Just past the stroke of midnight finds me in Berlin, frantically browsing through Booking.com in search of an affordable hotel. If all had gone according to plan, I should have arrived in Dublin an hour ago. I am compelled to lay the blame on the Berlin Airport. Scheduling two flights headed for Dublin to depart essentially simultaneously from diametrically opposing areas of an enormous facility should be explicitly announced on the departure information display. Unfortunately, this was not the case. After a 25-minute stroll, I realised I was at the wrong terminal, culminating in an unexpectedly costly extra night in Berlin.
While processing through border control, I conveyed my predicament to the officer on deck. I suggested to her that occurrences like mine must not be an anomaly. “They’re not,” responded she, thereby indicating that the error was instead squarely on my shoulders rather than an airport one. I have to admit, I am a subpar voyager.
I am a frequent traveller, mostly for professional reasons. As a writer, my earnings come through my craft. The advances and royalties received from my books are inadequate to cover my expenses. Most authors find themselves in a similar spot. We have side gigs to supplement our income – teaching, ghost writing, or leaning on the stable earnings of our supportive partners. Fortuitously, my works are published in multiple languages, and currently, Irish literature is enjoying a surge in popularity. I also have a curious affinity for low-cost hotels that justifies travel as my sideline.
Authors willing to undertake tours can earn a pretty sum through speaking events both domestically and internationally. In Scandinavian nations, where artists are disproportionately, but justifiably, remunerated, I have the potential to earn a month’s salary merely in a week. The French audiences are equally rewarding with their numbers and enthusiasm. Enticingly, French literary festivals frequently include an on-site cook. My desire to earn propels me to spend approximately half of the year away from home, causing periods of isolation. It’s also a challenge to find the mental and physical energy to create while constantly moving, delivering eloquent lectures on book writing. However, I am acutely cognisant of the fact that without these ventures, I’d be compelled to settle for a much less fascinating secondary source of employment.
I am passionately fond of being on the move, and writing has allowed me to visit numerous nations in the previous ten years. I seldom feel like a mere passerby; typically I baste in the company of cultured locals: authors, painters, scholars. More often than not, we veer off the conventional tourist paths into some spectacular, locals’ favourite nooks for meals or drinks. In truth though, meandering the globe isn’t for every scribe. It’s possibly due the fact that for each picturesque snapshot-worthy scene, half a dozen days would be spent with views limited to event venues or hotel entrances. Although travelling is for work, not for leisure, I still ardently seize every exploration opportunity that presents itself. My existence though seems less grandiose than it may appear.
I consider myself a fairly capable journeyer; a blend of Judith Chalmers and Phileas Fogg. I seldom lose my way. I’ve graduated from my grave Protestant stomach and am now comfortable with new and foreign food. With experience, I’ve evolved my personalised travelling tricks. Enquire about how I iron shirts using a hair straightener, dry socks in trouser presses, or hide books all over me to dodge hand luggage restrictions. Nevertheless, my travels aren’t without a series of unfortunate incidents. My sibling once suggested I had ample material for a book on my ill-fated journeys. To be fair, I believe the issues are proportionate. If I am continuously roving, it’s inevitable I would sporadically wind up on the wrong side of the globe.
Travel calamities tend to be of two natures. Some: purely self-imposed, resulting from fatigue, attention lapses, or perhaps a particularly indulgent and long evening out. For instance, there was a time I was at Bristol airport a month early for my flight home, or when I tried to attend a wedding in Oregon on a passport that had expired five years ago, or even when I travelled by train from Alsace, France to a Freiburg, only to be met with the reality that Germany has two cities by that name and I was, frustratingly, in the wrong one. And no surprises, all these blunders were draining on both my pride and pocket, and entirely of my own doing.
Circumstances beyond our control often cause the second type of travel misfortunes. It’s somewhat soothing to hold factors such as divine intervention, unpredictable climate, erupting Icelandic volcanoes, or the infamous Ryanair responsible for not being at your desired destination. My unfortunate experiences comprise of things such as a bus collision, a fierce snowstorm in the Midwest, a non-delineated detour on M1 that resulted in me navigating from London to the Lake District via the pedestrian zone in Manchester, and the unintelligible onboard announcements by SNCF. Despite studying French on Duolingo for two years, I still cannot comprehend it fluently. It’s indeed shocking to suddenly find yourself roughly 350km off the scheduled location at 11 in the evening on a Sunday. I have seen enough of Le Mans now to decide that another visit is unlikely.
