The Happy Hypochondriac Survives World Travel. Kat Spitzer

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      Advance Praise

      “This book is equal measures heartwarming and funny. Again, the Happy Hypochondriac shows that fears that beset us all need not stand in the way of a pleasurable life. I say this mainly because my wife, the Happy Hypochondriac, will read this and I am not a stupid husband. However, I also say this because it’s true. Of course, one hope for this book is that some of the random strangers we’ve encountered on our travels will read it and understand, ‘so THAT’s what that was all about….’”

      – HHH (Happy Hypochondriac Husband)

      “We are all quirky souls walking this earth with anxieties and idiosyncrasies. Kat so poignantly details the hilarious, troubling and fleeting worries we travel with through our lives. She has a way of normalizing our daily worries and demonstrates through her life how to bridge that gap between anxiety and joy. I have to say, through my tears of laughter, this is a wonderful, humorous and relatable book.”

      – Marni L. Zwick, Ph.D. Clinical Psychologist

      The Happy Hypochondriac Survives World Travel

      Kat Spitzer

      The Happy Hypochondriac Survives World Travel

      Kat Spitzer

      Apprentice House

      Baltimore, Maryland

      Copyright © 2014 by Kat Spitzer

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher (except by reviewers who may quote brief passages).

      First Edition

      Printed in the United States of America

      Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62720-018-9

      Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62720-019-6

      Design by Sara Killough

      Published by Apprentice House

      Apprentice House

      Loyola University Maryland

      4501 N. Charles Street

      Baltimore, MD 21210

      410.617.5265 • 410.617.2198 (fax)

      www.ApprenticeHouse.com

      [email protected]

      Dedication

      To Jason, Jacob and Rachel.

      We’ve got so much more of the globe to explore.

      Acknowledgments

      Many thanks to my family and friends, who helped me, and continue to help me, make these travel experiences possible. Thanks to the world for being so amazing and inspiring me to want to see it all. Thanks to all the individuals out there who make traveling such a unique, exciting and often hilarious adventure.

      Thanks to all the people involved in making this book come together, and all the folks at Apprentice House who continue to believe in The Happy Hypochondriac.

      Hypochondriac Travel Tip #1

      You can’t stop the motion of the ocean, so just enjoy the ride. Oh, and wear a patch behind your ear. Seriously.

      1

      Cruisin’

      I’m a hypochondriac. I have many afflictions. By the death-defying age of thirty-seven, I’ve survived at least half a dozen self-diagnosed aneurysms, multiple heart attacks, tumors of all sizes and locations, but especially those involving the brain, and very rare insect and animal borne illnesses typically not in existence in the United States. I’m fairly certain I’ve had mesothelioma. To look at me, you’d never know that I’ve been through such trauma. I look healthy in direct contrast to all the commotion brewing inside.

      Despite all these very serious diagnoses, most not confirmed by a practicing medical expert, my most serious disease is an insatiable travel bug. No matter the prescription, I can’t get rid of this affliction. Insurance doesn’t cover it, even when I’ve tried to argue that it’s medically necessary because of stress. I’m stuck, a wounded victim of wanderlust. The only known cure is to get out and travel.

      As with most ailments, psychological or otherwise, I blame my parents. Whether we had money or not when I was growing up, we always went someplace. The doctors often actually prescribed rest and relaxation for my father, because on the rare occasions when he would visit a doctor, they would be spellbound by the sheer enormousness of his blood pressure and urge him to relax, stat. We lived in Orlando, Florida, and because my mother refused to fly, a vacation usually meant driving to Tallahassee or Miami to visit family friends. I flourished under these circumstances. Peanut Cluster candies from a roadside Stuckey’s, anyone? Anyone? How about some boiled peanuts? I still have dreams about those things and try to pick some up whenever I go back down to the South, preferably from a roadside stand with a handwritten cardboard sign. Those vendors know their audience. I wasn’t hard to please.

      At the age of ten, I hit the motherlode. My parents took me on my first cruise. They had cruised multiple times and finally thought I would appreciate the experience. I had always admired the photos of my mom looking hot, in a yellow halter polyester pantsuit, my dad’s arm proudly around her somewhere in port in Venezuela, his devious smile saying, “Oh yeah, I may be bald but this total babe is all mine.” I wanted that type of exoticism in my life, sans the bald boyfriend.

      Carnival Cruise Lines welcomed me into the colorful glamour of all-you-can-eat Lido deck buffets, steel drums, drinks with umbrellas, saying the word “virgin” every time I ordered a drink, and passengers who would go to any embarrassing lengths to win utterly meaningless prizes. I would never be the same. I would also never underestimate the value of a towel animal to bring a smile to my face. I was hooked like a sea bass from that moment forward.

      This was also the moment when I developed what I like to call “ocean issues” and again I would never be the same, but in a far different way. I know, it was quite the pivotal trip. I can recall the actual instance it happened, and even have the photo to prove it. The fear materialized when the bell tolled for the lifejacket drill; so, essentially as soon as the ship took off. All passengers had to quickly head to their staterooms, vacating their short-lived strolls of exploration around the ship, in order to grab their lifejackets and rapidly, but safely, locate the lifeboat station where they would meet should the ship decide to sink.

      Now, I had addressed my own mortality on many occasions already by this age, but this was the first time I had considered anything but perfection on a vacation.

      “What exactly are the chances of this ship sinking?” I needed to understand my odds.

      “Oh honey, the ship’s going to be fine,” said my mom. “Do you think I’d be on here if I thought we would actually have to get in these lifeboats? I can’t even swim.” I looked at her, wide-eyed, letting the implications of this, ahem, sink in. My mother can’t swim. I’m not a terribly strong swimmer. That isn’t good. If neither one of us can swim, what will we do? Well, at least this nice person in the Carnival polo shirt is saying that women and children get to board first. Oh my gosh, that’s like the Titanic! We’re going to sink. Help. Me. My mind veered into crazy territory.

      “Are there icebergs?”

      My father started laughing. “Don’t be stupid, Kat. There are no icebergs in the Caribbean. Now be quiet, you’re going to embarrass yourself, and me.” Fine. This was a big boat; 42,000 tons (note: cruise lines hardly even sail ships that small anymore. They are practically ferries at that size, by today’s standards). Back then, it felt like a grand, glorious hotel. I would barely feel the waves. That said, I had a hard time not contemplating the vastness of the water underneath. We were but a powerless speck bouncing on top of the most