Getting ready for a trip has always been for me a time of panic, and this time I have every cause. I’m going to a wedding, that of my son, the eldest of three. He’s marrying his sweetheart in the United States, where they hope to make their home, eventually.

 

When children marry late, they tend to plan and spend for the occasion themselves. I actually feel like a guest. The feeling is somewhat the same as when my eldest child and only daughter got married; the bridegroom and his old-school family took care of mostly everything.

 

I had thought my next US trip would be for the wedding of my first grandchild, Carlo, going 25, but Rob beat him to it, and only rightly so—ever a bachelor at 51, Rob is definitely of age.

 

At any rate, I’m rendezvousing with Carlo, who lives in Maui, Hawaii, and happens to be on holiday with his girlfriend, Nicole, in San Francisco, where my son Vitti, his father, lives, and I’m stopping over. I’m meeting Nicole for the first time.

 

My daughter, Gia, is accompanying me (Vergel is racing against deadline on a collaborative book). She did all bookings online—flights and hotels— and got good rates. All I did was choose the seats on the plane, which could not be done until 48 hours before the flight and proved a task not too agreeable.

 

Conscious to make the choice promptly, I still was beaten to the aisle seats I’d been prospecting for; only the tail-end ones, against the wall, were available. Oh, incidentally, there were “forward seats” yet available, near the toilets— but for an additional $20 each, one way! I booked them for an extra P3,676, both ways, for two, enough price to pay, I thought, for some peace of mind.

 

Panic

 

Is it too much for a senior to be particular about seating? This airline apparently thinks so. The only senior concession it is prepared to make only exacerbates senior panic. I was told I could be accommodated free of charge only three hours before the flight, meaning I’d have to join the first-come-first-served race, which, like any race, no senior heart can take without real risks.

 

There happen to be enough risks in traveling, as it is, at any age. With all the reports of shenanigans in our airlines and airports, thefts and planted contraband being the latest scares, traveling to and from hereabouts offers much less pleasure and causes much more anxiety. The general threat of terrorism alone is scary enough.

 

I guess it’s all in the nature of the times: One travels, as one drives—defensively.

 

Airport security and immigration are only the first hurdles. Once cleared, and outside, you deal next with bag snatchers, now slashers. I’ve just bought myself a new travel handbag, one that’s supposed to pose a real challenge to slashers. Now they’ll have to hack off my arm.

 

Traveling in the cold months is another thing I don’t look forward to—wardrobe is the first problem. Last we two wedding moms spoke, we agreed to wear Filipiniana for the wedding. Well, the wardrobe problem for the wedding may have been solved, but now we’re left with the health one: How to survive the cold of Utah in a piña kimono?

 

I’ve just had my blood works and X-ray. I’ve also had my eyes checked, and nothing has shown more serious than a grade increase. I’ve also gone to a dietician, determined to keep my weight down, which will be difficult to do in the United States.

 

I’ve got both my flu and pneumonia shots, bought myself thermal underwear, leggings and socks, all light and surprisingly sheer. I may have overbought undergarments and now have nothing to wear over them, so, I’m bringing old black pants and tops, with colorful scarves and sweaters for a bright touch.

 

I’m also bringing an old overcoat, a London Fog gabardine, gray, in perfect color for Fall, remarks my daughter—at least I got something right.

 

Well, I guess I’m ready; even the storm has weakened.