Travel catastrophes indeed offer a wealth of thought-provoking material for authors. Finding oneself temporarily marooned in an airport or a railway station allows the peculiarities of the world to unfold right before you.
When your luggage is perpetually ready in the entranceway, it gives the illusion of being on a continuous holiday at home. The feeling of spending quality time with loved ones, doing your laundry in your washing machine and stuffing in as many fresh greens as possible is priceless. Experiencing travel delays inevitably results in a loss of valuable time. However, since they seem unavoidable, I have been attempting to perceive these setbacks in a somewhat favourable manner. After all, getting slightly off course or being momentarily delayed isn’t the direst situation one can find themselves in.
Being primarily on your travels, you often become a witness of human kindness. Countless times, strangers have stepped forward to offer their help in times of my travel distress. There’s this man from Galway who relinquished his comfort to extract a traffic cone stuck beneath my car in a puddle, and a bus driver in Virginia who took a detour of several blocks to get me safely to my hotel because I was feeling lost. Even the elderly women I met in a Portuguese cab offered to pray for me when I couldn’t locate the email confirmation for my hotel booking. Perhaps a vivid example of “single-serving friends” as famously portrayed in Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club sums this up. These are people who cross our paths once in a lifetime whilst we journey, offering much-needed assistance at a time of adversity. The silver lining in all of these unfortunate incidents is a subtle reminder of the radiant goodness in people. Under normal situations, I find myself frequently absorbed in self-reliance. But a brush with the vulnerability often invoked by a travel mishap is sometimes what it takes to remind us of the place of others in our lives.
Then comes the insight that’s often hard to acknowledge – the process of getting there can have as much significance as the destination itself. As much as it is a bitter pill to swallow when you’re stranded on a mundane sidetrack or condemned to spending a chilly night on the cold floor of a waiting room, I’ve experienced the magic these situations can bring first-hand. My unexpected stay in Le Mans was bleak and damp, but during my time there, I got to sample what could potentially be the Archetypal pain au chocolat. Also, I wouldn’t necessarily opt for an eight-hour stopover in Taiwan. Yet, experiencing an earthquake while waiting out a flight delay was an encounter I may never have again, given that my home is in a relatively seismic-safe part of the world.
Douglas Adams, author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, encapsulates this feeling splendidly: “Although I might not have reached where I aimed to be, I believe I’ve landed where I need to be.” There are numerous historical examples that echo this. For instance, when Christopher Columbus was attempting to discover a speedier route to Asia, he inadvertently discovered America. I once had a comparable experience, misinterpreting my father’s AA map from Armagh to Belfast, under the impression that I was starting from Omagh. Occasionally, a diversion, a postponement, or a misinterpreted map may lead you on an unforeseen journey. Alternatively, it might become the tipping point for an already exhausted wayfarer. Your perspective, coupled with the length of your journey, plays a pivotal role.
Moreover, travel mishaps can be a treasure trove of material for writers. Finding oneself temporarily stranded at an airport or train station can offer a plethora of interesting subjects. The astute writer merely needs to closely observe and note down every detail. Often, writers are quizzed about where they derive their ideas. I can honestly say that nearly half of my stories originated from peculiar meetings during my travels. For instance, the professional horse inseminator I encountered when I was wandering aimlessly around Sydney airport, or the man on the Enterprise train who insisted on travelling with an axe, causing a thirty-minute delay, or the time I left a box of books unattended at the Minneapolis Greyhound station to use the restrooms and returned to find the police initiating bomb threat procedures. Most noteworthy was my return from what had been touted as a Portuguese book festival, but turned out to be a water park, where I delivered the keynote speech for a commemorative service for forest fire victims. I speak only the truth in this account.
My brother is convinced that my calamities could form the basis of a compelling book. Perhaps I’ll get around to crafting this narrative someday. At present, it’s ten past one, and before I can sleep, like the traveller in Robert Frost’s poem, I still have ‘miles to go.’ I would gladly trade all my humorous tales from the road for a timely flight, a meal cooked at home, and an early night in my own cosy bed.