I’m not a naturally organised person. I am, however, a big fan of preparing (read: controlling), so when our family travels the usual pattern is for me to do the bulk of the pre-planning.
Once we’re at the airport my brain switches off. The task of being the travel-coordinator-and-holder-of-all-knowledge transfers to my husband. It’s up to him to remember where important documents are, what time we need to be places, what we’re doing on any given day, and where to find the good coffee.
In November I’ve been offered an opportunity to travel to the UK and Malta with my work. After the work is complete, I’m meeting up with my mum and we’re off on a two week adventure through the UK, the Netherlands, Belgium and France.
Mum and I haven’t travelled together for over two decades. I was seventeen and my strongest memory of that trip is of me having a tantrum in Sydney. No idea what it was about, I just remember what I was wearing and that I had sweet hair-flicking-foot-stomping skills.
I was probably upset because I couldn’t have something my way.
According to my mother, for this upcoming trip, it’s my job to have my brain on for both the pre-planning and the execution. She tells me I’m the coordinator.
I’m looking forward to sharing with her some of my favourite places, and exploring new favourite places together.
These places may (will) centre around coffee and I’m confident there will be no tantrums.
Because I’m the one in control.
Did I say in control? I meant coordinating. I’m the one coordinating.