A right old carry-on

It's hard to know exactly what went wrong - but the last week of the holiday was a bust.  I don't think my companions would mind me saying that - though they undoubtedly have their own words to describe it.  For me, it was challenging, disappointing, uncomfortable and occasionally fun.  

I spent the flight home asking myself why is it so difficult to have a successful holiday with people you really like, and sometimes even love?  

Psychologists rank going on holiday as being the fourth most potent relationship stressor:  after death, moving house and childbirth.  Why is that?  Does the sun bring out the worst in us?  Are we untruthful about our expectations? Or do we not pay attention to the fine print - misreading a trek through the Andes for a beach vacation in Antigua?   

Or, if a vacation’s success depend on whether we are either energised or enervated by the challenges presented us, is it just a character thing?  

I think it is, in part.  It's about emotional flexibility.  About managing your own expectations and about being able to embrace ambivalence.  And seeing the travel and the inevitable delays or problems as part of the trip - not as life-threatening.

I also believe it's about timing. It's about knowing when to go and when to stay. About identifying how much we can actually deal with at that moment.  It's about acknowledging that this holiday, for whatever reason, might not be the right option for us, right now.  And that sometimes ‘she travels lightest who stays at home'*.

But, ultimately, I think it's a baggage thing.  We all drag invisible carry-on with us. We take with us our fears of being in uncontrolled environments, our feelings of inadequacy, our dislike of surprise or change. We pack the anxiety of not being understood, of becoming vulnerable, of being lost.  We bring along our life hopes and expectations, then try and graft them onto our new environment.  

This luggage may not weigh anything at check-in.  But it can cost us dearly on arrival.  Because it sits, unpacked and mouldering in our rooms.  And our companions have to try and manoeuvre around something no-one (including ourselves) knows is there.  An impossibility that can result in an inevitable tripping up and falling out.  Fortunately we didn't get to that place. And I am not too sure how we avoided it - maybe the strength of our friendships or empathy with each other's situation over-rode our frustrations.  But we could have.

(*apologies to Thoreau. And Kipling, after.)