We give a lot of repeat business to the rental car companies whether at home or abroad. Problem is, we can rarely figure out how to classify the cars, as well as how to drive them.

“Why do you keep washing the windshield?” I asked Benedetto just a minute ago.

“I’m not trying to!” he informs me as we speed down the highway. “I’m looking for cruise control.”

It happens another five or six times as we laugh and have one of the cleanest, most bug-free windows possible on a hot, cloudless day.

They like to confuse the customers in foreign countries. It’s hard enough to figure out that 140 kilometers per hour is equal to something like 25 miles per hour, but I have had the good fortune of not knowing how to roll down the window. Try getting out of a parking garage by paying at the toll booth… and the window won’t roll down. I finally get other foreign office mates to come and inspect the car. Several men can’t figure it out, which makes me feel good. We look at the door panel, the dash board, everywhere and anywhere that a window could be activated. Nothing. At last, I take it back to one of the car rental offices and ask them. They think Alexandra is an idiot, since it’s so simple: right there on the center column between the two front seats, BEHIND THE GEAR SHIFT. Anyone sitting in the back seat can easily lower the window, but my arm does not extend back that far. Makes for an interesting week….

These are the minor glitches that come with most rental cars. It all begins when making the reservation. In many countries, the cars are classified by Sub-Compact, Compact, Economy, Mid-Size, Full-Size, Luxury or Premium, Mid-Size SUV, Full-Size SUV, and Mini-Van. Most of these are designed for Little People of the anorexic persuasion, if not smallish children over seven and under ten years of age who do not need bulky booster seats, and who are not yet full-sized. Should doggies Misha and Grisha take up driving, they might be able to stretch out their legs in a rental car. We, however, cannot.

There are six of us, two dogs, assorted school rucksacks, and a couple of small suitcases presently squished into the minivan of the day. My purse, alone, can barely fit into the front passenger-side seat with me. (What, you thought I’m writing this from the driver’s side?) And yet, under my feet is placed another tote bag full of books, CD-player, sewing kit, file folders, and other travel necessities. It’s my overflow bag of sorts, and it’s overflowing, for sure, all around my feet.

“If I’m not able to stand up after this drive,” I say to the kids, “somebody pry me outta here….”

They were only too willing to volunteer sacrificing their schoolwork to be left behind.

“Thank you, we’re not taking volunteers today,” I squeeze their arms, and thus, by unvolunteering their legroom, I volunteer my own legs to be cramped.

In Italy, we always had excellent outcomes with rental cars.

“Alfa Romeo?” Benedetto would smile upon first glimpse of a car. “Bellissima,” he murmured as we roared off on the autostrada.

He was not smiling whenever he paid out for liter upon liter of liquid gold benzine. We were convinced that liters suddenly held the same amount as a small soupcan…..

Israel was also fine in terms of rental cars, until we started growing our family. Prior to that time, they constantly upgraded me. I liked “the smaller the better” there, good for parking in urban, postage stamp-sized spaces. Standard shift helped on the many serpentine and mountainous streets stretching to Jerusalem.

Instead, the rental clerks handed me keys to automatic mid-size sedans, which were nice until I got to the gas station and liters again shrank to the size of small shot glasses. The shekels were flowing like the sands of time.

Benedetto, Petya and I once landed in Tel Aviv, needing a car for a few days. We heard that a snowstorm would be heading into the capital soon. We planned for a car with heft, something heavy enough to keep us on the road, and big enough to hold a couple of suitcases and three travel-weary bodies.

They gave us a compact car. Not to be mistaken with a sub-compact, unless you had to ride in it. We walked several miles, it seemed, to the car pick-up and here we are greeted by a sardine-mobile. Even the suitcases wouldn’t fit in the trunk. Back we hike to the airport reservations counter.

“That is the class car that you reserved,” the young lady at the counter insisted. Fresh from the army, she didn’t take any flak.

“How could it be? We didn’t reserve a sub-compact. We need a car that will fit three people and two suitcases. I mean, you guys are always upgrading me when I’m here by myself,” I explained. “The one time I need more space, you can’t help me? You don’t have anything bigger?”

“You already have a big upgrade,” she told me in Hebrew.

“I do? It couldn’t be. Have you seen that car?” I pressed.

