The Anticlimax
“Anticlimax is, of course, the warp and way of things. Real life seldom structures a decent denouement.” —Dan Simmons
After arriving in Santiago de Compostela two days early, I had a strong urge to stay there but could change my reservations. Everything was booked solid due to a series of outdoor summer concerts. Returning to the casa, however beautiful and welcoming, was anticlimactic. Of course, there was a writer’s hat to switch into, and I would, but I fell into a slump, threw myself a pity party, and invited melancholy and introspection. I didn’t want to be alone after all.
The festivities included a bit too much wine and golden “licor de hierbas” - a bit like the Damiana of Mexico. It led to leaving a voice memo to myself on my phone. I knew I’d replay it for friends back home, sure we’d share a laugh over it, despite there being a bit too much information. I thought of posting part of it here but decided I’d spare you that! —You’re welcome. I was also craving cigarettes as I’d stopped wearing patches. Yes, I still had the solitary cigarette from home in its pack. It had sometimes felt like a boulder that I was determined to get as far as Finisterre to throw in the bonfire! Eventually, I shook off the mood and gave myself a good talking-to. Sometimes they worked. This trip, I’d have to do so repeatedly.
In the morning, I’d write in my travel journal and work on Wayward. In the afternoons, I’d go on leisurely walks and take a lot of photos because I rely on them as much as my notes more than my memory when it comes to detail. My host was gracious to provide me with a hand-drawn local map that routed me onto logging roads planted with massive sections of tall eucalyptus trees. It was magnificent! After a time though, I began to feel so small in contrast to the trees, out of place on the paths, and a bit turned around. There were no Camino waymarks or familiar scallop shells and yellow markers. I lost track of intersections, began to tire, and wondered if I’d gone too far. It would have been a wonderful walk shared with someone, but being a reader of psychological thrillers, I was soon on the lookout for that “white van” that might disappear me.
I often get homesick on my solo trips at about the two-week mark. I miss the familiar, my children, loved ones, friends, and pets. The extended time at the Casa rather than on the Camino made me restless. I have a habit, on the spin of a dime, to pay a penalty and fly home early. My family has even placed bets on it. A sign that I’m getting ready to bolt is when I start paying attention to the local pets and taking photos of them, like the ones above. I’d left a neurotic Papillon, three old cats, and my daughter’s turtle at home and wondered how they were all doing without me. My trip wasn’t ending in Santiago de Compostella though. I had a few excursions booked out of Santiago de Compostella along with a five-day writing retreat on the waterfront in Finisterre. I was beginning to wonder if I’d make it.
Do you get homesick when you travel? If so, how do you handle it?
Have you allowed it to sabotage your holiday?
Have you pushed yourself beyond your expectations on a trip - been more adventurous, or taken risks -
done something wild if not regrettable?
Mining the best and the worst of your travel experiences can help you add depth to your memoir or ramp up the conflict in your fiction.
Ultreia! Forward, together.
