I love to travel. Who doesn’t? In fact, as I sit here writing this column, I’m staring at a big pile of luggage and boxes, bound for Ft. Lauderdale, Florida in the morning. My boyfriend, my best friend Tracey, and I are bound for Ft. Lauderdale, too. I’m even getting paid to travel, which is a very good thing. My alter ego, Anita Mann, has been booked to host a private party in the Sunshine State, and I decided to make a little vacation out of it. Not that I deserve much of a vacation, having been unemployed since early May, but it’s never a bad time to go to Florida.

Packing is always a bitch, but trust me on this: you’ve never lived until you’ve packed for yourself and your drag alter ego. My system worked pretty well, though, with an "Eric pile" and an "Anita pile." Eric is a pretty simple guy—some shorts, some shirts, a bathing suit and towel, a couple of pairs of flip-flops, and a few toiletries. Anita, on the other hand, is not a light traveler—make-up, hair, four different outfits including shoes, and more rhinestones than Zsa Zsa Gabor. How do you pack a huge red feather hat, or a wig that stands ten inches off your head? I just pray I’m not ambushed at the airport by PETA for that vintage fur stole I’m smuggling across state borders.

I didn’t travel when I was growing up, although I didn’t feel deprived. I was never jealous when friends when to Disney World or some other destination that required leaving on a jet plane. My parents kept us entertained on a very tight budget, with frequent trips to the beach, the park, the zoo, and other local attractions. When I started college, I had set foot in Delaware, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. That’s it, folks! An avid reader, I had learned enough about foreign lands to keep myself afloat in casual conversations, and I knew I’d travel someday, somehow. In my junior year of college, I fulfilled my dream of travel abroad by studying over Winter Session in London, with weekend trips to Paris and Dublin.

Perhaps I should have traveled more as a child, as I was a very naïve tourist. One night in a London bar, I decided it was a good idea to drop acid with a total stranger and go back to his place. I didn’t think the acid was working, until I walked over and attempted to pick up a double-decker bus. The night went completely downhill from there. My new friend and I had to walk almost two miles from the tube stop to some office to get his electric turned back on, and then almost another mile to his place. I must admit that there’s nothing like watching the local London news while your peaking, but I almost died when I got a good look at this guy I’d gone home with.

He was emaciated and his dreadlocks looked like they hadn’t been washed in weeks. After finding a ranting letter from his mother scrawled on scraps of paper, I decided this guy might have inherited the insanity gene, so I stayed up all night, lest he should have a chance to bludgeon me to death in my sleep. I took out my contact lenses and put them in two glasses of water, and I left in the morning without even thinking of them. I was overjoyed to board a bus back to my flat, but my elation quickly faded as I plummeted down from my LSD high. There I was, crumpled up in the back seat of the top of a double-decker bus, sobbing hysterically, hallucinating madly, convinced I was dying. At the door to my flat, I was met by a fellow student who immediately pegged me for coming down from a bad acid trip, and that angel calmed me down and walked me through the experience. I slept through class that day and was comatose for 24 hours. I never touched acid again.

My last weekend in Europe, three friends of mine talked me into joining them in a weekend excursion to gay Paris. Actually, I didn’t get to see gay Paris, but I did visit all the standard landmarks. Half an inch of snow had coated the bustling Parisian streets, and the city was in a near panic. (I guess they don’t get much of the white stuff in Paris.) The Eiffel Tower was closed and residents rushed to stores and homes. My friends and I ducked into a McDonald’s to grab a cheap bite to eat. Sitting down with our fries, my friend Becky announced that she simply couldn’t stomach fries without ketchup.

Having studied the language for five years, I ceremoniously marched myself up the counter and, in my best French accent, asked, "Avez-vous le tomat?" The cashier looked dumbfounded, so I asked her again if she had any tomat, or ketchup, as we’d learned in high school French. Another blank stare from the cashier prompted me to repeat myself once more, but decidedly more frustrated. "Avez-vous le tomat?" At last, a look of understanding graced her face, and she exclaimed, "Oh! Ketchup!" as she tossed me a fistful of small red packets. A worldwide McDonald’s culture, indeed.

I doubt that I’ll encounter any bad acid trips or language barriers during my trip to Ft. Lauderdale, and for that, I’m thankful. I’ll just say no to any illegal substances, and my French is so rusty I wouldn’t even attempt "Voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir" while lip-synching "Lady Marmalade." Aside from the party, with Anita’s four costume changes, this trip should be nothing but sand and surf and fun in the sun. Now that’s the way traveling should be.