“Here is our chart of cars,” she pulled out a laminated sheet. “You have G-class. G-class, do you understand?!” her voice starts to rise and I did not like her tone.

“You can call it G-class or Z-class. If it doesn’t work for us, we need another car.”

“Lady, you already have six levels above our most basic car. You don’t know what G-class means? A, B, C, D, E, F, G…” she ticks off for me as I grow more ticked-off.

“Thank you, I’m familiar with the English alphabet,” I say to her.

Turning to Benedetto I ask, “Should we go with another company?”

“No,” he replies, “we just need a decent car.”

“Let me speak with your manager,” I turn back to the clerk. Mentally, I am calculating how in the world this car could be anything but the most basic. What were “extras” these days? A radio? Power windows? Airconditioning? Paint? Wheels? A glove compartment?

The manager emerges and she’s just as hot under the collar, reciting the alphabet. I don’t bother revealing how many foreign alphabets I can recite, too, but eventually, I wear her down, pulling out story after story.

“Were you around when your company first started?” I ask. “I remember the tiny one-room office with a sink next to the King David Hotel, the determination to hustle and grow the company, the commitment to the customers’ satisfaction….”

I went on…and on… and on….

“I remember the time we had just rented a car from your company and were going up and down the hills of Jerusalem. The car was losing more and more power. Finally, we made it up to the top of Har El and coasted to a stop at the shopping mall.

“Har El!” I exclaimed. “The Mount of God! How can you lose power on the Mount of God? So we waited a couple of hours and eventually one of your guys came and rescued us….”

Long story longer, we finally got our car that day. I wore her down. The three of us drove to Jerusalem where we were snowed in for three straight days. All shops, restaurants, museums, and places of business closed, the snow was so deep.

I got extra trash bags from our Russian maid, doubling as boots attached with rubberbands so the guys could go out to photograph and play. I had work I needed to accomplish… which we didn’t. One slippery night we ventured out with the car, slip-sliding all the way to visit friends on Mount Scopus.

Several days later, we returned the car, virtually unused. I refrained from reciting alphabets, times tables, or the Periodic Chart.

Once upon a time, another rental car there received a boot, which in Israel they call a “sandal”, appropriate for the Middle East. It was our last foray into the city, Benedetto and I had a lovely dinner and were heading back to pack and head to the airport.

The car was clamped on the wheel, unable to be moved.

We walked up and down the street, checking and rechecking the street signs. On the remote end of the block was a sign that appeared to indicate that it was forbidden to park here during the exact time we were there. Great. The ticket on the car was written in teeny-tiny Hebrew and said we could present ourselves at a certain location to pay the fine and they would then issue the truck to come and release your car. It wasn’t my car. It was a rental car. I thought briefly about just leaving it, but knew that they had my credit card on file.

“San’daleh!” a woman exclaims as she walks past. “Do you need any help?”

She joins our pity party as I pour out our tale of woe. She helps us mentally locate the office of their boot headquarters, which is in an underground parking garage, of all places. I complain that we’re trying to get to the airport and she confirms that it might take them an hour or two to release our car.

“Listen, I can come with you to your hotel and help you pack,” she offers. “It will be no trouble at all–.”

We decline her offer, but are warmed by her friendliness freely given in a time of need. Somehow, the car is released and we are able to make it to Ben Gurion Airport in time.

Such fond memories of rental cars…as we zip down the road today in yet another squish-mobile. Bigger car, but much bigger family.

“Mama, our legs hurt,” the kids moan.

“Be thankful we have a car. Did Papa ever tell you how he went to work by camel in the desert…?” They stop complaining lest I regal them with another long adventure story.

Just then, the wipers squirt and swish for the hundredth time.

“Benedetto!!!”

I don’t know if anyone in Italy has ever tried Dr. Atkins’ diet. I doubt it, since carbs in that country reign supreme: pasta, pizza, e pane.

It begins in the morning at the corner café with a capuccino and cornetto. The coffee’s milk is frothed to perfection, often with decorative swirls across the top, reminiscent of a bookbinder’s carta marmorizzata, or marbleized paper. Combined with the caffeine, the cornetto croissant gives me the first carb crescendo of the day.

