Midway through Anton Chekhov’s first trip to Western Europe, after he’d been blown away by Venice, pictured above, he started to get a case of homesickness. I immediately recognized this as “that mid-trip feeling”.
“I’ve seen everything and dragged myself everywhere I was ordered,” Chekhov wrote in a letter home. “When I was offered something to sniff, I sniffed. But all I feel is exhaustion and a craving for a bowl of cabbage soup and buckwheat kasha.” Read more. Also on USA Today.