Getting What You Want and Deserve

Table of Contents

(Also Known As: How I Finally Found My Voice at the Front Desk)

There comes a point in life when you realize getting what you want isn’t about accumulation anymore — it’s about alignment. As a senior traveller, I don’t chase “more” the way I once did. I chase meaning. A comfortable bed over a five-star label. A quiet café where I can linger over a cappuccino instead of the must-see list that leaves no time to breathe. I’ve learned that wanting less often brings me more of what I truly crave — connection, curiosity, and a sense of belonging in the vast, unpredictable world.

When I was younger, getting what I wanted meant negotiating with time and money — two currencies I assumed were infinite. I’d save, plan, and promise myself, “Someday.” Now, “someday” has arrived with a silver streak in its hair and a carry-on bag that fits just right. I’ve traded ambition for attention — to the details, the faces, the small miracles of travel that only appear when you slow down enough to notice. A train window at sunrise. A conversation with a stranger that feels like déjà vu. A meal that tastes of patience and memory.

Travel at this age isn’t about proving anything. It’s about choosing carefully. When you’ve lived enough years, you start asking better questions: What do I really want from this trip? Comfort or discovery? Familiarity or surprise? Getting what you want starts with knowing what you value — and being honest when it changes. I used to think I wanted adventure; now I want joy. Sometimes that looks like a safari at dawn, and sometimes it seems like staying put long enough to feel like a local.

There’s also a quiet confidence that comes with senior travel. I no longer feel the need to apologize for asking for what I need — a seat near the aisle, a slower pace, a day off from sightseeing. These aren’t concessions; they’re wisdom in action. I’ve earned the right to curate my own rhythm. Getting what I want means designing experiences that honour both my curiosity and my limits.

And yes, there’s a sweetness to it — this freedom of not needing to impress anyone. The world opens differently when you travel with gratitude instead of expectation. When you’re not chasing the next thing, you start to notice the right thing. Maybe that’s what getting what you want really means: finally realizing you already have it, tucked into your passport, your stories, and your unshakable urge to keep exploring — not because you have to, but because you still want to.

And a Note on Privilege — the Obnoxious Traveller Problem

There’s a world of difference between asking for what you need and demanding what you think you deserve. I’ve seen the other kind, the loud, entitled traveller who treats staff like background extras in their personal vacation film. You know the type: voice raised, patience short, manners missing somewhere between customs and baggage claim.

Travel is a privilege, not a right. The seasoned traveller knows this and carries gratitude like a passport stamp. Asking kindly is one thing; assuming compliance is another. The former invites help, the latter earns eye-rolls and stories told in the staff break room. The truth? The best travellers, no matter their age, accent, or status, remember that kindness opens more doors than any loyalty card ever could.

Things I Should’ve Asked For 20 Years Ago

If I could go back in time, I’d tell my younger self a straightforward thing: stop being so damned Canadian (i.e. polite).

Seriously — I’ve spent half my travel life apologizing to people who should’ve been apologizing to me. That room with a “partial ocean view” (translation: one inch of blue if you lean out the window and risk your neck)? Should’ve asked for an objective view. That hotel breakfast that promised “continental” but delivered toast and regret? Should’ve asked for eggs.

There’s a moment in every traveller’s evolution when you realize that being agreeable isn’t the same as being kind — and that asking for what you need is the difference between a trip you endure and one you actually enjoy.

Things I should’ve asked for sooner:

A quieter room before unpacking.
A new coffee when the first one tasted like dishwater.
A short rest stop instead of pretending I loved the bus marathon.
A window seat for the view (and, let’s be honest, the escape plan).
A later checkout because my suitcase and I were having a moment.

It took me until my seventies to discover that confidence doesn’t mean being loud — it means being clear. I no longer whisper my needs to the universe; I tell the concierge.

And it works. Because most people — even in the wilds of airport bureaucracy — want to help, they need you to ask.

So here’s to every traveller who’s ever suffered through an uncomfortable bed, a lukewarm meal, or a seat wedged between a snorer and a toddler. Next time, raise your hand. Flash that warm-but-firm smile. Ask.

Because if travel teaches anything, it’s that the world is full of “yes” — it’s just waiting for you to speak up.

10 Polite Habits I’m Finally Unlearning (Thanks to Travel)

(A Senior Traveller’s Survival Guide to Speaking Up and Letting Go)

There’s a fine line between being gracious and being a doormat — and I’ve crossed it in multiple time zones. For years, I thought good travellers were adaptable, agreeable, and forever smiling through jet lag and discomfort. Turns out, “graceful traveller” doesn’t mean silent martyr.

These days, I’m editing my manners the way I edit my packing list: ruthlessly, and with a touch of humour. Here are the 10 polite habits I’m finally unlearning — one ask, one raised eyebrow, and one improved hotel room at a time.

