The travelling process. Part One

It recently dawned on me that I absolutely love the process of travelling on holiday. I usually make a point of going on holiday at least once if not twice a year. The approach is usually methodical and logical. Pre-planning with a good space between both trips stands to reason, especially since I work full time in a pretty stressful environment, with a specific allotted amount of annual leave.

However, this year, that all went out the window. Since late July until now I have already had the pleasure of visiting the enchanting city of Valencia, Spain, a cool night in the windy city of Chicago, USA, the infamous Cancun strip in Mexico as well as a small island off the coast of Mexico, called 'Isla Mujeres'.

Having barely recovered from a terrible bout of jet lag caused by the six hour time difference between London and Mexico, I'm off again next week to the Algarves, Portugal.

During this frantic activity of hopping all over the world in such a short space of time has made me realise how much I love the travelling process. Process? I hear you say... Yes, process. Bare with me and I'll tell you what I mean...

So, you have to pack. This might include a bit of prior shopping. This could mean in the middle of a harsh, miserable winter, you're standing in the queue looking rather smug holding swim wear while everyone else is holding knitwear. Yes, you are way cooler than everyone else in the line right now, so go ahead and smile to yourself. Then, you're either a methodically excited packer that packs your suitcase two weeks before going anywhere, only to dip back into your suitcase and start wearing brand new stuff you bought for the holiday.

Me, personally, I'm rather laid back about the whole affair of packing and don't tend to pull my suitcase down from the top of my wardrobe until literally hours before I'm about to take off.  This is not advisable, but it works for me.

OK, so I'm packed! It's the morning of my flight out of this land of humdrum, routine and responsibility.

My iPod's on blast, fully loaded the night before with brand new music and albums I haven't heard yet, and off I walk down the street wheeling my humble, battered suitcase behind with a sense of adventure coursing through my veins.

Plagued by a few nagging thoughts about leaving the iron on and locking the front door, I hop onto the train looking extraordinarily smug. All of the other depressed passengers on the train are commuting to work trying their best not to acknowledge my presence, but unable to hide their envy. All of a sudden, I catch a fat business man peering over his broadsheet at me. Him in his three piece cage and noose for a tie, me in my delightful denim shorts and fresh white tee. Yes, you silly fat, seemingly wealthy man, I'm already on holiday.

The closer I get to the airport the crowd of commuters begin to change, and we all have something in common. A suitcase and a wry grin.

Finally, I arrive at the airport. Not the small insignificant airport's with rubbish Duty Free, I'm talking about the big, fat, boisterous, mass scale polluting international airports so big I gotta take an electric powered train to my specific terminal.

I've reached the outer perimeters of the terminal. No point in celebrating just yet, this is still the basic part of the terminal where any old Tom, Dick or Harry from One Direction can mill about. On top of that I've still got to check in. A process these days which has become more seamless and efficient than ever before. E-tickets are all the rage now. The charming agent asks obligatory questions about my bags and then slaps a magical barcode on my suitcase, which then is whisked away on a conveyor belt into oblivion.

That was far too easy, I always think to myself. Not to worry, 'Customs' will make up for it asking me "who's ya daddy?!".  Normally, going through customs in your own country is far more relaxed to an extent. You speak the lingo, and your passport says it all. You and the agents are fellow nationals.

However, this didn't stop the lady at London Heathrow airport from swabbing my backpack for drugs after it popped out of the X-ray machine while on my way to Chicago. I've seen way too many airport programs to know exactly what she was up to. Hey ho, she was only doing her job, and after all I do look way too rich and cocky for my age.

After fastening my belt back up, and making sure all my valuables are actually still in the plastic tray I put them in prior to stepping through the machine that detects if I'm wearing metal or cheap jewellery, it's now time to hit the inner sanctums of the terminal.

This is what I'm talking about. A place with duty free shopping, in Dubai they actually sell super cars in this section.

"Yes, I'll take one suitcase padlock, a copy of GQ and a bottle of evian water."

"Is that all sir?"

"Actually, no, toss in that egg white Porsche Panamera while you're at it."

The countless bars, eateries and shops. A place where you can charge your i-pad, smartphone and other gadgets for free at any one of the numerous charging stations. The boards overhead flicker with a multitude of exotic destinations, gate numbers and boarding times. The visceral packs of guys with lousy matching T-shirts, complete with corny made up nicknames emblazoned on the back, all downing pints at the bar.

"What happens in (insert reckless destination here), stays in, (insert same reckless destination here), is the rhetoric. Girls are off in similar packs, too. They ,my friends, just simply: "Just wanna' get on itttt!".

Families with kids in tow are also off to their annual pilgrimage to Disneyland, Florida where they pray to Mickey and come back looking like lobsters.

I usually have my customary meal, followed by a few cheeky drinks to get the party started. Then I log onto the airports free Wi-Fi which usually has a time limit on it, the tight bar stewards. Then begins the messages to friends, rubbing it in as they still on their way to work.

The guys dart around on carts up and down dropping off infirm, lazy, or fat people that can't handle the walk to their gate. Next time you're in a major airport, see how many defibrillators you can spot. I'm telling you, they are everywhere. Practically on every other wall. Are airports that bad for your heart? Surely not.

OK, so I've got my obligatory £5 magazine, my bottle of water and I'm ready to hit my gate. I don't need to flag no man on no cart, even though I've got a dodgy right knee that plays up from time to time. Nope, the horizontal mile long escalators are sufficient.

As I slide up the hallway to my gate, I'm welcomed by a huge crowd which I slowly clock are my fellow passengers on this flight. I quickly do a scan of everyone, to decipher any anomalies. I'm gonna be sitting on this plane for a long damn time, so I need to form assumptions and judge books by their covers right now prior to boarding...