Travel Nerves

                                                                         

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a person heading off on holidays must be feeling happy.

That’s not always the case, though. Generally, I’m a ball of worry in the lead up to an otium.

You’re not supposed to say it, you must feign fun at all costs, you must say I’m going to have a blast and I don’t mind the expense.

In the past few years, I’ve been lucky enough to take several foreign holidays. In the main these have been the standard “week in the sun” beloved of Western wage slaves. That’s not to knock the experience. I’m grateful for what I’ve had.

The problem is I have trouble leaving the house at the best of times, worrying in a mildly OCD-like manner about a variety of things. First and foremost there’s that great Irish worry-staple: the immersion. The comedian Des Bishop has riffed extensively on this issue so I won’t labour the point. But, if you’re Irish, step onto the landing and you’ll know what I mean.

Then, I wonder have all the plugs been plugged out, is the fridge closed properly and the back door locked tight? Did I turn the tap off when I finished brushing my teeth? With the arrival of water charges this particular fret has increased a hundredfold.

As you can imagine, in these circumstances, heading to the Topaz garage for a litre of milk or indeed a packet of chocolate hobnobs can be an arduous task in itself. Preparing to leave my domicile for a week abroad virtually short circuits me. 

The thought often strikes of how much easier it would be to just stay at home.

To some extent I take my cue from the Duc des Esseintes, the main character in Joris-Karl Huysman’s novel À Rebours. Lest I’m taken for a screaming intellectual, I must tip my hat to Alain Du Botton for that eclectic reference.

Anyway, living in France, the Duc, a misanthrope by nature, was struck one morning with an urge to visit London. But when the time came to board his train, he changed his mind. “What was the good of moving when a person could travel so wonderfully sitting in a chair?” He returned to his villa along with his luggage and never ventured out again.

The temptation is always there to simply take a tablet (of the Apple variety) and watch a YouTube video about Monaco, say, with none of the attendant problems like  prickly heat and the consequent need to buy calamine lotion, not to mention the high cost of a coffee in the Prince’s Palace café.

The night before a flight can be nerve-shredding. Unable to sleep and going over your early start with the diligence of a military tactician, you wonder about the taxi you have ordered for 3.30am. Did the dispatcher hear your address correctly when you placed the order? Of the holiday itself you once again ponder the money involved, the various hassles incurred, and will the hotel be up to scratch? Were those glowing TripAdvisor reviews you read written by the hotel’s owner and you have handed over your hard-earned dosh to a fallacious foreigner named Fawlty del Torres?

Thankfully it’s often the case, after I’ve arrived in a destination and settled in, that my tune changes.

I begin to appreciate my surroundings and my “OCD” abates much in the same way a person’s arthritis eases in a warm climate.

A recent trip is a case in point: The Costa del Sol on the bus between Marbella and Estepona. The driver pulls in at a stop and shouts: “San Pedro!”

—“Is this the place Madonna dreamt of?” my wife asks in jest. The soul of calmness, she never frets at home or abroad.

I’m feeling good. All the pre-travel stress has melted away.

—“Yes,” I laugh. “And she flew with Ryanair, too.”

© Brian Ahern 2015