Misha and Grisha share in the moment, tails wagging wildly as a saucer of warm, white milk is placed before their tank-like black bodies. The Scotties could not love this morning snack any more than a self-respecting cat, but then they don’t care about any kind of diet plan.

No matter where I go for lunch or dinner, pasta, pizza, or pane will be found somewhere on the menu. But even the pizza in Italy is well beyond pedestrian, whether thin potato slices on dough drizzled with EVOO (extra virgin olive oil) and sprinkled with rosemary, or a cheese pizza with shavings of truffles and mushrooms… ahh… tartufi e funghi.

Che buona! Who can think of Atkins at a time such as this? Take three bites and call it a day. Everyone knows that walking on cobblestones burns twice as many calories as normal.

Make no mistake about it, I’ve been numbered among pazza (crazy) people counting carbs in Italia: eggs for la prima colazione, salad for il pranzo—how many carbs are there in la mozzarella di bufala, anyway?, and sole, veal, or bistecca alla Fiorentina for la cena. Problem is… the ubiquitous bread basket beckons.

Whether sliced Italian rustic bread, or the hard and crusty white rolls, or the long and snappy Grissini breadsticks, one form or another would be sure to be lying in wait on the table.

Most of my life is spent on the run, wherever we are. And what does everyone gobble on the Italian autostrada? Panini—sandwiches—usually made from focaccia bread, and grilled in a flat iron. Unless I bought a salame and stuck it in my Prada purse, fascinating and fragrant an idea as that may be, there’s no hope to dodge the carbs.

Arrivederci, Dr. Atkins. The perils of Italian pane fresh from the oven have proven too strong to resist.

It was a normal day at Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport. Up before the crack of dawn, through ticketing, security, and customs, we presented ourselves at Passport Control.

“Dokumenti,” demanded the bored, matronly guard.

We were adopting our first son’s friend. It took us four years of official red tape, adoption agency scams, governmental denials, and regional shutdowns. In a matter of an hour or two, he would at last be exiting off of Russian soil.

Not so fast.

“Adoption decree and court papers,” the border guard insisted, eyeing our family of four, noting that only the two kids had Russian Passports.

This was a new one. Why not just the passport? I slid the packet under the plate glass window, upon which she settled down to a long morning’s read.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty minutes passed. She, no doubt, enjoyed the more sordid parts of such a horrific history, chronicled for the sake of court testimony, not the prurient interests of a bored border guard.

“Eezvehnite, pazhalista—“ I interrupted her concentration. “Yest problema?” Is there a problem?

“Nyet,” she went back to her reading.

I felt my blood boiling as the preteen boys shifted from foot to foot. Her coworker in the next booth asked her why the slow-mo treatment of the tourists. She shrugged her off, as well.

At forty minutes standing before the little glass booth, I’d had enough.

“Excuse me, please, but why are you reading his court papers?”

She looks up, obviously irritated at my interruption. The sleeping bear awakened.

“Ohn russki grahzdanen,” (He is a Russian citizen) she testily explained. “I must make sure that his documents are in order.”

So I figure if we’re ever going to get out of this holding pattern and make it to the Golden Land of Duty Free, I needed to insert my two rubles.

“Da, and here is his Russian Passport… and it’s in order.”

She goes back to reading.

I go back to talking.

“I mean, let’s think this thing through… Doomahyete,” I encourage, feeling as though I’m instructing Dorothy in her ruby slippers to concentrate. “What’s the likelihood of us finding a child on the street with the same last name, having all of the paperwork to obtain a passport, and making him agree to come to America with us???”

“We have to be sure,” she sneers, not amused, not impressed, not in a hurry.

About an hour later, she comes up for air and asks for our first son’s court papers.

“Nyetoo,” (He has none) I affirm. “He’s been our son for over five years. You already have his Russian Passport and here is his other one.” I considered calling for a supervisor, but that struck me as less than a positive Russian chess move. Might cause us more problems to make too much of a stink. If she had missed the “Service With a Smile” seminar, there was not much I could do about it now.

She glances at the dual passports, while meanwhile, I can picture Petya passing out in a cold sweat as he understands every word spoken. Perhaps one day he would come back to study in Russia, but for the present, he wanted to go home. Pasha had never been home, but even he knew that it was better than this. At last, the stern woman, who was probably younger than me, but appearing and acting much older, slowly slides the stack back to us.

