No Scenic Route
Words By Sarah Clerkin
On January 2nd 2021 I set aside time to list my New Year’s resolutions, having been busy working on January 1st. There’s an effort made to word these goals correctly: they are not to be impossible to get done- that only breeds disappointment. Why set myself up for failure by being unrealistic?
“But I’m still ambitious obviously” I chime in internally, after spotting my pen hesitating over the page. “The last thing this pandemic will do is reveal that I’m happy doing nothing at home, or that I don’t have goals.” It’s an irritatingly delicate balance, trying to come up with what I could realistically swell up with pride about; By December.
Not being great for reading fiction, there’s a goal to have books from my staggeringly long list completed. I can sacrifice a few brain cells reserved for reality TV, I’m sure. Another to give French a try (again), having dreaded languages since Leaving Cert. One last hope is to complete my driver’s theory test (all manageable enough).
There’s a noticeable absence from my list as to not breed the aforementioned disappointment: It was so vivid a thought in previous years, it didn’t need to be written down. There was always a keen vow to travel somewhere new before the year was out. Obviously, not appropriate 2021 vision board material.
It’s hard to question a “goal” like that when for decades it’s been the sought after experience in your twenties: not being tied down to any particular place and taking off with friends to some awe inspiring location, usually accompanied by some grubby hostel where you can laugh and be merry. Or accepting a job or internship in a cosmopolitan city, firmly launching yourself into a career and adulthood. Adventures that you can piss yourself laughing about over Pinot in your thirties.
Pretty a picture that Wanderlust paints, there is of course a reek of privilege: dropping all of your responsibilities to have a pseudo-bohemian adventure in Australia or Thailand. The financial commitment to afford the cost of living in London or Paris. A once in a lifetime experience only for those who can afford it.
If I know this, then why is there a fear of missing out? Maybe if it wasn’t for the numerous anecdotes you encounter (usually in dingy smoking areas) where people swear by their time in Budapest or Seoul as life changing. Even my own Mother has fond memories of hitch hiking across vibrant New Zealand by herself, at night (I’m guessing the hitchhikers safety guide has changed since the 1980’s). I ask her if you can truly learn about a place without ever experiencing it in person. “Nothing beats going there” she smiles.
In contrast to my Mam’s adventure at twenty four, the highlight of my week is talking with my half-friends half-pixelated fuzzes over Zoom. The new found time at home has me yearning for familiar faces, with only the brown succulent manning my windowsill to keep me company. Everyone has their own version of quarantine: most are in their family homes, many are doing their Masters online. When the much needed catch ups end there’s always a mention of traveling together as soon as things have opened up again.
It echoes the plans that were concocted last year. As we all realised that nothing was tying us to Cork in the post college haze, we decided to rent a house in Galway. Not the other side of the planet, but still new and exciting. The breezy nature of the plan seemed to echo the sentiment of so many anecdotes about being young (joie de vivre, seizing the day, etc. etc.).
It goes without saying, that didn’t happen. By no means am I questioning the decision to isolate, but hey, it still sucked. It was a chance to change our routine and be impulsive. Proof that our youth wasn’t going to waste.
That sounds incredibly melodramatic, I know. However, if it’s a farce then why do we still want it? If given the choice, I’d love to not think that traveling would develop me as a person. Help me avoid feeling like a failure (hence my resolutions being so carefully worded, sort of like a hostage letter).
There is also harm in comparison, especially if you end up comparing yourself to an unbeknownst Julia Roberts: The premise of Eat Pray Love was the kind of thing I would mock after an eight hour shift at work: “Middle class writer gets to spend the year finding herself, reflecting positively on her breakup, surrounded by the spiritually advanced in Bali and delicious carbs in Italy. Oh, and an even more tasty book foreword sum? Sign me up!” I would scoff, and set an alarm for seven.
However, the obsession with getting away and “Eat, Pray Loving” slowly crept into my jokes, and with everything done ironically, I found myself one day thinking about it sincerely. After spending over a year toiling in a retail job, I saw an ad online and decided to do what I always wanted and take myself on a trip. Having witnessed my coworker take a month out to go backpacking, a pang of jealously had hit: I was dying to be spontaneous too.
Taking a sizeable lump sum out of my savings, I signed up for a pastry course in Northern Italy that could hopefully help turn my hobby into something more. While it was a chance to manifest a future career, I also secretly yearned for that Carpe Diem journey, something I was previously ready to mock at a moment’s notice.
