No one in my family within recent memory has been a pioneer, I reckon. Not since the Swedish depression of the late 1800s, has anyone left their homeland for points unknown, to a life so full of questions and uncertainties. That is, not until I was born.

I don't know how the wanderlust hit me, but I do know when it hit. I was fifteen years old and took my first trip oversees to France, with my sister's French class. I was an "older" student and was supposed to help the younger ones with their French. I did, but, really, I was totally involved with the romance. I developed a crush on our guide, Tom, and fantasised about living the life of Gigi. It didn't help that we stayed in old-fashioned hotels with wrought iron lifts that were open in the front. You just opened the little gate and closed it in front of you. That was all that kept you from falling four floors to the lobby below. But I loved it!

The trip was far too short for my taste, and it was with a poignant farewell that I left to go back to my routine existence as a product of the American public school system. I had even managed to get Tom, who was ten years older than I, to write to me when he got back to London. He did, too, although it was only a postcard with a very terse "here you are" written on it.

Part 2: There was no settling down for me

this travelogue is part of the subside travelzine
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