“Horoshoh,” (Alright) she waves us through, an indelibly harsh reminder to our sons that you don’t mess with Mother Russia. Escaping her clutches, we make a mad dash for the plane.

Which reminds me of the time I was heading to Israel, a regular shuttle I traveled for some years. A sting operation was underway for diamond dealers.

I boarded the transatlantic flight in New York, and there on the jetway, leading to the plane, were Federal Agents stopping most every Hassidic man, right next to the stacks of Yediot Aharonot and Ma’ariv newspapers. I put mine back in the pile and reached for the Herald Tribune, instead.

“Do you have any diamonds or large sums of money to declare?” the agents inquired.

The men tried to brush by, mumbling something in Yiddish.

“Yiddish?” the agents pursued them. “No problem. Read this,” they said, presenting a printed card with all of the laws stated in their own language.

I strolled past, pockets bulging with rare stones and stacks of foreign currency.

Alright, maybe in my dreams….

But I should have known the bubble security cameras were in full operation. It wasn’t until exiting the country that they nabbed me.

Once again at Passport Control, this time in Tel Aviv, a guard examined my passport front to back, or I should say, back to front, Hebrew style. Flipping it closed, the young twentysomething female soldier met me eye to eye.

“Go to the police, please,” she said, as though this were an everyday exchange.

“Ha’mishtarah?!” (The police?!) “Why? Where? What?” I wanted to know.

“The police. In the corner room.”

And thus I made my way to the Border Police, like one of the old fashioned “Alt!” border gates had just lowered in front of me. Could family dogs visit incarcerated persons? was uppermost in my thoughts.

“Shalom,” I introduced myself to the chainsmoking blond in charge.

“Darkon, b’vahkahshah,” (Passport, please) she smiled.

Hmmm… everyone so interested in the small document stating very little and with a less than ideal photo prominently featured.

“You come and go a lot,” she noted in Hebrew.

“Ken….” (Yes….)

“And do you have an Israeli Passport?”

“No….”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes….”

She checked back in her computer and tried a different tack.

“Think back, maybe a long time ago….. Did you ever declare citizenship here?”

“No….”

“Maybe you forgot…” she tried to help, at which I burst out laughing.

“I think I’d remember something like that…. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem.”

Gee, I’d heard that before. Maybe this was some joke being played on me by my Israeli lawyer. With my demographic, I couldn’t imagine that they’d want to draft me for the Israeli Army. I mean, they didn’t even offer high-heeled infantry boots, plus, entering the paratroopers would result in too much windblown hair during the jumps. The navy might make me seasick. They would have to make me… a border guard!

No, their interest could not be the draft. The only thing I could think of was tax evasion of some sort. I wondered if they served felafel balls in prison. I could survive.

At last, the policewoman decided to take my sweet face at face value and believe my story that I didn’t play fast and loose with my citizenship, spreading it here, there, and everywhere at will.

“Okay, look, I’ll let you go, and I’ll mark that all is okay,” she reassured me.

I assumed she was entering our Important and Enlightening Conversation into her computer. Again, I was missing out on sampling the fine eau de parfums of Duty Free.

She returned my passport, wishing me a nice trip and I hightailed it to the bank to exchange my remaining shekels.

Taking the currency and my passport, the clerk gave a small gasp and turned to look me up and down.

“What happened?” he inquired. “I’ve never seen such a thing!”

“Mah zeh?” (What is it?) I asked.

“FREE TO DEPART BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR,” he read the stamp and handwritten permission penned in Hebrew all around its edges. “Did you do something?” he laughed.

“Not that I know of!”

I took the money and ran for the plane, a recurring theme in my life. The only comfort I received in these inconvenient airport interrogations was that, while being detained, at least I was staying out of any more trouble. I didn’t need additional International Incidents. With all of our international travel, there were bound to be bumps. Yet with a fast-paced lifstyle, the small bumps could develop into major speed bumps, resulting in one big careening crash of a learning curve.

No time for that. We had places to go, things to do, people to see. Best to fly below the radar and leave the big bags of diamonds at home for now.

Never in a million years would I have pictured myself going from bank to bank to gather like-new, crisp dollar bills. Large piles, in large denominations, are now stacked in my purse, which weighs a ton.

