I’ve always loved liminal places – hotel rooms, airport terminals… The generic in-betweenness of them is non-threatening, like a closed door that excuses you from worrying, because you can’t see what’s on the other side. Those in-between places liberate you from commitment to before and after. They are a kind of purgatory, a space to work things out while reality waits in suspended animation. It’s in these places, and only these places, that I feel free. I carved out some breathing room for myself in the spring after I completed my undergrad degree.
I’d planned and saved for The Gap Trip since my first minimum-wage salary, sometimes working three part-time jobs while going to university full-time. The route had been plotted and fantasized about two years prior to departure: a straight shot east around the world. Travel time: three months. Budget: Everything I had. Participants: Me, myself and I. In the days leading up to my solo stint around the globe, a long and brutal winter finally began to loosen its hold. Forgotten hues of blue and green softened the interminable shades of grey, mild temperatures massaged the tension out of hunched shoulders, and the world heaved a sigh of relief. That’s my cue, I thought. Of all the advice I got – both solicited and not (don’t carry all your cash in one place, take broad spectrum antibiotics, make photocopies of your passport and travel documents), the best by far was this: Don’t look back. This trip promised to be one of the most valuable experiences of my life, if only I got out of the way.
Too often we miss what’s in front of us focusing on what’s not. Rolling my suitcase through the airport entrance alone, I felt the weight of what I’d done settle in my gut. Close on the heels of the sinking fear and loneliness, however, was a bolstering lift of freedom. As my plane galloped down the runway, I felt its wings catch the wind and I experienced a sense of weightlessness. We hit turbulence climbing through the cloud cover, and I gripped the armrests. When the ride levelled out, I realized the man in the seat next to mine was speaking to me. “It’s okay,” he nodded to my white knuckles. “You can let go now.” I glanced out the window. No matter how many times I fly, I’m always amazed by how clear the skies are above the clouds. A month later, I was spending my birthday in a four-star hotel room on a nosebleed-expensive wine tour in Croatia when it occurred to me that I never expected to get this far. Analyzing every expense, logistic and risk before leaving, I was certain I would crash and burn in the first week.
These ancient places with their unrivalled scenery, extraordinary food and rich culture had been glimpses from the Travel Channel and Lonely Planet, static and flat. The actual sounds, textures and tastes were a reality I’d been afraid to imagine. I’d come to the Istrian Peninsula from the town of Rijeka, with whom I shared a birthday. They were celebrating their annual Freedom Festival when I left, in memory of the day they gained independence from Yugoslavia in 1991, which also happens to be the year I was born. Prior to arriving in Croatia via a harrowing series of trains, buses and border crossings, I’d visited Vatican City in Rome, as well as the Coliseum, Pantheon, Trevi Fountain and Spanish Steps. In Florence, I’d looked out over the Arno River from the Ponte Vecchio, listened to the bells of Giotto’s Campanile and stood before Botticelli’s original “Birth of Venus” in the Uffizi Gallery.
After Croatia, I toured the Acropolis of Athens, explored Knossos Palace on Crete and saw the white-capped Aegean mirrored in the colours of Santorini. My journey culminated in a multi-day pack trip on horseback through the Andes to Machu Picchu. I met a lot of beautiful people, and spent a lot of time alone, exploring both the external and internal. When it was over, I knew the limits (or lack thereof) of my own capabilities. This was a tool that would make every step, every new venture, and every commitment a thousand times easier. I would not be returning to the fear and confusion of life as I left it. I’d been freed. Travel doesn’t change your life. It changes your ability to navigate it. I looked out the window on my flight home. Beyond the reflection of a girl I knew very well, the wing of the plane gleamed with the first morning light. I smiled, glad to be headed into the sunrise.
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