Tripped Up : But for Planning a Jakarta Jaunt, Happiness Is Still a Thing Called Joe

I LOVE MY HUSBAND, but I want to go with Joe. In four days, Duke and I are flying to Indonesia. Our plane tickets were purchased months ago, but our itinerary is still up in the air. My husband, an intrepid pathfinder, wants to get as far off the beaten track as possible and wing it. I’m all for adventure, but this makes me very nervous.

I wouldn’t be nervous going with Joe. He realizes that a vacation is more relaxing when the destination doesn’t require prophylactic anti-malarial drugs. He understands why I’d feel more secure knowing that there’s a bed waiting for me when we finally arrive in Bali after a 24-hour ride on a sold out DC-10. But my husband likes to push the envelope. “It’s not a 24-hour flight,” Duke argues. “It’s just 20 hours.”

Years ago, I went with Joe--a.k.a. Joseph A. Broger--a meticulous, courtly Swiss travel agent who looks like The Elf King. I met him when Duke, then my boyfriend, couldn’t decide if he was “ready” to take a joint vacation. Maddened by his indecision, I marched into the first travel agency I could find. There sat Joe, virtually entombed behind stacks of tour brochures. “Can you get me out of the country by the end of the week?” I asked.

Joe took care of everything. He delicately advised me not to go to Venice (“in your romantic situation, I couldn’t recommend it”). He found the inexpensive flight to Zurich and the berth on the TEE to Florence. He booked the quaint pensione. All I had to do was dramatically announce that I was leaving and board the plane.

Joe arranged for one of his representatives (apparently he has a worldwide elf network) to magically whisk me through customs. And he managed to alter my unalterable ticket when Duke, ever unpredictable, suddenly arrived in Europe for a romantic reunion on the day before I was scheduled to return home. I never sweat the details with Joe.

Then I got married. “You don’t need me any more,” Joe said reproachfully, after a few frustrating attempts to help Duke plan our honeymoon in Spain and Portugal. “Your husband prefers to make all of the arrangements himself.”

I couldn’t argue with that. My mate actually enjoys studying guidebooks, contemplating atlases and calling shady travel consortiums looking for the world’s cheapest flight. He believes that he alone will discover the hidden treasures.

In all fairness, he usually does, though not without getting us into a pickle (often involving a shortcut that only looks good on a large-scale map). But Duke likes chaos--almost as much as I like order. “What you travel for is to shake up your life,” he says. “Otherwise, you might as well save your money and rent a travel video.”

Secretly, I long to be a carefree vagabond. And if we were going anywhere in the United States or Europe or even Mexico, I wouldn’t have panicked. But we’re supposed to arrive in Denpasar during peak season--along with a zillion summer-vacationing Australians. And even Duke acknowledges that we “might be” looking at a potential problem.

“Say it ain’t so, Joe,” I cried.

“Your husband can get away with winging it in Spain,” Joe said smugly. “But he’s going to have a problem.”

“No problem,” said Duke, who had just figured out Plan B (for bad). We’ll get off the plane when it stops to refuel at Biak, an oil port that is also the historic site of “The Sump”--a cave system where thousands of Japanese soldiers were burned alive during World War II. “There’s a two-engine prop flight from there to Lake Paniai, in the highlands of New Guinea,” he continued. “It’s supposed to be beautiful. But there are no tourist facilities.”

I love my husband, but I’m going with Joe. I just called and begged him for help. “Don’t worry, Margo,” he said. “My representative in Jakarta will handle all the arrangements.” I thanked him profusely.

“You benched me and sent in Joe?” Duke says. “You expect me to sit on the pine while Joe makes the reservations?”

I’d feel guilty, but I’m too busy packing. My husband gives me a hug. “Listen, honey, after we rest up in Bali, there’s a local boat that can take us to. . . .”