Am I involved in an underworld deal? Do I have a child being held for ransom? Am I engaging in real life money laundering against my will?

Yes, yes, and yes.

I am adopting children from Russia.

Turns out that the Rooskies don’t like dirty money: no rips, no tears, no writing on it, no folding that wears away printed faces. I have examined Ben Franklin so many times that his face permeates my dreams… and nightmares.

Have you ever tried to find “clean money”? No such thing. Consumers and vendors alike mark on bills, rip bills, and otherwise fold, staple, or mutilate dollar bills.

Point is, that’s illegal.

Point is, Russia will only accept untainted currency which is pretty hard, if not impossible, to accomplish. Whereas Russian rubles are often dirty, torn, and tattered, somebody over there insists on nothing but the cleanest of cash to come from us. That’s a problem.

Banks in the U.S. have very little pristine money anymore. Which leads me to conclude that any stimulus money must be old money, from increased taxes on old-money people, because new money is harder to find than Puxatawny Phil’s fat little groundhog shadow on a cloudy day. We need wads and wads of great-looking greenbacks, hundreds only, please.

So we go from branch to branch, hat in hand, old money clients asking for new money scrip. The head tellers check the vault, bringing me stacks of twenties.

“Hundreds?” I whisper through the plate glass.

They shake their heads, slowly, silently. It’s as though I am straining to see my newborn child in the hospital nursery. I peer in expectation at the window as they hold up this one, that one, none are mine.

I leave and drive to the next bank.

“How often do you get in new money?” I ask, purposely having left myself a few weeks.

The manager gives a “Who knows?” facial expression.

“Every week? Once a month?” I ask.

C’mon, they have to have some idea. Must be a state secret. They won’t part with the info at any branch.

“I can order some clean money for you,” she offers.

“That’s fine, but would you guarantee that it would actually be clean?” I shift from foot to foot, growing impatient with this royal waste of time. Do they give bank robbers dirty money? I want my money, and I want it clean.

“No, it might not all be clean…” she confirms.

“Then what, exactly, might be the reason one would order it?” I look at her. She looks at me.

“And may we help you with anything else today?” asks the customer service-challenged manager, trying to be helpful. “Do you have a mortgage…?”

I recall during our first Russian adoption, I trusted Benedetto with our big wad. Wrong move. He had the stash and we were steaming for the airport.

“Let me see it,” I tell him in the car.

“Huh?”

“The money—I never checked to see that it was clean,” I explain.

He pulls out the stacks in their bank-issued wrappers. I flip through them.

“What is this?” my jaw drops. “It’s… all… DIRTY! Look at these—these tiny stamps—and this rip!” my blood pressure is skyrocketing, zero to sixty in three seconds flat.

“Those little marks?” Benedetto scoffs. “They won’t care. Money is money. The Russians are going to turn down MONEY?”

“Stop the car.”

“What?” he blinks.

“Stop the car.”

“We’re on our way to the airport. To Russia. To get our SON,” he reminds me.

“Yes. And we need CLEAN MONEY. Stop at this bank and exchange the money.”

“This is not one of my banks,” he objects.

“You don’t need an account to exchange it. Money is money,” I intone.

Miraculously, within ten minutes, we’re back on the road. Naturally, since we fly so much, we cut it close to the departure time. My heart races. I hate this mad dash.

Now, years later, I am planning ahead. I’ll search for the money, order the money, starch and iron the money. You think I’m kidding?

You’ve never stood across from the matronly Russian character in the James Bond movies, you know, the one with a jacknife in her sturdy shoe heel, who happens to be doubling as a currency exchange teller in Russia. She holds the bills up to the light, examining them, sliding a few back through the envelope-sized slot at the base of the plate glass window.

Rejected.

We should use the ATM in Russia, you say? Sorry, but I also have memories of my dear husband, desperate for denari, several countries away from our casa, no ATMs working, no banks answering the phone back home on le weekend, racking up roaming charges to listen to telephone menu selections nowhere near our needs.

But that’s another twisted tale for another travel day.

For now, I’m guarding my purse like you wouldn’t believe. It’s my very own Wells Fargo truck taking me straight to Mother Russia. Why the purse? To me, it appeared normal and not likely to raise any suspicions. Many were the adoptive parents investing in money belts, sock safes, and neck pouches. But the contortions necessary to remove a few coins…! It made more sense to buy a walk-in, stand-up combination safe and just strap it to your back.

