When I was twenty-three I embarked on an around-the-world trip that I anticipated would last for at least a year and up to two...or maybe three. Who really knew? I was young, I had quit my jobs and the world was at my feet. I had a stack of traveller's bibles: Lonely Planet books for South America, Europe, Africa, Asia and Austalia. I had some savings. I had my CV printed. I had wanderlust. What I did not have: organised packing skills. Mere hours before my flight took off I was sitting in on the floor of my bedroom surrounded by every shred of clothing I owned, staring at an empty backpack. My mother swore off helping me because the stress was too much for her. I began to hyperventilate. Eventually, somethings found their way into my bag and other things lay abandoned on the floor as I dashed out the door with my mother reckoning that the best she could hope for was that I would still have hold of my ticket and passport when we got to the airport. Against all odds, I did a...
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