Through the pandemic months, with intermittent lockdowns in place and flights and trains grounded, I yearned to travel. Wonderful destinations across the world beckoned, made even more alluring by the magnificent videos and photos that flooded my Instagram and Facebook feeds even as travel bloggers ran amuck with tales of road trips to exotic locations.
Rarely have the charms of Machu Picchu or the gentle breezes of the Bahamas been such an object of lust. Closer home the Rann of Kutch never looked more appealing, nor Chilika lake more inviting.
Through those months, ambitious itineraries were drawn up, detailed budgets made and bank accounts scrutinized multiple times a day. Potential travel companions were carefully listed after screening for personality disorders and eating preferences. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck with a sour puss perennially complaining about the weather or the food. Nor did I want to holiday with shopaholics who would spend most of their time alternating between staring into shop windows and trying on clothes two sizes too small.
So there I was, with my checklists all ready and the spirits soaring at the thought of the great road, air or sea trip that loomed on the horizon. All it needed was the all-clear from the cursed virus.
D day arrived, even if it came tragically late. Curbs on travel were lifted, masks made optional and most of the world opened for business or rather for leisure.
Then, as often happens with the best laid plans of mice and men, reality hit hard.
Straightway, the carefully drawn up budgets had to be banished. Revenge travel, combined with vengeful pricing, meant that airfares which had looked so reasonable all those months, suddenly appeared to be aping inflation numbers in Pakistan. Much to our chagrin, we found one couldn't fly to Bangkok and back for less than Rs 12,000. Hell, you couldn't even go from Delhi to Mumbai for that price. Starved of revenues for nearly two years and short on planes, the airlines had jacked up prices to levels which would test all but the big bulge millionaires.
As if that wasn't bad enough, the hotel rates required a second reading. Wait, was that rate per night or for the whole week? Tempting fate, we turned to the B&Bs, only to realize that one might be able to afford the breakfast, but not quite the bed.
Even after one had steeled oneself to ruin the retirement savings and blow it all up on that one defining holiday (after all, hadn't we all defied death and didn't that occasion one mighty celebration?), there was still that precious visa to get. For many parts of the world including the US and Europe, that meant you were more likely to grow old, or in my case older, waiting for one.
Best then to settle for a holiday to the hills or to the nearest seaside.
But even bigger perils lay in store. Employers (or paymasters) decided that now was the time to clamp down on sanctioning holidays. Their logic: isn't that what you had been doing for the last two years. Any thoughts of defiance were quickly washed away in the sea of pink slips.
Even after all those doubts had been lulled and you willed yourself to go, there was that one remaining doubt that refused to go away. Did you really want to go on that holiday to Alentejo in Portugal or to Caye Caulker in Belize? Sure, they had been named among the top destinations for 2023, but was it worth breaking the bank for some laidback vibes and cool beach bars? Goa would do just fine, wouldn’t it?
After all the fatigue and the burnout from the pandemic, the last thing one wants is the stress of planning for another event. Best to curl up with the latest David Baldacci thriller The 6:20 Man.