Funny, I grew up in one of those immigrant families telling stories of America’s streets being paved with gold. Looks like some of the gold dust is making its way to the Old Country in the form of crisp, hard cash.

With the ruble’s devaluation of 60% in the past few months, we’re doing our part to keep Russia’s ship afloat. All I need now is a liferaft to get us back to shore once we return home and start paying on the real expenses of life: doctors, dentists, clothing, new beds, bicycles, nailpolish….

If push comes to shove, and the laundered money runs low and we need to decide between a college fund for four, or a retirement fund for two, it looks like doggies Misha and Grisha will win, and finally get to retire to the Riviera. Hopefully they’ll bring us along in a style to which we are accustomed.

There are two kinds of people on the face of the earth: those who can plan what to pack, and those who fly by the seat of their pants. My husband is the latter and he has been known to forget said pants.

There’s more to the story than meets the eye. You see, Benedetto is our designated packer. It’s a well-supported fact that men can cram more into a suitcase than most women. Something about innate mathematical-spatial abilities. But the system breaks down in the connection between closet and carrying case.

That’s my end of the bargain. I make lists. I love lists. Paper was made for lists. My husband’s head was not. He refuses to use my lists, while pretending he will, which is even more Dangerous.

Right now, we are preparing for a major trip. The dogs go to their spa with special food, bowls, medications, charts, bedding and crates. The non-fur boys need school books, pants, shirts, sweaters, shoes, belts, pajamas, underwear, socks, vitamins, and toiletries. I need a separate suitcase for haircare items alone—blowdryer, flat iron, hot rollers, plugs and adaptors, shampoo, conditioner, anti-frizz potion, hairspray and further accessories. Then bring duplicates of many items in case the bag is lost. Still doesn’t totally tame the tresses, but makes me feel like I haven’t thrown in the towel, and thrown up the hands. My husband, on the other hand, needs nothing.

Or so he thinks.

A sportsjacket and slacks, a full suit, a couple changes of shirts, he’s good to go. That’s why he was wandering around that open-air market, searching for khaki pants in a country where they did not have khaki pants. And you know what? He found a pair!

He has that kind of outcome frequently. He figures that other people have to live, too. They must possess whatever we need in Country X, Y, or Z. He does not understand the specific height of a heel and how a certain shoe goes with a certain pant length, or how this conditioner will prevent your hair from entering Afro-land, or how gold jewelry should not be worn with silver buttons. These are important details, and unless you’re going for an island get-away where there will only be tribal natives, you’d better count on wearing something more than the local bones, shells, and leaves.

I devise the lists. Much care and consideration goes into color coordination, complementary shoes and jewelry, and necessary undergarments for any given outfit. All goes along with the anticipated activities for that day. It’s a combination of flow charts and power point presentations, all centered around what to pack. I must admit, I am a genius in these regards.

But alas, Benedetto goes comatose on these assignments. (Love you, honey! Not to worry, he never reads these….) He has the list and checks off half the items. Half. What about the other half? Did he not understand? I cannot have a suit jacket that buttons near the waist, without a top of some sort underneath.

What about the missing 50% of clothing? He didn’t have time. He had so much else to do, that he didn’t get around to it… so it didn’t come on the trip. I NEVER KNEW THAT WAS AN OPTION! Most travelers worry about whether to fold or roll, how to hang a garment in a steamy shower and hope that the wrinkles miraculously vanish. But nooo, we have to get stuck on how to make it go from the Packing List to actually being placed in the suitcase, not even progressing to the finer points of Packing 101.

The children cannot wear brown or grey on a trip and have photos that pop. They need a red fleece, or a yellow rain slicker, or a blue polo shirt against a dreary sky, or a green grass backdrop. I mean, don’t all parents know that?

I just realized after the adoption of our second son, that part of my packing problem was not packing too much, it was not having enough family members to receive higher weight allowances from the airline baggage handlers.

