The Cost of Travel Anxiety

Exactly how much did my worrying set me back?

I like to travel and I like to do it for more than two weeks at a time. I’ll work, save as much money as I can, buy a one way ticket to Hong Kong or Mexico City, and come home when funds begin to dwindle. In order to stretch my dollars (or baht or soles), I stay in hostel dorms, plan meals carefully, and take the cheapest modes of transportation possible between cities or counties. I’m frugal by nature, which usually serves me well on the road. I’ve been on my current trip for just over four months.

I started off in Mexico and had initially planned to stay in Latin America but Europe kept creeping into my thoughts. Although it would be far less cheap than backpacking down to Nicaragua or Colombia, I decided to go for it. After a long, cold layover in Montreal, I took a surprisingly affordable flight to Reykjavik. Iceland is as expensive as it is beautiful, which is to say: extremely. I stayed only four nights before trading a “c” for an “r” and heading to Ireland.

Fortuitously, some acquaintances of mine heard I was coming their way and offered me the chance to housesit in Westport, a charming little town in County Mayo on the west coast. That would mean free accommodation for an entire month! I happily agreed to look after their home and made plans to hustle to Westport for my start date.

I arrived in Dublin and would stay two nights in a hostel. I had pre-ordered a train ticket to Westport for the day I was to check out–it’s much cheaper to book online in advance than purchase a ticket at the station. I would have one full day in the city to explore and I planned to take it easy. Maybe I’d check out the Jameson whiskey distillery or stroll around Trinity College. It was an opportunity to relax between travel days. That is, until I got derailed by gossip about a sympathy train strike. Yes, pun intended. Sorry.

The radio, newspapers, and small talk in my dorm were all about how the trains were readying to maybe halt services in solidarity with the bus system perhaps as early as the next day. Not a done deal, but enough suggestion to throw me into a tailspin. What if I couldn’t make it to Westport in time? The next morning, I decided to go to the source. I power walked from Temple Bar along the River Liffey toward Heuston Station. Once I entered the terminal, I found the information booth. My conversation with the agent went as follows:

Me: Hi! I have a ticket to Westport tomorrow and I really need to get there. As far as you know, will the trains be running?

Station agent: I can’t tell you anything.

Me: Okaaaay. If I need to get to Westport tomorrow and the trains aren’t running, do you know if there’s another way I could get there? I’m worried because of the bus strike…

Station agent: No.

I was convinced he was secretly trying to tell me to go now. Now! There was no time to analyze my possibly overactive imagination — not when the trains were still in service — and I had an obligation as well as a desire to be in Westport the next day. I forked over the money for a last-minute ticket, ran back to the hostel, packed up my things, and checked out early, basically telling the girl at the front desk: it’s not you, it’s me. There was going to be free wine and cheese in the common area that night. I wouldn’t miss that unless I absolutely had to.

I performed a quick online search for accommodation in Westport for that night. There was only one hostel in town and it was fully booked. I was forced to reserve a single room in a bed and breakfast, one that looked far too nice for the likes of me and the bedraggled backpack I’ve been toting around the world on and off the past few years. I ran back to the train station, boarded, and slumped into my seat.

I finally began to relax as the train pulled out of the station. I was on my way and would make it to Westport in plenty of time. I ordered a tiny bottle of Jameson from a vendor passing through the car. I may not have made it to the distillery, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t have a taste. I sipped whiskey out of a plastic cup, looked out the window at sheep grazing on the green hills, and remembered to breathe.

A few hours later, I arrived and checked into the B&B. It was quaint and quiet. I spread out on my full-size non-bunk bed, watched a little Netflix, and passed out early, a result of the stress of the day and a tiny bottle of whiskey. The next morning, a very sweet older Irish woman cooked me an almost full Irish breakfast (I politely passed on the black and white pudding). Although the price of a night in a place like this was at least double what I’d normally pay in a hostel, it was such a treat. It made me think it wouldn’t be so bad to do this from time to time when it’s not a decision borne from panic.

After breakfast, I met with the family whose home I would be staying in for the next several weeks. When I admitted I had actually arrived the day before, they asked why I didn’t just show up at their place–I would have been welcome early. I didn’t need the room at the bed and breakfast. In fact, I could have just stayed in Dublin at the hostel I’d already booked and paid for because the trains were still running as normal. It turns out I’d had absolutely nothing to worry about.

Exactly how much did my worrying set me back? Let’s crunch some depressing numbers!

•Last-minute train ticket from Dublin to Westport: €41.60

•Emergency train whiskey: €6.10

•Night in Westport bed and breakfast: €45

And on top of my forfeited night in the Dublin hostel and original train ticket:

•Night in Dublin hostel: €19

•Pre-booked train ticket from Dublin to Westport: €20

Total cost of my unfounded travel anxiety: €131.70

Oof. That could have easily been a couple of flights on Ryanair here in Europe. The irony of all of this, of course, is that the main purpose of getting to Westport in the first place was to save money.

I pretended to feel a sliver of vindication later that week when train employees refused to cross bus company picket lines and rail service stopped for half a day. At this point, it was just hard to stay too mad at myself. I know me, and had I not hurried out of Dublin when I did, I would have spent that full day panicking about the mere possibility of not making it to Westport in time. Plus, the night in the bed and breakfast allowed me to thoroughly unwind in a way that I normally can’t in hostels. Despite the euros I dropped hastily in such a brief period, I still saved a good amount of money by staying in Westport for as long as I did. I had access to a nice, clean kitchen and cooked rather than going out for food every day. Plus, I had a private room. A whole house, actually.

There’s an old Irish blessing that goes: Always remember to forget the things that made you sad, but never forget to remember the things that made you glad. One day when I look back on my journey in Ireland, I won’t focus so much on that time I spent €131.70 for no reason. I’m going to remember cycling the Greenway between Westport and Achill Island, the kind elderly man who bought me a pint at the pub because I let him borrow a pen, or the live traditional Irish music at Matt Molloy’s on weeknights. Technically, all of those experiences were free, but I prefer to think of them as priceless.

Marissa Rose is still traveling, still worrying about money, and still trying to enjoy herself.

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