The excitement of traveling on my own got me through the demands of work. The stress and drive it took to reach sales targets, or the ladies drumming their oxblood red manicures against the table as I tried to make sense of their repairs. It was all rendered powerless. I was out of there simply because I felt like going, and the power was intoxicating.
As expensive as my own experience “finding myself” was (alas, I have yet to receive my book foreword), it was amazing nonetheless. Learning new skills, and being surrounded by people who had perfected the craft I was only just dipping my toes in, was both thrilling and enlightening. I marveled at chefs who crafted the most elegant macarons, dainty petit fours and silky gelato (always putting my lactase pills to good use).
A month traveling entirely by myself, jumping from hilly Asti to industrial Milan up north, and I was struck by something: the euphoria of going somewhere, anywhere, alone, had never worn off. Experiencing the romance of a sunset Verona, single, was the alone time I didn’t know I needed. Ten or fifteen years down the line I could have a partner or children to think about first, but at twenty three I just had a notion and went away. Even as the guilt struck of having to save as I arrived home, I still never regret taking that trip.
It’s too early to tell if investing in more plans to get away is hopeful or painful. Working whatever job felt manageable when I knew it was building up to taking off or emigrating or re-routing my life however I wanted. Working three lockdowns later and I just felt tired.
I miss the time when it didn’t feel like the threat of disappointment wasn’t so constant. When the Zoom calls turn to fantasies of walking the Camino de Santiago as a celebration of my friends finishing their thesis, I wonder if there’s a pang of anxiety present: is there an undefined pressure to have the experience now, while we’re young? Is there only a small window of opportunity to make memories before our responsibilities pile up?
Looking after myself has become such a priority this year, but I want a few more years of not knowing quite how, but still miraculously getting by. The notion of trekking a Spanish pilgrimage and bringing home seashells lifts up my spirits more than my morning jog, or eighty thousand bowls of porridge.
St. Augustine may or may not have said that the world “is a book, and those who have not travelled read only one page.” This probably made up quote makes me ponder all the opportunities I didn’t take: should I have done an Erasmus year? Or better yet, taken a year out before college? Or gotten myself together quicker after graduating, finding work overseas? Did I feel less scared not taking risks at twenty one? Shouldn’t I have felt fearless that young? The possibilities are endless as I stare at the condensation on my bedroom window, the dampness permeating the air. My Barbie branded journal teasing me. At the ripe old age of twenty-four, anxiety about wasting time has already crept in. I’m sure forty year old me is rolling her eyes somewhere.
Not everyone shares this anxiety. Other virtual catch ups take place sporadically between myself and my older sister: she’s twenty-six, lives with her boyfriend, and is saving for a mortgage, with a small kitten on the way. Potentially she wants to be pregnant within two or so years. At the risk of sounding airy-fairy, I’ll mention that she’s a Cancer (the Homebody).
But in two, five or ten years, will that sound exciting to me too? I wonder if the thought of having a family gets my sister through quarantine, like traveling does for me and my friends. It seems easier to comprehend. I’m excited for the day I become an aunt. However, it’s hard not to imagine that I’ll go anywhere other than Ireland, the first chance I get, treating my niece or nephew to half a dozen post cards along the way.
Although enthusiastic on my behalf when I bring it up, my boyfriend also doesn’t care about travelling. “I suppose I prefer to spend money on hobbies” he tells me. “The experiences of travel last forever and the anticipation looking forward to it is exciting but having a project gives me a lot of things to look forward to and I find it more rewarding.”
Though my initial reaction was to think he was missing out, his response makes me pause: As amazing as my trip to Italy was, it worries me to think that I needed to get away to feel fulfilled. As I get older, how much will it take to feel content? The idea of being happy at home suddenly feels impressive rather than pathetic.
My pen goes down as my fingers stiffen in the two degree chill. I’ve crafted the most sensible, down to earth and realistic version of my resolutions. I vow not to look at them again until December 31st 2021. It’s unclear where I’ll be or even if I’ll want to remember what I wrote, knowing that I’ll feel disappointed if I can’t discuss In Cold Blood in French with my driving instructor.
However deep down, I know that it’s an achievement in itself to make it through another unprecedented year. My worth is not defined by completing arbitrary goals in time. Who knows? Maybe one day, years from now, I’ll drag a heavy backpack to Santiago, the sun scorching my neck, as a penance for my procrastination.
