London-based writer, columnist, and master of meme culture, Raven Smith, shares his travel aspirations for life after lockdown, as well as the rosé-tinted and sun-drenched memories of vacations past.
Like Judas at the last supper, Coronavirus lingers in the corner of our social gatherings, a dubious guest that has overstayed its welcome. We’ve huddled indoors under government advice. While I’m safer, I feel like a prisoner of Alcatraz, dreaming of escape. I long for a long evening of supplì on a quaint side street in Rome, far from the madding crowds at the Trevi Fountain. I dream of a night at the opera, dressed in a slightly-too-tight tuxedo, viewing through little binoculars. I crave a dry scone and a pot of tea to ease my feet after an afternoon meandering at a stately home. I desire a camel. I long for the Pyramids. I want out.
We are all doing it, aren’t we? Traveling in our heads—a pattern of imagination that spreads like wildfire among the confined. We ponder a future beyond the confines of our daily routines, dreaming of adventures waiting for us outside our homes. We feel like those Jurassic Park mosquitoes trapped in amber, our desire to travel hardwired into our DNA, but for now, we’re suspended. Lockdown is indeed necessary; we have resigned ourselves to Netflix and banana bread, yet our travel aspirations refuse to be silenced. They seep through the walls of lockdown like the good mold that produces penicillin.
Breaks are essential, serving as a thread that keeps our busy lives strung together. They provide a momentary retreat from daily chaos before we climb back into the rat race. We need sanctuary from the isolation enforced by lockdown, prompting an even deeper craving for escape—an antidote to the new status quo.
Vacations need not involve life-threatening adventures to be impactful. There is no need for extremes; instead, I am feeling quite content by the thought of simply traipsing around central London for a prawn cocktail and an omelette off the secret menu at Brasserie Zedel. History has seen me use a Boris Bike to visit Spitalfields for a slice of divine apricot cake from Ottolenghi.
The world will eventually return after lockdown. I yearn to feel the tilt of a boat under my deck shoes, the thrill of seasickness in the pit of my stomach. I want to dive into Cornish waters, shaking off a stodgy pasty. I can envision myself doggy-paddling through Durdle Door before enjoying a picnic with Babybels and hummus while my skin salts on the beach. The bustling Frome Farmer’s Market captivates me, showcasing handsome bakers in a provincial town. Michelin stars are appealing—like the caviar on baked potatoes in Paris—but there’s an exquisite beauty in munching on a grab bag of Quavers while heading to Alton Towers. At this point in my summer fantasies, I even long for the sweltering heat of the Central Line in August or the spill of a cup of tea.
Yet, I wouldn’t turn down a trip beyond the borders. I would endure those horrifically early flights out of Luton to bask in the desert sun, massaged by the near-oppressive African heat. I would push aside the sweaty discomfort under my arms from a linen shirt. I long to proclaim that a good vacation is all fine wine and cheap eats, although the nondescript table rosé holds a special place in my heart, especially if accompanied by a cheese course.
I will squeeze lemons, hoping to achieve strawberry blond hair, consuming enough watermelon to risk my health. I know I should drink responsibly but often slip into excess, transforming into the adult terrible of my family for a few discordant night hours, sheepishly waking with a sore head past noon. Light apologies come easy. You can get away with almost anything while on holiday as long as you stay hydrated. Holidays, like a bottle of Ouzo, tend to pass too quickly—mere waves upon the sand of modern life. Before I know it, I am at Gatwick, clutching an airport Toblerone under my arm like a French baguette.
The moment we are liberated, catch me outside embracing a myriad of drinks (the contents don’t matter as long as I haven’t poured myself). I’ll raise a glass to our newfound freedom, to our vacation dreams made real. Time will crawl, the evening will unfold leisurely. After a glass of water before bed, I will lay back and reminisce about the most picturesque parts of England.
In the meantime, let’s continue to dream, sifting through memories like a prospector during a gold rush. Dig deep and uncover pearls of joy hidden between conference calls and working lunches. Holiday memories serve as a time capsule, and during stressful times, it’s crucial to revisit those precious moments, akin to savoring boiled sweets on a long journey. Your mind acts as a bank vault filled with balmy beaches and spontaneous trips. It is a treasure trove to explore, yielding dividends of cultural riches. Explore your own time capsule as hours drift by. While you can’t always get what you want, you may just manifest what you need.
