I have no yearning for travel. None whatsoever. One increasingly popular word I thus find nigh despicable is “wanderlust.” I have seen enough of this world over many a year, and ever since my retirement I am perfectly happy in my last hometown, which rests on top of a dainty hill in the middle of nowhere. Seeing a growing number of humans wandering around Motovun at the onset of yet another tourist season, I have googled for an antonym of wanderlust. The punchier, the better. But I have found none to my exacting taste. Zilch. What else could I do but coin one that fits my feisty sentiments to the letter? As it happens, it is “wanderscorn.” To my joy, my elective tongue is now richer by a word worthy of note. A word with some zest, too. Whenever an opportunity presents itself, I will utter it with gusto. From the top of the Motovun hill, it will taste just right whenever it leaps from my tongue. Wanderscorn!

Addendum (April 2, 2025)

If there is any need for a proof of my heartfelt wanderscorn, it is my dream of the vow of residence (“The Vow of Residence,” August 10, 2007; “The Vow of Residence, Again,” February 19, 2016; and “The Vow of Residence, Again and Again,” July 19, 2023). Yogic to boot, it boils down to the vow to remain in one place without ever leaving it even for a walk. Attracted as I have been to such a vow, I have ultimately rejected it on account of my sannyasi dream—walking out of my house one fine day till gentle death comes my way… Although this dream has nothing to do with wanders of this world that must be experienced firsthand, it still makes the vow of residence an unattractive option. Which way I will eventually end my days remains a puzzle, though. One way or another, I am still too young to decide. But wanderscorn is with me already, and no kidding. Even Istria, the land of my ancestors, is of no interest to me, let alone the rest of Croatia, or its many neighboring countries. Perish the thought. My house in Motovun is my hermitage, and that is that for the foreseeable future.