Planning for Danger
and a little perspective
In a recent workshop, I offered the picture below, along with the suggestion to have a character embark on a dangerous journey (either emotional or physical) as a writing prompt.
It brought to mind my recent European journey and how I’d prepared, considering all the stories I’d heard about theft in various countries. This is what I wrote:
Every step you take is one into the unknown. You hope your plans will hold—all those hours mapping itineraries, making bookings, checking Google Earth so you’ll know precisely where you’ll be. Maybe the Left Bank. Maybe a villa close to the beach. You send your deposits. Through Amazon Prime, you order a theft-proof shoulder bag and those zip-up packing cubes to compress your stuff so you don’t have to check a bag (that might get lost). You even spring for that fancy backpack with a built-in raincoat. All those little vials of less than 100 ml zipped into one clear bag.
No need to worry about travellers’ cheques anymore. Money is instant. Passport has four more years before expiry.
You’ll be safe, right? No need for proof of vaccination now, but you’ll wear a mask in the airport and on the plane.
Before you leave, maybe the pipe bursts. But let’s say the house is fine and the cats are taken care of. You don’t imagine danger. You just want to be sure. To ensure. To be prepared.
You wait to board. And wait. The gate changes and you steam through the airport, sweating a little, and somewhat breathless, you arrive at the new gate. This isn’t dangerous, of course, just inconvenient. Your flight is cancelled. A woman with bright white hair pulled into a neat bun says your name over the PA system. She tells you that you are flying not to Malaga via Montreal but to Paris first. It’s only an eight-hour delay when all is tallied, and besides, you’re now going to Paris. With Air France, not Westjet. It’s as if you’ve been upgraded to business class. There is room for your legs. There is a packet of warm wipes and a fragrant chicken dinner with herbs. And good wine.
No one steals anything. You see things for the first time, such as a bullring and wild oranges. You walk by the villa with barking dogs, the ones bred to hunt. You don’t like to think about what that means since your host explained that the dogs will be hunted. All the boars and deer have been hunted to extinction and you don’t like to think about that either.
Your pack is heavier than you imagined and the theft-proof shoulder bag irritates you. Your feet swell, especially the right one. You walk up hills to take in the sights, go into white-washed caves to see the gypsies dance and sing. It’s forty degrees and your shoes are too tight.
You want to make sure you’re safe to fly so you stop at the clinic.
The hospital room is like a hotel room. Except for the gown and the daily injections, it could be considered a holiday destination. They tell you of the danger you’re in. You cancel your flights, train tickets, and think about trains and Trans-Atlantic ships. There’s decent wifi in the hospital but you’re on your back with your leg in the air so you search alternatives with your phone.
After four days, the black-haired doctor smiles behind her blue mask and tells you that you have no clots and you are free to fly.
No one steals anything. The translator walks you out into the hot Malaga morning to wait for the taxi to take you to the airport. But you’ve mistakenly booked the flight for the next day, so you head back to Malaga for a quiet night in a small Airbnb near the train station.
Maybe the unknown is dangerous, a thing to be feared, but by now you don’t think so.
Now you are perched on a green bench with your too-heavy backpack while cars swirl around the Arc de Triomphe. You are sweating over your dying phone as you search for a last-minute Airbnb, because, well, the unknown again—nothing quite rolling out the way you’d planned.
But no one mugged you.
The young man from Reunion Island is the same age as your son. You speak in two languages during the two-hour drive. It’s a BlaBla car share and he takes you ten kilometres farther than agreed. Because he is kind and it’s late he takes you right to the door of your destination.
They say if you want to make god laugh, just tell him your plans.
You never needed that built-in raincoat.
Be grateful. Not frightened. And step out onto the bridge. It might just hold you. And who knows, there may be wonders on the far side.
Your protected, privileged life with its apps and savings, with its alternatives and choices, with its savings and refunds, may have not occurred the way you planned, but be honest, it hasn’t yet been all that dangerous.
Not yet.
I’d be delighted if you’d share a journey that began with a perceived or real danger.
Love this. The story. The writing. All of it.
I don't have story, but I was with you every step of the way in yours.