Tuesday, 29 November 2016

I bloody hate travelling.

There was a time when being at an airport meant you were on an adventure. You were going somewhere cool - or hot - for a break or to ride the latest super high-powered motorcycle or, more recently to immerse yourself in a bath of new and exciting outdoor gear.

Okay, so it's not all bad news. This is 'work' in the Austrian Tirol.

I liked airplane food for the same reasons. The neat, miniaturised portions set out on meticulously designed plates brought with them a little frisson of excitement. A sense of movement and change and adventure.

Stuff that. Somewhere over the past few years travelling has become a chore. It is almost always a work thing. A chance to spend time with people you haven't chosen to be with. And because work things are always compressed into the smallest possible space, they are exhausting...

Fly - usually first thing in the morning - arrive, snack, work, eat/drink, sleep, wake, work. Fly, usually first thing in the morning. Battle wth transfers. Arrive home 14 hours later. Estonia to Manchester, 14 hours really? Yes really.

And you limp home knackered and dehydrated. Probably with a free cold virus. And you've had no chance to run or bike or do anything except work, drink, talk about work, eat, sleep, be hungover and exhausted.

What's to like?

And yes, occasionally you get an amazing trip. Hut-to-hutting in the Austrian Tyrol for example. But even then you come home trashed and with a big hole where the last few days' worth of work would have been.

And sometimes of course, it's still a holiday. And that's different. But in an odd full circle way, airports now mean being processed like an inanimate object and they reek of work trips. Work has ruined travel.