Stories

12 years ago, I was getting ready to start another day at high school; it was my first week of being in Grade 12, my first week as a prefect. It was picture day, so I had woken up early to spend a bit more time on my hair and makeup, make sure my shirt and blazer were ironed properly. I was in the kitchen when my dad called from work.

“Something happened in New York, ” he said. My mum and brother were there, too, so the three of us huddled around the TV and watched with horror as the towers burned. My hometown is an hour behind New York, and so we had been sitting there, eating cereal, chatting about the upcoming day, without knowing what had happened, without knowing that the world was falling apart.

My ears perked up. “Winnipeg”, I had heard the girl say, I was sure of it. I had a fleeting sensation of excitement, of hearing the name of my hometown dropped casually into conversation, and I briefly wondered why she was mentioning it at all. This entire process took about 1.5 seconds in my brain, before I once again stopped myself, rolled my eyes.

“I’m in Winnipeg, you idiot,” I thought to myself. I had been for a month.

“I can stitch up your chin if you want,” the young woman told me as she pressed yet another alcohol-soaked cloth onto my bleeding face. A monkey peered at me from the window. I could hear the cries of exotic birds. My clothes were still covered in mud, and everything hurt.

“Have you…” I struggled to find the right words; I didn’t want to offend her or seem impolite. “Have you ever stitched a human face before?”

There are very few people I like to travel with for extended periods of time. Sure, most people can get along for a few days or so, but when it comes to the big adventures, the long journeys, you want someone on your side whom you can trust, someone who understands you, someone who shares your values and your interests. Then who better to travel with than your mum?

In 2006, my hand luggage consisted of little more than the travel necessities (wallet and passport), one tiny digital camera, one book, and my journal and pens. Last year, through Central and South America, my hand luggage contained three cameras, one laptop, one hard drive, one smart phone, one Kindle, oh yeah, and my journal and pens. Guess which one got the least amount of use?

I don’t have one of those, “I quit my job and left my cubicle life behind to go and explore the world!” type stories. I’ve worked in offices, yes, and worked for companies I hated and companies I knew wouldn’t advance my career – hell, I’m working at an office right now, for six weeks. I’ve always known this work is temporary, though, and that the money earned would allow me to travel (or in this case, allow me to save money while I wait for my UK visa). I’ve been offered full-time positions and turned them down. I’ve never worked a day in my life that didn’t contribute, either directly or indirectly, to the life I’ve always known I would live, a life of travel.