. 

Bilton concludes: 

But I don’t think people should wait until vacation to unplug.

In recent months, I’ve started deleting some social media apps from my phone on weekends. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat are removed entirely on Friday afternoons. On Monday morning, I reinstall everything for the workweek ahead.

If you still can’t stop yourself from logging on and checking in after all this, I have only one piece of advice left. Dunk your devices in water and replace them with an old yellow Sony Discman.

Sounds good to me.