For years, I was the Gold Star traveller. Spreadsheets tracked packing lists. Calendars counted down 21 days to departure. Flights were booked months in advance. Then life happened. Kids, a demanding job, elderly parents – suddenly, meticulously planned trips gave way to frantic, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants dashes to the airport. I became the person booking flights at midnight for a 6am departure. And surprisingly? I stopped dreading it. The secret wasn’t superhuman organisation; it was ruthlessly prioritising the one thing that used to trigger terminal panic: airport parking.
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