My inner travel agent is relentless. When she surfaces to book my trips, she keeps me up late finding the flight that’s least likely (as far as she tell) to leave me stuck in Cincinnati, the bargain motel on the road with no reports of bedbugs, and the most scenic route. She takes over my computer, and navigating between multiple tabs, ‘compares, contrasts and checks out all the reviews before hitting the purchase button.
Yesterday, my inner travel agent dropped by to check out a flight, and didn’t leave until late at night. In the interim, she booked me a flight to Orlando, another flight to New York and home by way of Philly, a companion flight to Ken to join me for part of one trip, a motel in a walkable neighborhood in Des Moines, and an elegant but inexpensive hotel in downtown St. Paul. She scoped out some good places for lunch too, and checked miles to make sure I wasn’t setting myself up for surrealistic excessive caffeine-driven driving.
Although she wiped out all my frequent flyer points and waved my credit card around with abandon, she assured me that she knew what she was doing. And if anything doesn’t work out so well, she’ll be back in the saddle, pushing me aside so that she can take over my keyboard and phone, and make it all good again.