Negombo: Arrival, Anxiety & A Very Sri Lankan Christmas
I tried very hard not to be excited about this trip.
Not because I wasn’t looking forward to Sri Lanka but because my nervous system cannot tell the difference between joy and danger, and I simply could not afford the cortisol. Cold sores have impeccable timing, and I was determined not to arrive in Sri Lanka with one blooming proudly on my face like a festive accessory.
Guess what? It came anyway. A Christmas Cold Sore if you will. A tradition, really. One I keep pretending I can outsmart.
So, armed with visas approved, flights booked, underwear packed, and meds very much secured, I trekked to Brisbane Airport on Christmas Eve to begin the 12-hour journey across the globe. All that was left, apparently, was to enjoy the journey. “Enjoy” is a strong word.
The flight from Brisbane to Singapore was less journey and more psychological endurance test. Two hours in, right as food service began, turbulence hit and it wasn’t the gentle kind, but the “Final Destination but make it aviation” variety. Food hit the ceiling. Drinks landed in laps. Cabin crew were on the floor. Someone yelled “Brace, brace,” which is not something you ever want to hear at 30,000 feet. And to make matters worse, I had two children seated beside me, unaccompanied, crying and terrified, while their grandparents lounged somewhere up in business class. I was trying to regulate my own spiralling nervous system while offering comfort I did not feel remotely qualified to give.
Was I being dramatic? Possibly. But anxiety does not thrive on logic, it thrives on altitude.
Eventually, miraculously, we landed. After a restorative visit to Singapore Airport’s Calm Room (a genuine godsend for any neurodivergent travellers out there), I boarded my final flight and arrived safely in Sri Lanka. It was midnight when I passed through immigration. Christmas Day. All I could think about was a shower and sleep.
Instead, I was gifted something unexpected: a driver who, despite being Buddhist, took great delight in weaving through Negombo’s streets to show me the city’s Christmas light displays. Neon stars. Flashing lights. Entire buildings glowing in colour. It was joyful and surreal and deeply human — a reminder that Christmas was here.
When I arrived at my hotel, a small parcel was waiting for me: Christmas pudding, wrapped and ready. I don’t even like Christmas pudding, but I’ve never been more touched by one. Negombo had welcomed me gently.
The next morning, jet lag loosened its grip just enough for me to open the curtains and discover I was perched right on the edge of the beach. Palm trees. Salt air. The ocean stretching out in front of me like a rather large exhale. Christmas Day unfolded exactly as my introverted heart needed it to: quiet, slow, and spacious. The occasional firecracker cracked through the air, but otherwise it was all soft light, beach walks, and hours spent reading.
Negombo, to me, felt like a threshold. Not somewhere you do much, but somewhere you land. A place to recalibrate your body after long-haul flights and long-held tension. A place that asks very little of you.
That evening, the next chapter began.
Unlike my usual travel pattern (where I meticulously plan every detail and stress myself into a mild existential crisis), this time I had handed control over to Intrepid. The itinerary was set. The logistics handled. All I had to do was show up. Christmas evening was when I met the rest of the group.
And that’s when I realised I had accidentally joined a retirement village.
Every other traveller was over 60, and within minutes I was being lovingly welcomed into a catalogue of life stories delivered at a pace I knew would take me some time to adjust to (hint: glacial). I stood there quietly, nodding, holding my Christmas cold sore and my sense of humour, wondering how exactly this dynamic was going to unfold.
But that’s a story for the next place.
For now, Negombo did what it needed to do: it caught me as I arrived (anxious, tired and overstimulated), and gently set me down by the sea. And sometimes, that’s the most important role a place can play.