Travel 101 | Dayo
“OMG I LOVE TO TRAVEL TOO.”
We’ve all been asked by strangers or on a job interview: “So what do you like to do in your free time?” Everyone has the same canned answer: “I love blah, blah and I love to travel.” Just because it’s canned doesn’t mean it’s not honest. Seeing all the world has to offer, especially as a poor first-generation kid from the city who grew up on store-brands, is something I try not to take for granted. For my dad’s 60th birthday, my baby sister and I sent my parents on their FIRST EVER non-Nigerian (home country) vacation. They have plans to travel the world and shit when they retire, but they went almost 30 years without seeing the world. This is the environment I come from. So appreciation is never lost on me.
DO YOU ACTUALLY LIKE TO TRAVEL?
Trav·el /ˈtravəl/verb: make a journey, typically of some length or abroad.
OK. Now I can complain. A la Taylor Swift’s latest single, I feel like people say they like traveling but no one reeeeeally likes it.
Exhibit A: Packing. The bain of my existence. No matter where I go, I use the same rolly carry-on bag. 2 day road trip to Providence? I use that bag. 9 day multi-flight trip to France and Morocco? I use that bag. And it be full every time like 11-year old Dayo at a Chinese buffet. Shoutout to MSG.
In Conclusion: Travelling Got Me Fucked Up. What we really like is seeing all the world has to offer. We travel not because we like to, but because we have to. Google Images aren’t gonna cut it if you want to see, feel and breathe in the seven wonders of the world. The Jetsons lied to me as a youth. We been supposed to have flying cars and teleportation. The day that happens is the day the word “travel” leaves my vocabulary and is replaced with “flex”.
HOW RHODE ISLAND SPOILED ME
Home sweet home. Rhode Island. The smallest state. 48 miles high x 37 miles wide. The biggest heart even if we don’t acknowledge the middle of the state. Growing up in a small state, my entire perception is considered a long trip is all fucked up. One time my homie Deron (RIP) asked me to pick him up from the airport. I was like “you want to me to go out of my way all the way to the airport??” How far was the airport? A fifteen-minute drive. 15 whole ass minutes. I was conditioned to think any trip longer than the length of Prince’s Purple Rain was a journey. Packed snacks and water just in case of an emergency like it was a cross-continent voyage. I was a whole idiot.
That didn’t change when I moved to NYC four years ago. I lived in Bushwick and knew my boy Weezy lived in NYC. Bet. We’ll link up like Taz’ Angels. Took the subway and it took me 90 minutes cause he lived NORTH OF HARLEM. I want all the NYC readers to read the last sentence and laugh to yourself for a second time. No one told me everything wasn’t ten minutes away.
THE THRILL
I’m currently the world champ for cutting it close on travel. My ideal travel scenario is to have the airport staff calling my boarding group while I’m walking mid-stride. No wait time. No hanging out. Efficiency always. Most people I know think I‘m crazy. They maaaay have a point, but I don’t care. I did almost get bit in the ass last year tho.
September 2018. Marrakech. Kenny and I pull up to the airport to fly to Paris. The line is straightforward enough. It’s a little longer on the outside before you get inside, but nothing I haven’t seen before. Kenny’s being antsy.
Me: “Yo, I’ve done this before — we’re gucci.”
We go in and do the regular security lines, nothing crazy, but on the backside, we open up and see the longest passport check I have ever seen in my entire life. We have about 20 minutes before boarding starts, so I’m thinking we might have time. After 5–10 minutes, it’s clear this shit is going to take too long. We try to cut the line and there’s this one dude manning the security line. If I ever see him again, I’m slapping the shit out of him. If you’re in Morocco reading this — one day, I’m going to fly back just to slap the shit out of you.
Him: “You can’t cut the line, go reenter the queue.”
Me: “Sir, our flight is boarding in 5 minutes — can you please just let us know whether or not you think we’ll make our flight if we go back in line?”
Him: (yelling) “I’ve told you three times — get back into the queue!”
Me: “Why are you yelling at me? I asked you a simple fucking question.”
Him: (yelling again) “Go to the back of the queue!”
Then the Fonzworth Bentley-looking motherfucker tells the lie of all lies.
Him: “All flights are delayed.”
In our queue area, there are no arrival/departure boards that you’re used to seeing in the US. This line is hella long so we take his word for it. After 15–20 more minutes in line, and with our flight, if on time, closing its doors in 4 minutes, I get antsy like Kenny was at the jump. There’s another lady that works there and I approach her telling her the situation. She looks at my ticket and her eyes bug out of her head.
Her: “You need to go now!!”’
So I get Kenny. We cut through this long ass line. Full sprint across the terminal to the gate. Just before they were about to close the doors to the plane. All because this dumbass lied to me.
Moral of the story: no one died and things always work out. Y’all should do what I do.
