[This post is from a previous blog]

Some Thoughts on Travelling

Travelling is not a thing at which I excel.

That’s not precise, though. I find my way to my destination well enough. I just don’t care to do anything once I’ve arrived. From the memories I retain of the several trips I’ve made in my life I may as well have stayed home. None were particularly life-changing. Well, I suppose they’ve shown me that I really do not enjoy travelling.

I was once stranded at an airport hotel for three days because of inclement weather and I’ve never been happier. I’d stopped at a bookshop the day before and had an mp3 player. I lounged in bed, reading and listening to music. No one expected me to do anything so no one was disappointed when I returned home with the news that I’d seen nothing of interest nor done anything of interest and didn’t particularly care.

But when I return from trips people ask, “What did you do?” If I told the truth: Lay on the bed and read. They’d ask: What’d you bother to leave for, then?

So I could read in peace. If I were at home chores would be asking to be done. On holiday there are no chores to be done. Except seeing things. Doing things. Things I’ll have no real memory of later. Holidays are for spending money on memories one can’t recall. I cognitively know I’ve been to Brindisi twice but I cannot recall one visual memory of the place. Was that worth $2800? So I could say I’d been there? That could be said about most other places I’ve been. In the end the memories are words I’ve told myself. I was at the Oracle at Delphi and it was bright. The hills were green.

Typing this reminds me of the episode of Black Books where they decide to go on holiday and Bernard Black says: So forget your beaches and jungles. We’re going somewhere I can sit, read and have a quiet drink. Mannie asks, “So, your ideal holiday would, in fact, be here?” Bernard: Correct. So find somewhere exactly like this.

The most recent experiment in travelling was to attend the wedding of a friend of my husband’s. We were able to stay in a rather lovely house for several days and that was nice. However, there were several other guests in the same house and I take it the feel was supposed to be communal. I can just about manage small talk when it behooves me (for work and such) but I cannot rise to the enforced occasion when it’s complete strangers about whom I know nothing nor care for. And I don’t really see the reason to put myself through something that only gives me anxiety and is, to my mind, a waste of time that could be used reading, writing or sleeping. I simply cannot believe that at the end of my life I’m going to regret not spending more time making forced conversation with strangers.

I do sometimes wonder what my husband must think. He has more tolerance for mindless chat. Or perhaps he fakes it better. I hope he doesn’t bother to make excuses for me. He’s welcome to say: She has a personality disorder that makes her allergic to people.

During this last trip I could hear the people outside laughing and being gay. It made me feel like Emily Dickinson. Except, you know, not a genius.