FOR GRAHAM

This series of blogs will provide an account of our recent travels. They were pretty good. But no episode is without blemish. The worst are probably where illness or injury are involved, but travel is not staying home. It is not knowing where you can get a particular set of groceries or where the fruit is likely to be at its best. A bad bed, an airless room, a shocking meal … Each time it might be an adventure, or a failure, or a disappointment, or a disaster. That’s the gamble.

So I collected these bits and pieces out of my journal as an offset to all the other wonderful things I will otherwise describe and illustrate. And I did take some photos of moments that seemed to say travel.

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Do travellers lose their humanity I wonder?

As we went through customs [in Zurich] I was moved to think how infantilised travel makes you. Unmoored. A good word. Tired, disoriented, that twilight consciousness business, ripe for any sort of picking, and in no need of any further duties. Somehow fellow travellers become aliens too. And all those well-rested officials who’ll be off to their own bed. Do they care? I don’t think so.

There is that constant wrestle with uncertainty. The Uncertain Aged: that’s not a new category at all.

Waiting. So much waiting. And those damn zig-zag lines.

[Montreal airport: THE worst.]

Night sweats as you wake too early and try to get back to sleep meanwhile managing swimming visions, snatches of music, memories, projections.

You need to deal with things that are in the moment and get control of that. Except that it is always necessary to be looking at least a bit ahead. You might get into bad trouble if you don’t. But everything is so immediate because your wits must be about you. It is another sort of exercise, and it’s why you so often just have to let go and laugh your way through.

Travellers are different somehow. Wearing the uniform — their travel cazh and all the accoutrements. And the horseshoe ballon round the neck. And all those people who don’t realise they’re wearing a pack. And those enormous carry on bags, and people who rush down the aisle to get off first and save about 15 seconds. And the ones who stand immobile in door ways. And the ones who walk along staring at their phones and expect you to get out of the way. Hate that.

That unreserved seat, that one you’re looking for. Where is it? Who’s watching your mission and what for, entertainment? You can be reduced to just food and sleep, if you can get both or either that is.

[In Innsbruck] it was Corpus Christi Day and everything was shut! Everything. Corpus Christi Day! What the hell is that?! (It turned out that wasn’t true and we had an excellent meal at a very friendly Italian restaurant.)

In a bank of four seats we have seats 2 and 3 for a 13 hour flight, and the flight is full. How can that be possible? The Worst Seats Ever, for which we’ve paid a fortune!

The bakery didn’t open till 9.30. Sunday. What the hell!

Ah filling in a form in an unknown foreign language which requires your credit card details to enable you to get get on or off a means of transport when you’re in a queue with dozens of people behind you. NOT PLEASANT. [The ferry from Venice to the airport. Worked out okay. Hmm … it is possible that I didn’t pay. Too late now.]

I wonder if I have misjudged this itinerary, or perhaps have become more certain I have. Too much packed in … hard work this travel business.

The test really is was it possible? And the answer must be yes, without qualification. Because it has happened. We’re doing it. And better than surviving. So much that is a thrill-a-minute, and we can always conk out. There is a new level of acceptability for conking out. Yeah. Let’s conk out.

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But then …