I love to travel.

Really, really love to travel.

But here’s the thing. I don’t necessarily love the traveling part.

Most of my trips are nine days or less because of work commitments.  Lately, they’ve become five days or so. They are basically an extended weekend with better scenery. I like little escapes. Get there. See things. Eat things. Experience things. Come home before I have time to get sick of anything.

I also have a personal rule , if possible, of seven hours or less on a plane and I’m good.

Apparently, my definition of “good” is negotiable.

I once did New York to Australia, which involved approximately 22 hours of flying all together. Twenty-two hours in a cramped metal tube, sitting in a position that makes you question whether your knees were ever meant to bend that way.

I also flew from California to Durban, South Africa.

That was equally cramping.

So much that that after the return trip, my knee hurt so badly I ended up needing an MRI. The radiologist apparently looked at the scans and basically thought, “What the hell happened to this woman? Was she in a major accident?”

Nope.

Just economy-class aviation.

Apparently, my knee had experienced something resembling a catastrophic event while I was watching movies at 35,000 feet.

And yet, I keep doing it.

Because I love seeing the world. I love wandering unfamiliar streets, trying foods I’ve never eaten, hearing languages I don’t speak, and having those moments when I think, Wow. I actually made it here.

I just wish there were a better way to get there.

Where is teleportation?

I don’t need a transporter room. I don’t need to beam myself across the universe.

Just give me a button that says:

NEW YORK → MONGOLIA

Poof.

Preferably with my luggage.

And my knees intact.

Until then, I’ll keep flying.

But seven hours or less, please.

I have places to go. I just don’t want to become one with the airplane seat getting there.