Holidays are a concept I loathe, and I have no desire to ever experience them again. I can’t fathom why fellow Britons hold them in such high regard. The average Brit seems eager to spend a fortune on a stressful airport experience, cram into a cramped metal tube hurtling through the sky for hours, only to arrive at a mediocre hotel with questionable decor. After that, many will bake on deckchairs, turning lobster-red and increasing their skin cancer risk. To me, this all sounds like a horrifying scenario. It’s why, at 44, I’m unlikely to take another overseas vacation (unless an irresistible work offer arises).
Perhaps my aversion stems from my French exchange trip in school. I was 13, staying with a family that didn’t speak English. My period started, and I couldn’t communicate it, resulting in a week of uncomfortable makeshift solutions. I detested every minute of that trip, and my distaste for holidays has only intensified in the 30 years since. Even when I was first offered a dream job writing travel pieces for the Sunday Times, I initially declined! In retrospect, travel journalism is hardly ideal for an anxious person like me, someone who even avoids elevators. It’s an even worse career choice when you consider my fear of flying. To this day, I don’t understand the appeal of subjecting yourself to the torture of air travel. Sure, commercial planes rarely crash, but that fact hasn’t sunk in for me yet.
The last time I boarded a plane was for my wedding in America. I’ll spare you the details, but essentially, at almost 37, I decided a quick Vegas wedding was my best chance at marriage. However, from the moment I stepped onto the plane, I regretted my elopement decision. Not only was I leaving my beloved five-year-old daughter behind, I was convinced the aircraft would plummet to my death. Despite making it there and back safely, I haven’t flown in the seven years since.
Even if you ignore the sheer insanity of hurtling through the air, there’s nothing appealing about air travel. Think about it: before even boarding, you worry about reaching the airport on time and fretting over luggage weight limits. Then there’s the soul-crushing boredom of the Duty Free zone, followed by the potential for flight delays or cancellations. And if you finally reach your destination hours later, you’re greeted by the dubious pleasure of getting fleeced by a taxi driver.
Last year, my then-boyfriend surprised me with a trip to Paris via Eurostar for my birthday, a perfect gift for a woman who despises holidays. He used vouchers and points to partially fund the trip, resulting in a miserable hotel room with a broken air conditioner in the midst of summer. He opened the windows onto the main road for air circulation, making sleep impossible due to the traffic noise. Two days after our return, I broke up with him (not solely for that reason, but it didn’t help his case).
I also find it baffling how people anticipate being in a strange place without their home comforts. As a vegan, I’d struggle to find an oat milk latte or a vegan meal on a European menu. Sure, I could manage spaghetti with olive oil and tomato sauce, but only if my poor foreign language skills didn’t lead me astray and I didn’t accidentally end up with a rare steak. And yes, the weather abroad might be better than in Britain, but most holidays occur during the summer, when the weather here is occasionally pleasant. This year alone, temperatures in Greece, Cyprus, and Turkey have soared into the high 30s and even 40s, dangerously hot. Most Brits complain when it’s 26 degrees here, so I can’t fathom how they handle 20 degrees hotter temperatures abroad.
Yet, when I tell people about my hatred for holidays, they’re almost always bewildered. I understand that for the average Brit, it’s a chance to escape their stressful work life. But I’m fortunate enough to love my job as a writer – it never feels like work to me. If I need to de-stress, I get a massage. I don’t leave the country. Ironically, my family hails from Iran, India, Africa, and America, so I hold two passports – British and American – but I might as well have none for how little I use them. I have no desire to return to the States. Especially with the orange monster plotting a return to the presidency, gun violence, political unrest, extortionate healthcare, and women’s reproductive rights being restricted.
The only place I’ve considered visiting is Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania – my mother’s birthplace – to explore my heritage. However, with the Foreign Office warning against travel to parts of East Africa unless absolutely essential due to the threat of terrorist attacks by Islamic State and Al-Shabaab, it’s not likely to happen anytime soon.
So, I’ll be staying in the UK, in my beautiful East London home, shared with two wonderful lodgers and a monitored alarm system. If I need an escape, I’ll head to the West End for shopping, art, and culture – after all, I live in the best city in the world. Maybe, just maybe, I lack a sense of adventure. But this summer, the inability to safely access the things you need and want sounds like pure hell, not an exciting experience. Holidays are an absolute nightmare. I’m looking forward to staying home.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. Share your views in the comments below.
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