I love travelling…but not at Christmas

As much as I love to travel, I’m not good at handling Christmas away from friends and family. Twice before, we’ve celebrated the season a long way from home and each time I turned into a sobbing mess by turkey time.

This year, I’m again approaching Christmas away with trepidation and I expect many others are as well, given Covid’s requirements for separation. It’s a journey into the unknown, yet perhaps we can find hope, using some helpful strategies, as we travel this road together.

Fiji in 1999 was our first Christmas away from home. We’d planned this first major international trip with our three children for years, with the goal of being among the first in the world to ring in the new millennium. New Year’s Eve was spectacular – spent on a tiny coral atoll, with fireworks from other islands all around us, dancing literally until dawn. Magical. But Christmas Day was not.

We had fun opening the gifts stuffed into our regular socks. The kids – Tom, 10; Liz, 7; Rachel, 4 – were heartwarmingly awe-struck that Santa had found us in the South Pacific. But then they had a spat and I flipped out, begging them to stop fighting on Christmas Day. I stormed out and went for a walk. As I calmed down, I realized they were acting normally; I was the one who’d completely over-reacted. I sat under a palm tree by the pool, contemplating my feelings, and realized I was intensely homesick. I missed my big, rowdy, laughing extended family, with my brother and Dad making their bad puns.

Three years later, we were in New Zealand on our round-the-world travels from August 2002 to May 2003. Our dear friends Kathleen and Arthur, and their two boys, Galen and Garnet, were meeting us to spend Christmas and New Year’s. The plan thrilled me, thinking it would cure any repeat of my Fiji Christmas away. We met them in Wellington and, as I saw them coming towards us on the sidewalk, a curious lump formed in my throat.

We took the ferry to the South Island where we’d rented a cottage – called a “bach” – near Picton. Glow-worms, like tiny stars, lit the pathway at night and we decorated a potted pine tree with red bows as a stand-in Christmas tree. On Christmas Eve afternoon, everyone else went in to town for some last-minute shopping, while I stayed behind to make pumpkin pies. But I made the mistake of listening to Christmas carols while I rolled out the pastry. I fear the crust was too salty, since my tears kept dripping down. I missed singing with my church choir and quartet.

Christmas Day was even worse. My parents called from Canada. While I talked with my Mom, my chest grew heavy and my throat clogged up. When my Dad came on the phone, I started sobbing and had to hand the phone to Bill.

Why does this happen to me? I’m not usually overly sentimental and dislike self-pity. I have happily spent other holidays, birthdays and festivities on the road but not, it seems, Christmas.       

We’re in Osoyoos, British Columbia, now for our third Christmas away. This year, of course, is a double-whammy with Covid. We had hoped to celebrate Christmas with our son Tom and his fiancé, Tasha, in Kelowna (two hours north of here) and with our daughter Rachel, who is living in Canmore, Alberta. (Liz is in Toronto.) However the latest B.C. Covid restrictions have ended that possibility. We’ll be completely alone, just the two of us, for the first time ever.

Strangely, I take some comfort in the knowledge that everyone is in the same boat as us. No matter where any of us is, Christmas will be different, strange, downright weird this year. I’ve read that, for many people, Covid is forcing us to go through a form of grief, for our old lives. It’s certainly not like losing a loved one but still, we should acknowledge our sadness. And also acknowledge that so many people have it worse than we do.

It’s not all the Christmas trappings we’re grieving. We’ll still have Christmas trees, wreaths, special foods, turkey dinner, and gifts, although delivered by Amazon and Canada Post rather than in person.

No, it’s the people and happy chaos that I’ll miss. Zoom will help, but it’s not the same as opening the door to greet your nieces and nephews as they struggle in from the cold, arms overloaded with gifts or pumpkin pies, with their mothers warning them not to set the pies on a chair where somebody will sit on them. Seeing the smiles and laughter when someone opens a gift from you. Waiting with bated breath until your brother groans as he opens the joke gift you bought way back in August. Teasing your mother about not making enough butter tarts for all her grandsons. Telling the kids to pipe down so you can hear your aunt on the phone. Sneaking a slice of turkey while your brother-in-law carves it. Taking a spoonful of gravy to your mother for her verdict on whether it needs more salt or pepper. Washing the good china and wine glasses as your sisters dry and chat. Walking around the neighbourhood in a forlorn post-turkey effort to work off all those extra calories.

In short, the general mayhem of big-family traditions. That’s what turned me into a sobbing mess in Fiji and New Zealand. But this year, it doesn’t matter whether I’m in Osoyoos or at home in Ottawa, I would still miss it all.

We must find new and re-created ways to celebrate hope, peace, joy and love – the four Advent themes. And the music and mayhem that I miss. Here are some strategies we’re trying:

• Every Christmas Eve afternoon for the past 10 years or so, we’ve had high tea at the Chateau Laurier with Kathleen and Arthur. This year, we’re each assembling our own high-tea treats and sharing via Zoom. The hunt for clotted cream continues.
• Decorations help me feel the Christmas spirit. I brought a travel-sized nativity set, plus a tiny Charlie Brown Christmas tree, with us from home. Bill constructed a Christmas tree out of a broom handle and cardboard, and I decorated it. (We didn’t want to buy a stand for a real tree, or lights or ornaments.) And we foraged for greenery to make an Advent wreath.
• We compiled a Christmas carols e-book for guitar, so we can play and sing on Christmas Day via Zoom with Liz and Rachel, who also plays guitar. (Tom can sing well, but he doesn’t.) Bill is strumming “Silent Night” as I write.
• I re-joined my Trinity United Church choir since they’re rehearsing via Zoom. It’s not just the music that cheers me, it’s also the camaraderie; singing together turns choir mates into long-time friends, at Trinity as well as Glen Cairn United Church.
• I watched and listened to a stunning Canadian version of Handel’s Messiah, with vocalists and choirs from across Canada and sung in six languages (Arabic, Dene, English, French, Inuktitut, and Southern Tutchone). All of Canada felt like home.
• We drove around Osoyoos to see Christmas lights, especially the Liebel family’s extensive annual display. We contributed a bag full of canned goods to their food bank donation box.
• Bill and I are each planning a special Christmas Day activity so that, apart from turkey and gifts, the day will be different from all the others.
• We’re arranging many Zoom and phone calls with family and friends.

Neither Zoom nor smartphones existed in 2002, so technology will go a long way this year towards curing my Christmas Day homesickness. I’m hopeful!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all our loyal readers! We are grateful to you for helping us feel connected. Let the music and mayhem commence…