Then, there were eventualities for which we need to be prepared: travel sewing kits, extra vitamins, stain remover, a universal sink stopper to wash out the underwear, laundry powder, plastic hangers, rain ponchos and umbrellas, granola bars, fold-up toothbrushes. Traveling light is not my goal, instead, it’s traveling well. Being ready for anything. I should have been a girl scout.

Travel that involves any camping-like experiences is not up my alley. Although I’ve stayed in many affordable accommodations that did involve back alleys. My son still remembers the around-the-corner apartment with the security code that he would punch in quickly as sweaty restaurant workers on break sat on upturned buckets and crates, smoking nearby. For all intents and purposes, he was James Bond on a mission.

But we don’t chop toothbrushes in half, or take only one pair of underwear. I can’t understand serious hikers and campers, who buy the lightest weight stove and cooking pellets and sleeping bags, yet utilize heavy hiking boots and haul an entire tent with them. You might as well just strap the RV to your back, port-a-potty and all.

I also have an aversion to odd money devices. The sack around the neck, the money-belt or the sock-safe, all impress me as more dangerous than convenient. If I even wore socks, rather than stockings, I can only imagine bending over to grab a wad of bills, and a thief konking me on the noggin. Or needing to take off my belt in the middle of a Middle Eastern bazaar. As for a fanny pack, people think I wear one, already. Stick it in your bra or shoe, and call it a day. For me, a wallet in the purse is the civilized way to go. Anyone trying to snatch my bag’s shoulder strap will end up hauling me along with it. I don’t plan on giving up or giving in to thieves.

My hero is a lady I knew who hailed from Brooklyn, was carrying two loaves of crusty bread when a pair of thugs tried to hold her up as a young married woman. She smacked both of them in the face. Their front teeth were later found embedded in her bread.

Be security conscious when packing. Avoid taking a Hawaiian shirt to Europe, or white tennis shoes with jeans. Fly below the radar and try to blend in. For example, squelch the urge to wear your Mickey Mouse ears when touring Budapest, or the minarets of Morocco. Leave the overalls and Birkenstocks at home when venturing into mainland China. I know you feel like you have to be “you”, but really, you don’t.

If you take along at least three outfits on your trip, you can always wash one and while it’s drying, have something else to wear. Remember that not everything dries in one day. I speak from experience having used my hairdryer on wet and soggy separates in more than one hotel bathroom. Upon occasion, microfiber can be your friend.

Why do I take my own hairdryer, you ask? Because with this heavy mane of hair, no free bathroom wall appliance would successfully take on the task. Whether 1200 or 1500 watts, that would be enough blowing power to tackle one plucked eyebrow. I think they supply these hairdryers for balding businessmen.

But even when we do actually pack most everything in our super-duper, roller suitcases the size of an average family’s refrigerator, problems can occur. One of my bras was once left behind in a hotel room bathroom. I needed this black bra for an evening event. Which sent me out into the open-air markets on a day when other shops were closed.

Now, the problem was this foreign language. The word for “bra” (reggipetto) was very close to my favorite food, “chicken breast” (petti di pollo). Over and over, I was asking vendors if they had a black chicken breast that would fit me. Most of them were rough older men, so I skipped those merchants, and made clumsy attempts with the others.

It was only years later that I heard that the term “reggipetto” would only be used by one’s grandmother, that “reggiseno” was much more of an everyday term. (Folks, check your phrasebooks right now.) In other words, even when I remembered to utilize the proper term, the vendors were probably ready to sell me some big bloomer undies to match the old-fashioned brassiere I was requesting.

I finally found a sympathetic middle-aged woman (isn’t that redundant?) with a table full of intimate wear. She understood my dilemma and the fact that their sizing system was totally unlike anything I had ever encountered. She asked me to open my bulky jacket and there she sized me up on the street, no measuring tape necessary. Looked me over good and long, as did every other passerby. (No, I was wearing a shirt, so don’t even go there.) Their cup sizes were also along the lines of first, second, and third, rather than A, B, and C, which mixed it up even further. As a Type A personality who always wanted to be first in everything but had not seen an A cup in several decades, this was one time that I could lag behind those in first and second place, and still hold my head up high. The bra fit, and everything else was held high, too.

Lists are our friends before departure and take-off. Check and double-check every nook and cranny of the hotel room. Travel in the style of old Hollywood whether with steamer trunk or nylon satchel. Leave no bra left behind.