Under-qualified Traveler

Fresh out of undergraduate school, I was given a job that I am totally under qualified for. It involves travelling, pretty much, all over our (great) nation. It is an additional position to the research assistant position I already have for a federally funded research project. I have my B.A. in psychology. The project I am working on involves preventing suicide on railways across the county. That is right; I am striving to stop people from intentionally throwing themselves in front of trains.

Morbid? Depressing? Awkward to talk about? Yes, to say the least. When I was looking for housing, a tenant became suddenly disinterested as soon as I told him I worked in suicide prevention. His phone “died.” I didn’t even get into the whole train thing.

Don’t get me wrong, it is a rewarding job. And it sure does put things into perspective.

I am totally unqualified for the traveling position, however. And it’s not just in education, it is in life-experience. Until the end of high school, I had refused traveling because I was terrified of planes. I would only travel with the same couple of friends and would need to sit between them, to hold their hands. (I know, lame and pathetic. I try to give off a tough persona but when it comes to heights, I am a huge baby. Except for roller-coasters.) Since the end of September, I have been on at least 8 different planes. I have travelled to Minnesota, Kansas, and Arizona. I have survived each flight without having a panick attack. To tell the truth, lately, there is something comforting and relieving about lift-off and something morbidly depressing about landing. Maybe because I am less than happy with my life on the ground.

In each of the different states I have visited, I have also managed the task of getting myself from point A to B to C (and all points in between) using a rental car. Me. Driving. And not getting lost. If you know me well, you know this is quite a feat. I still get lost in my hometown and I lived there for 18 years. I once went north to go south, and didn’t realize it until I was nearly an hour out of my way. Yikes.

When I got hired for a job that involved being responsible for my own travel, everyone was shocked and slightly mortified. With my sense of direction, I am the last person to ever be qualified for such a position. I think, however, everyone has been more shocked (including myself) that I was and am able to handle such a position. I did not end up lost in Narnia in Kansas, Minnesota, or Arizona. (Well, it was a close call in Minnesota).

Currently, my travels have taken me to the West coast, to Arizona. Arizona is a strange place. I never knew a land where you could see cacti, palm trees, and mountains out of the car window, on the same drive. An obsession with with Mexican food seems to be an intrinsic part of the Arizona culture. The people I have encountered are nice, normal, (nothing unusual or too different than what I am used to). The drivers are impatient (normal). I saw someone walking through the airport carrying a cardboard box that said "live cactus" (unusual).

Now I find myself sitting in a bar in the Tucson Airport. I am eating wings and drinking beer. I feel buzzed and I know as soon as I stand up, I’m fucked. And, on the flight, I’m really going to need to pee. But, at least that is what I am most worried about.