I had been persuaded and dissuaded so many times I was starting to feel like a yoyo. Should I go? Should I stay? It hadn’t seemed like such a big deal at the time. Quietly I had gone to the post office and filled out the forms, had my picture taken and spent the next three weeks rushing to the mailbox to see if it had arrived. After the arrival of the little blue book that practically screamed “Portal to Adventure” it was simply a matter of choosing where and when.
I spent the next three weeks investigating this place and that, spinning the globe and sticking my finger on it. Often I would land on some island in the south Pacific – although not totally random. The trouble started when I began to tell people of my plans to travel. Suddenly every horror story, every fear and so many what ifs that the whole process came to an alarming halt. What about disease, or terrorists, or those sorts of men who prey on women who travel alone?
There’s a part of me that longs for excitement and adventure. There’s a part of me that is scared to death of the whole thing. I’ve thought about shelving my plans but there’s part of me that fears a boring life where you slip and die in the bathtub and never get to enjoy anything anywhere because of being afraid of the what ifs.
My bag is packed. My passport is in my purse. The taxi is outside. I’m ready to go. Where, I don’t know. The plan is to go to the airport, walk up to an international ticket counter and find the next available flight to somewhere.
“Are you sure this is what you really want to do?” My mother asks.