My first solo travel adventure was, by all accounts, an utter failure. Following a screaming match with my parents and a monumental meltdown, I decided to pack my bags. I pulled my black-and-white checkered suitcase out of the closet, threw in a change of clothes and my favorite stuffed animal, and donned my prized, wide-brimmed felt hat. After stomping loudly down the long hallway to the front door, I announced that I was leaving
“Where are you going?” asked my mother.
“I’m not telling!” I responded.
“When will you be back?”
“NEVER!” I said, leaving the door wide open behind me.
I started walking down the mile-long gravel road that dead-ended at our one-story brick home in rural North Carolina. But I didn’t get very far. That’s because the suitcase (a recent gift from my Uncle Tony, along with the hat), was nearly as tall as I was. After all, I was only 4 years old. Also, it had not occurred to me to put on shoes.
It wasn’t long before I gave up and sat down on the side of the road. My mom, who had been following from a safe distance, scooped me up, dried my tears, and told me there were cookies at home, if I wanted one. I did. So we went home, and my first attempt at solo adventuring fizzled out before it even started.
But I had already caught the travel bug.
I blame Uncle Tony. As a military officer serving overseas, he brought home stories and photos from places I didn’t know existed, where people wore clothing I had never seen and ate food I had never tasted.
As a young girl, I dreamed of growing up and traveling to all those places. But life – and lack of funding – got in the way. There was college, and grad school, and a cross-country move, and a career to build. It wasn’t until my long-time boyfriend and I decided to elope to a tropical island that I finally got a passport, at the age of 31.
The trip to Roatan, Honduras was delightful, filled with scuba diving, sunbathing, and honeymooning. But I brought home an exceptionally nasty travel bug: Dengue fever. I will spare you the details here, other than to say I would not wish it on my worst enemy. But I refused to let a literal travel bug dampen my devotion to the metaphorical one.
This hankering for travel has taken me to four continents in pursuit of total solar eclipses, across northern India in a tuk-tuk for the Rickshaw Run, to remote Indonesian islands on an overcrowded fishing boat, across Central and South American borders on foot and in the the back of a pick-up truck, through Australia and New Zealand in a camper van, and on a cross-country move in a car with a dog, two cats, and three snakes. Most recently, at the advanced age of 55, I completed two years of Peace Corps service in the Colombian Andes. During these 25 years of adventurous travel, I have picked up more than my fair share of travel bugs. Some of them have been rather serious.
So, it hasn’t always been easy. In fact, much of it hasn’t even been fun. But I firmly believe that a good story is often better than a good time. And I’ve got a lot of good stories to tell. I hope you enjoy reading them.