When Visiting the Past, Beware of What You May Find.

As 2018 draws to its inevitable close I spend hours re-reading my notes from the previous twelve months and comparing them to the year before. This was a year when I seemed to be constantly on the move, taking impromptu and unplanned trips to places that weren’t even on the radar twelve months before. As always, when travelling, I spend countless days scribbling; frantically filling pages of my journals desperate to capture the memories of any given day.

I’m glad I have this habit. People watch me on train stations and in airports, some will ask why I do it. A witty reply is always required at moments like these and it is to Oscar Wilde I turn:

 “ Oh, I never travel without my diaries as I feel one should always have something sensational to read on the train”

Even with my trusty journal, filled as it is with hastily scribbled notes, I realize, like all intrepid travellers that I have perhaps seen more than I remember and consequently remember more than I have seen!

I have however gleaned that a good traveller really has no fixed plans when setting out, as he or she is not really intent on arriving at any fixed destination. Often the traveller begins a journey heading for Rome and instead, ends up in Istanbul, or, after diligently planning for a trip to Japan somehow finds themselves taking a train across Java. I personally draw comfort from this anomaly as often, it is the journey rather than the destination that becomes the source of wonder.

This year some my travels took me back to old, and what I thought familiar places which once one held fond memories only to find that in most cases, it was like drinking from a cup of disappointment.

Once you leave a place perhaps its best not to look back, as time there does not linger and mighty changes occur in one’s absence. Often, it is not only the physical landscape that has morphed into something different but also the people, who one once used to know have, like their surrounds, morphed into complete strangers.

This year, however, my curiosity got the better of me when I contacted an old university friend, to whom I had not spoken to in over twenty years. He, like me, had made his living in the corporate world and, by all accounts had done rather well for himself. My unsolicited and altogether surprising (for him) phone call seemed to intrigue him and he felt it appropriate to invite me to one of those large ‘business’ lunches where the 'titans of industry' and associated hangers-on gather to regale any unfortunate being within their orbit as to their latest deal or current conquest.

In hindsight, I should have politely declined his kind offer but, as I mentioned, I was curious.

The venue was a five - star hotel hosting a ‘corporate’ lunch, where, if the poster at the door could be believed, the profits generated by those who had their snouts in the trough were to be distributed to some charity or other. The lobby was crowded with a phalanx of predominantly men, crowding the bar like a boisterous herd of buffalo bellowing at the tops of their voices at the barman as well as at each other.

Judging by the attire and the girth of the assembled throng it was patently obvious that I was in the midst of copious abundance rubbing shoulders with those who had more than a passing acquaintance with that most elusive of concepts, disposable income.

Within seconds I felt uncomfortable and contemplated sneaking out of a side door but was prevented from doing so when spotted by my host. As he headed towards me I had to do a double take (I am sure he felt the same when he saw me) for this was a man whose girth had swelled to what can only be termed, impressive proportions that his bespoke suit was struggling to contain.

Over-enthusiastic handshakes were extended along with forced bonhomie as he introduced me to his comrades, some of whom happened to be ex-clients and competitors of mine.

For the next twenty minutes or so I was regaled with tales of their success and given unwanted recipes for my future financial well - being and my indeed my happiness. It was like having a leaf blower aimed directly at one’s face where the hot air is sprinkled with a fair degree of spittle as they berated me for throwing in the ‘corporate’ towel and retreating to a tropical island to pursue a writing career.

It was, quite frankly, an odious and altogether unpleasant experience as I came to the conclusion that the winds of change which had swept through their lives appeared to me to be bitterly cold

The next I day I did manage to catch up with an old client with whom my agency had enjoyed a long and harmonious relationship. We met at a small suburban trattoria, a stone's throw from his nondescript office where over a modest lunch he filled me in on his exploits of the previous two decades.

 He had developed a rather hangdog expression which reminded me of an ageing bloodhound emphasized by the flabby folds of skin of his neck that tumbled over the frayed collar of his ill-fitting shirt.

Married, with four young children, here was a man browbeaten by his profession after he had stumbled on the executive escalator marked up and, from then on in he remained frozen is the same spot having never regained his stride, preferring perhaps to slide into a life of debt-laden mediocrity. He was a man for whom I always had the greatest admiration, as he was wise beyond his years, kind, generous and always seemed to have his life under control aiming for those ‘goals’ that every businessman or woman strives to achieve.

Sitting across from me now, he reminded me of someone that partakes in a glass of formaldehyde just before bedtime as he looked for all the world like a debt man walking.

Revisiting cities, which thought I knew by heart made me realize that when one has made the decision to leave a place permanently, one really should, at all costs, avoid the temptation to return to see how the place and its peoples are faring as more often than not it will only result in disappointment.

Over the years I have left far too many pieces of my heart scattered here and there until these days there is not much left to leave.

However, I am comforted by the fact that I am still homesick for places I have yet to visit.

To my all my fellow bees. May I take this opportunity to wish you all a splendid festive season and may 2019 be one to remember.

Paul v Walters is the author of several best selling novels and when not cocooned in sloth and procrastination in his house in Bali he occasionally rises to scribble for several international travel and vox pop magazines.