I’m a bad traveler. It’s known.

“Lea? You mean the ‘Hanyosh’,” is how I’m tolerantly referred to, a nickname that stuck thanks to my great-aunt Feigu; it roughly translates as “the barfer.”

Growing up in Monsey while the rest of the family lived in Brooklyn, my childhood years were spent turning green as we zoomed along the Palisades.

Then I was introduced to planes. Oh, the agony of planes! Not only does the tight seat space make me claustrophobic, on more than one occasion I’ve actually used the airsick bags. Then there’s the jet lag! Each trip I took, I was sentenced to two weeks — minimum — of malaise.

Since journeying was never pleasant for me, I was particularly susceptible to further trauma. A few hours before a flight to Israel, I was felled with a stomach bug contracted from a niece following a babysitting stint. Enough said. That trip established a firm dread of international travel.

Don’t mistake me. I enjoy seeing new places and different cultures. I just can’t stand the means of getting there. I’ve even considered being tranquilized and chucked into storage. “Bad traveler” is so much a part of my identity that I cheerfully (or stupidly) mentioned my “Hanyosh” moniker on the introductory phone call with my future husband. Following our engagement, he began to speak of honeymoon destinations.

“My brother came across a great deal to South Africa.”

“South Africa?” I repeated in horror.

Shlomo, unlike me, is a good traveler. He has backpacked across Europe, trekked Iceland, and explored Argentina. He’d tackled Johannesburg a few years prior, and on our first date had shown me pictures of him petting baby lions. I had sighed in envy — we’re both animal lovers. Giraffes are my favorite mammal. I adore leopard print. I find elephants majestic.

But all I could think of was the hours on a plane. Approximately nineteen.

“What about Italy?” I desperately counter-offered. Italy was one place I was eager to experience, and the distance was somewhat doable.

He dutifully researched Tuscany, but in the interim I heard too many fascinating things about the other hemisphere. “Italy?” my sister-in-law scoffed. “You can always go to Italy. My friend just went to South Africa and said it was amaaaazing.”

“Amaaaazing?” I echoed faintly.

“Amaaaazing,” she confirmed.

I swallowed my terror, slapped on a game face, and bravely informed Shlomo, “Okay, I’m in.” He booked the tickets. “You were warned,” I reminded him. “It won’t be pretty.” He seemed unfazed.

After our wedding, he’d run by me his plans for the itinerary. “So, I was thinking we’ll spend a couple of nights in Johannesburg and go to the lion park, then fly to Cape Town for Shabbos, spend a week there, then head out to Kruger…”

But I was in denial. I nodded along, not processing his words, automatically chirping, “Sounds good!” as I continued to sauté mushrooms or apply face cream.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 597)