Therapists go on holiday in August; unfortunately, anxieties don't. High summer gives them far too much to feed on: you're supposed to be having fun, which makes it worse if you aren't; the heat makes everyone irritable; you are expected to expose your imperfect flesh; you probably go on holiday yourself, and that involves travelling.
I've recently returned from a family holiday to Vienna. While we were there, we made the obligatory trip to the Freud Museum, so that I could pay my respects to the good doctor. There isn't much left there, and hasn't been since 1939, when the family fled the Nazi-occupied city; what there is was donated by Freud's daughter Anna when the museum was founded. One of the items she sent back to her old home was her father's travelling trunk, which can be found sitting solidly in the original vestibule, along with its owner's walking stick, and the soft hat he wore on his hikes through the Austrian woods.
It's a highly significant piece of luggage, not only because it reminds visitors of the Freud's exile from Vienna and of the persecution that engendered it, but also because, throughout his lifetime, Freud maintained the most intense and ambivalent attitude to travel. It was one of his great passions, but at the same time, it aroused great anxiety in him. In one of his letters, he coins a word, half-german, half-french, to stand for the practical and emotional difficulties that always seemed to attend him on journeys: 'reisemalheurs' - literally, 'travel woes'.