On an old episode of “The Odd Couple”, Oscar Madison points out to Felix Unger, “Felix, Dorothy Parker said it best for all writers. She said she hated writing but loved having written”. That’s always been my entire approach to life in general, including travel specifically. Unfortunately I haven’t done a significant amount of traveling. The farthest trips I’ve ever been on were one to Titusville, Florida, to visit my cousin the Ronald and his family in 1981, and one to Chicago, Illinois, about ten years ago, when his daughter got married. The trip to Illinois marked the only time I’ve ever been outside my time zone. During the 1980’s I frequently visited my cousins in North Tonawanda, in western New York, for Thanksgiving. My biggest problem with travel, as with everything else over the course of my adult lifetime is that I tend to get anxious. It’s not as bad now as when I was young-it was especially bad when I reacted so violently to coffee- but I still feel significantly more uncomfortable than most other people would be under the same circumstances. Although my intellect knows quite well that nothing bad will happen, or at least that there’s no inordinate risk of anything bad, my emotions, who’ve always resented me quite bitterly, always seek to have the last laugh. I should really like to say that I’m the sort of jolly good fellow who can merely hop on a bus, Gus, or make a new plan, Stan, and go wherever I want. Unlike my imagined alter ego, hep Larry, real Larry has to deal with all sorts of frustration over waiting for the big day to come, getting up and ready on time when it finally gets here, and all sorts of other practical responsibilities. I’ve always had quite a Felix Unger-ish flair for obsessing over all sorts of things. I tend to go crazy when a trip seems to take an inordinately long time, there’s no available men’s room or I’m faced with some other problem. When I have to drive someplace, I always have to be able to say with absolute certitude that I know precisely where I’m going. Wandering out of my way, and losing track of where I am, can lead to lots of trouble. As anyone who’s studied even a little philosophy knows, time is divided into objective time and subjective duration. Objectively time is merely quantified by an entirely set standard. Subjectively, though, the way I react to its passage is often overwhelming. As I said earlier the manner in which I deal with travel is quite similar to the manner in which I deal with life in general. The future is no big deal because nothing’s happened yet anyway. The present is one big bunch of chores and risks. After it’s all over with, though, I can kick back and acknowledge the obvious fact that I knew it would inevitably work out anyway.