At this time of year you can’t sit through an advert break without being invited on a holiday. Cheap Disneyland trips for young families. Luxurious tropical retreats for discerning adults. Boat trips only for old people. Many viewers, it seems, are seduced by this onslaught, desperate for a glimpse of some ‘winter sun’. For me, these adverts are like watching horror film trailers.
Ok, not quite. But I really don’t like holidays. Don’t get me wrong – I love having a break. I’m not one of those people who never want to leave the office. But, tell me, what exactly is relaxing about travel, specifically foreign travel? Packing for a 2-week holiday (= 4 weeks worth of your wardrobe) and then hauling a suitcase equivalent to your own body weight across multiple tortuous modes of (delayed) transport. Enduring said transport – sometimes for days – until you reach a strange destination where you are, in effect, an alien. No one understands you, you don’t understand them – and in some painful cases, you don’t even try to. Having to knock around with strange Brits, many of whom are speaking especially loudly, only in English. Having to navigate unknown climes whilst simultaneously not looking like you’re navigating unknown climes so as not to draw attention to yourself and your belongings. It’s all very scary and stressful. And then you’ve got to do it all again to get home. And then you’re back at work – exhausted. Great.
Holidays seem to bring out anxieties in me that never seem to surface in daily life – what if I get robbed / attacked? What if my house blows up / burns down / gets burgled / acquires squatters? It’s hard work going on holiday. I’ll admit, a lot of this travel aversion stems from my total fear of flying. I’ve tried it twice. Never again – because, as Ian Fleming said, you only live twice.
I went to Florida as a child, on one of aforementioned (not-so) cheap Disneyland trips with my family. I remember the two flights in full. I remember thinking my ears were going to explode during take off, and that my stomach was going to jump out of my mouth during landing. I remember a horrendous airport which seemed to be made entirely of palms, prickly and scary. But, in comparison, I don’t remember too much of the actual holiday. Then I, persuaded by a family member yet again, found myself flying to New York fifteen years later. The turbulence we experienced when (trying to) make a landing at Newark was like out of an ACTUAL DISASTER FILM. And that was my sister, easy-flyer, talking.
And that’s about as exotic as my travel experiences have extended to. I’ve been places since – just not by air. This does of course limit where you can go, unless you are a Russian oligarch with bounds of cash to splurge on speedboats. But I can’t imagine a Russian oligarch being scared of flying. Or a Russian full stop.
Do I feel like I’m missing out? Honestly? No. Well, maybe a little bit. But we all do the same thing when we get back from holiday, don’t we? We miss it for a week, then we go back to our own lives, exactly as we were before – only poorer. We’ve ticked a box – but that’s it.
Well, for most of us. I take my hat off to the people who really throw themselves into travel, without a map if you will. But I don’t want to hear about it. If I were to find myself in a room with such a traveller I would attempt to leave it immediately.
I say, before you go gallivanting off on some foreign adventure, take time to remember what we have on our own global doorstep. Some UKers have never stepped outside of London yet they’ve carted themselves off to Helsinki, Haiti and Honolulu – what about our South Coast? The Lakes? We’ve got a good thing going on here – who needs winter sun?