1. Saying “It’s fine” when it absolutely isn’t.

No, it’s not fine. The air conditioner’s humming like a chainsaw, and the bed feels like a medieval plank. Saying “it’s fine” doesn’t make you easygoing; it makes you sleepless. I now say, “Could we check another room, please?” in my most diplomatic voice — and it works wonders.

2. Thinking “quiet” means “rude.”

For years, I nodded and smiled through conversations I couldn’t hear or didn’t want to. Now, I say, “Sorry, could you repeat that?” or, “I’m just going to step away for a moment.” Silence isn’t rude; it’s a boundary with a passport.

3. Accepting the wrong meal out of guilt.

If I order the fish and get the chicken, I no longer pretend it’s destiny. I politely correct it. My younger self would’ve eaten in silence; my older self knows I can’t digest regret.

4. Overpacking to avoid “inconveniencing anyone.”

As if someone else’s comfort depended on how many cardigans I stuffed in my suitcase. Now I pack light — for my back, my sanity, and my future self’s gratitude.

5. Smiling through discomfort.

Once, on a long-haul flight, I let a seatmate monopolize my armrest and my patience. Never again. A polite “Excuse me, could we share the space?” is not confrontation — it’s self-preservation.

6. Pretending I understand directions.

I used to nod at foreign instructions as if I were fluent in six languages. I wasn’t. Now I say, “Sorry, could you show me on the map?” or hand over my phone. Pride doesn’t get you to the train on time.

7. Accepting “no” when there might be a “yes.”

You’d be amazed at how often a small, friendly follow-up turns things around. “Are you sure there isn’t a room with a view?” “Would it be possible to sit closer to the window?” People respond to kindness paired with confidence.

8. Apologizing for asking.

Old habit: “Sorry to bother you, but…”
New habit: “Thank you for helping me with this.” One creates guilt. The other creates gratitude.

9. Skipping rest days out of fear of “missing something.”

Spoiler: what you miss by never resting is joy. I now schedule downtime like an activity — “a long nap with a view.”

10. Mistaking endurance for adventure.

There’s no medal for surviving a trip you didn’t enjoy. I don’t push through anymore; I pause, pivot, or plan differently next time. Experience is a better souvenir than exhaustion.

So, here’s my new travel mantra: ask, rest, repeat. The world doesn’t reward martyrs; it welcomes travellers who know their worth and still say “please.”

If age has taught me anything, it’s this — the most polite thing you can do for everyone (including yourself) is to be honest about what you need. The rest? That’s just good manners with mileage.

(A Senior’s Guide to Asking, Laughing, and Living Well on the Road)

There’s a quiet revolution happening among travellers of a certain age. We’re done apologizing for existing. We’ve spent decades smiling politely through discomfort — the lumpy hotel beds, the chatty tour guide who doesn’t breathe, the red-eye flight that should’ve been outlawed.

But somewhere along the line, we realized: being “nice” doesn’t mean being silent.

Travel, at its best, teaches confidence the slow way. You start out thinking adaptability means saying yes to everything. Then, one day, you wake up in a Paris hotel room that smells faintly of despair and think, You know what? No. And that “no” feels good. Liberating, even. That’s the moment you graduate from polite traveller to seasoned traveller — the kind who asks for what she needs, laughs when plans fall apart, and knows that self-respect is the best travel insurance there is.

So here it is: my small act of rebellion, learned mile by mile.

The Polite Traveller’s Rebellion Manifesto

Old Rule	New Rule	Why It Matters
Don’t be a bother.	Ask, clearly and kindly.	You can’t enjoy the journey if you’re quietly miserable.
Take what you get.	Request what you need.	Upgrades go to the people who ask — nicely.
Smile through it.	Laugh about it.	Humour turns frustration into story material.
Be grateful for anything.	Be grateful and discerning.	Gratitude doesn’t mean settling.
Keep the peace.	Keep your boundaries.	There’s no peace if you’re pretending.
Blend in.	Speak up.	You don’t owe invisibility to anyone.
Don’t make a fuss.	Make a moment.	You’ll remember the conversation, not the complaint.

The Takeaway

Asking for what you need isn’t a sign of age — it’s a sign of arrival. You’ve done your time pretending things are fine. Now the goal is joy, not endurance.

So go ahead. Ask for the window seat, the slower pace, the view, the extra napkin, the room that smells like possibility instead of mildew. Ask for space, comfort, and time. Ask for what makes the journey yours.

Because if travel has taught me anything, it’s this: the world doesn’t just open up to the curious. It opens up to those who ask—and to those who never forget to say thank you.

DISCLOSUIRE

IMPORTANT