I am in the midst of planning a trip. The kind that covers thousands of miles and stretches over oceans and a few continents. One that requires navigating bureaucratic, unintelligible processes for acquiring a visa, and a regimen of preventive medications to nix any chance of visiting a local hospital during the stay.   It also means packing precious commodities that will decide the happiness quotient of the trip: ibuprofen; a hairbrush (not a tiny plastic comb that will get stuck in my bangs, but a brush please); sunblock that didn’t expire five years ago; Snickers that didn’t expire five years ago; and anti-frizz serum. Lots of anti-frizz serum.

Travel is wonderful. Intricate planning is kind of not. Especially for those of us whose anxiety rises with every click of the mouse. That perfect charming hotel in the heart of the city, tucked away on a tree-lined street? Nasty staff, poisoned food, but very friendly mice, says the reviewer. Well, at least, that’s what I think it says, since the only review since hotel inception is in Italian. That absolute must-do restaurant, latest darling of the foodies? It is open on Thursdays from eight to nine thirty-three in the evening, and Sundays from eleven to eleven fifteen in the morning.

Maybe you are thinking I should just wing it, be more spontaneous, and challenge my rigidity?  That’s the trip where I find myself on my hotel room bed, chewing a veggie Whopper Jr., watching “Friends” reruns, because it is the holy festival of the five-legged goddess, and all businesses are blissfully closed.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all doom and gloom. For the return luggage will be full of jewels: first off, lots of actual bold, bright jewels; then, fried dough, fried spicy dough, fried sweet dough, fried dough with anise, and fried dough with onions; a variety of Cadbury’s chocolates that are too artificial to pass Western regulatory muster; and most definitely, a tiny intricately carved sandalwood comb that will get stuck in my bangs.

There will also be beautiful memories. A lush mango tree with a monkey playfully hanging off a branch. Wet rice paddies that never end.  Me, shiny-haired and fresh-faced, floating through a weathered marble palace. Ok, that last bit was a Merchant Ivory film. But at least now I see the light at the end of the Trip Advisor tunnel.

Bon voyage, and remember, it is perfectly normal to hallucinate on anti-malaria pills.