I have met people capable of enjoying a voyage; people who can sit calmly in their chairs and, upon reaching the port, wait until the ship docks, then gather their belongings quietly and disembark. Personally, I never manage to do that. From the moment I board, I feel that the time frame is too tight to do anything at my leisure. I move my luggage from one place to another, and if I go down to the restaurant to have a meal, I swallow my food hastily, constantly feeling that the ship might suddenly arrive at its destination while I am still downstairs. Perhaps all this is a legacy of the short leaves during the war, when it seemed of utmost importance to secure a spot near the gangway and be among the first to disembark, lest you waste precious minutes of a three-day or five-day leave.
That particular July morning, as I stood by the railing watching the white cliffs of Dover draw nearer, I admired the passengers who could sit quietly in their chairs and not lift their eyes for a moment to see their homeland from afar. Of course, their case might have been different from mine. Undoubtedly, many of them had simply popped over to Paris for the weekend, while I had spent the last year and a half on a ranch in Argentina. I had prospered there, and both my wife and I had enjoyed the carefree and comfortable life of the South American continent, yet still, a lump had formed in my throat as I saw the familiar shores drawing ever closer.