Louise O'Neill: 'I haven’t been on a flight since February 2020 and I am yearning for it'
In 2019, as if making up for lost time, I took not one, not two, but three holidays.
I used to travel a lot when I was younger. I spent the summer after my Leaving Cert in Spain, I did my J1 in the Hamptons, I took a road trip down the Big Sur in a rented convertible with my sister.
I volunteered at a Kolkata orphanage, took a train to Darjeeling, spent a weekend in Varanasi, sailed down the back waters of Kerala, imitated the famous Princess Diana photo in front of the Taj Mahal. I hiked to the Annapurna base camp in Nepal, I waited out a hurricane in Cuba, I crashed in a beach hut in Tulum, I got sunburnt in a Colombian jungle, I lost my passport in Machu Picchu, I lived off dulche de leche in Buenos Aires.
I would work part-time jobs during the college year, then spend all of that money on these two-three month long trips in the summer. I would come home broke, but that would be fine because I was a student, I didn’t have any responsibilities, someone would take care of me. That someone was invariably my parents and I didn’t even appreciate how privileged I was, to always be granted a warm bed and a plate of food on the table upon my return.
When I moved back to Ireland in 2011, travel fell on my list of priorities. There wasn’t the money for it – I was given a 15k advance for my first two books, working out at roughly 7.5k per year – and suddenly, it seemed like taking three grand and eking it out for a summer abroad didn’t seem fun anymore, it struck me as irresponsible.
I was in my late twenties and friends were getting engaged, sharing links to houses on Daft they were contemplating buying. Money became something that should be saved for The Future, even if I didn’t know what that future was even supposed to look like, and travel, in turn, became something I did for work. I flew so often the year after Asking For It was published that once I arrived to Dublin Airport and when the woman at the Aer Lingus desk asked where I was going, I answered wearily, “I don’t know.”
It’s not surprising, looking back, that I had a massive relapse – I was completely burnout. Once I prioritised my health and recovery, I was determined that I would a) take a proper break from work at least once a year and b) reclaim my love of travelling. In 2019, as if making up for lost time, I took not one, not two, but three holidays. I hopped over to Brighton, visited my uncle and his partner in Thailand, and I whisked my boyfriend off to New Orleans for his thirtieth birthday. (Side note – I watched a video of Naomi Campbell’s ‘airport routine’ in July of that year and was inspired to buy a facemask for my own flight to Southeast Asia. But in the end, I was too embarrassed to wear it! Little did I know…)
But despite my efforts to reclaim my love of travelling, I still found myself grumbling this time last year. It was the beginning of February 2020, I had to take eight flights in ten days, and I was dreading it. The weather was inclement, the pilots kept saying things like ‘strap in, this will be a bit bumpy’, and I had just read Dear Edward, a book about a horrific plane crash with only one survivor. As the plane lurched to the left and I clutched at the arm rest, I muttered under my breath, ‘I’m never doing this again’. (I wish the Universe would take me a little more literally when I say – ‘I’d like to win the EuroMillions’ or ‘I would like to sell as many books as Stephen King’.)
I haven’t been on a flight since and I am yearning for it. All of it: the Pret sandwich and overpriced bottle of water, the indignity of taking off my shoes at security and realising I have holes in my tights, the annoying man who hogs the arm rest, the child banging the back of my seat while their mother resolutely ignores them. I want to go to Paris by myself and wander around the Louvre for hours. I want to go to Santorini with my boyfriend and pretend we’re in Mamma Mia.
I want to go to Dishoom in London and order the egg naan roll and the house chai. I want to go to New York for a weekend and see at least three Broadway plays. I want to see the Northern Lights, the cherry blossoms in Japan. And even if I can’t get on a plane until I’m vaccinated (INJECT ME IN BOTH ARMS, PLEASE), I want to see the Giant’s Causeway for the first time and I want to stay in the Inis Meáin Suites, I want to go look for Fungi in Dingle harbour. Mostly, I just want to leave my house and my daily walks in my five-kilometre radius. I want to stretch out my arms and touch either side of the world again. When, oh when, will this all be over?
The second season of Dickinson on Apple TV is absurd, clever, and fresh. If you know any young person who is reading Emily Dickinson’s poetry, point them this way.
Kim’s Convenience. I’m always looking for something to fill the Schitt’s Creek/Ted Lasso hole in my heart. This heart-warming Netflix show about a Korean-Canadian family is a good place to start.
