Caryn Stroh
The Beginning
But perhaps I should begin my story where it should start…at the beginning.
Three weeks ago, I couldn’t have even imagined that I’d soon be hurtling down a dark road on a motorbike. I was back in cold, snowy Canada then, daydreaming about South America where I was heading to in two days time. Buzzing with excitement to finally be doing what I’d dreamed of doing for thirty years. To travel solo for a year. To once again, put a backpack over my shoulders and head into the unknown. Without a plan.
Thirty years ago, when I did same thing at age 23, everyone deemed me a bit crazy. When I mentioned I was off to hitchhike through Europe for a year with a backpack, my family and friends gaped at me. Why would you do such a thing? they asked me. Wondering, perhaps how I, with my complete lack of common sense (according to them) might survive such a crazy trip.
Now, thirty years later, when I informed my friends and family I was taking a year sabbatical from work to travel solo through South America, they didn’t seem as surprised. They still didn’t understand it though. Why would anyone want to travel for a year with only a backpack? they asked. How can you leave your job for a year? How can you afford to do that?
You just do it, I’d said to my colleagues as I danced out the office door.
And so, here I am. On a plane, with my friend Brenda who’s joining me for three weeks. Sitting in our narrow, tiny seats four hours into our eleven-hour flight, heading further and further away from Canada.
My mind whirls with both excitement and fear. Oh god. I’m really doing this! Am I still fit enough to carry a forty-pound backpack around for an hour, looking for a place to stay? I wonder. Will the ‘kids’ at the hostels want to talk to an ‘old lady’? Will those budget dorm rooms I used to love staying in still hold the same appeal, or will the snores and smells of unwashed twenty-something boys drive me to the hotels that I’m more used to these days?”
As I sit in my allotted twelve uncomfortable inches of space, my nerves prickle with the realization that I’m heading into completely unfamiliar territory and…for a crazy long time – a year! I breathe…make myself relax. You’ve got this, I tell myself. You know what traveling’s all about.
Yes I do. I’m not as naïve as I once was. Not like I was back in 1983 when I got on a plane, off on a year-long solo adventure to Europe where the countries, I imagined then, would be coloured in pink, green, blue or orange. Like the maps I was always poring over. I ponder that silly thinking now, thirty years later, as I head off into the unknown again, realizing that, although that kind of thinking was very naïve, it wasn’t so silly. The colours do exist. Maybe not like I’d imagined back then, but as a rich and vibrant tapestry of languages, accents, foods, landscapes, characters and culture.
So, yes, I’ve got this. Who cares if I’m not the youngster I once was? I’m going to spend this whole year living life to its maximum amazingness. I’m going to eat glorious and strange foods and be fearless while doing so. I’m going to butcher the lovely Spanish language without fear until I can have real conversations with the new friends I meet. And I’m going to see and do crazy ass things and trust that fate and good luck will keep me safe.
And then I’m gonna come home and write a story about my adventures. See if I can help those baffled friends and family members to understand why I travel like I do. Hopefully, inspire them to try it. But maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe after my friends read my stories, they’ll think I’m even more crazy.