Prologue
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Fort McMurray,
Alberta,
Canada
Saturday, August 18, 2007
When I was three, my parents took me to Montreal to go Christmas shopping. We went to La Baie and got lost in the city's underground maze of stores. I don't know if it was my first time outside the country of my birth. If you asked my parents, they probably don't remember, either. Canadian customs is always asking when I first came to their country, and I never know quite what to tell them.
At six, my parents took me to Germany and spent the next five years dragging me around Europe and across the world, instilling in me an appreciation for other cultures and a hatred of unpacking when we got home. At the age of eight, I vowed that when I grew up, I would never travel again.
By eleven, we were back in the states and the rate of travel had slowed to one or two trips a year, funded by the frequent flier miles my father continued to collect on business trips. At 13, I rode on a chicken bus through northern Thailand. At 16, I snorkeled in the warm ocean waters of Belize. Some parents complain that once their children become teenagers, their families fall apart. I think travel kept mine together.
For as long as I could remember, my mother had promised my sister and me that when we graduated from high school, we could go on a trip with her anywhere in the world. At 18, my sentiments significantly changed from ten years before, she and I set off for Vietnam. In that jungle country, I did my first shots (snake wine and ouzo), did my first bargaining (10,000 dong for scooters back to the hotel), and began to come into my own as a traveler.
Ten months later, I headed for Panama, ex-boyfriend in tow. My first solo trip (he was under culture shock the entire week and completely useless) I discovered that travel really wasn't that difficult and abolished the eight-year-old me forever.
Now, at 22, I am embarking on my greatest adventure yet: eight months of travelling through former Soviet Block countries and riding buses in South America.
