Gourmet Traveller|July 2020
When I scan my mental archives for my most illustrious flights of fancy, my truly show-stopping fantasies, and my most cinematic daydreams, they have one thing in common: they revolve around travel. I was never the sort of school kid who dreamed about a big wedding, or a Prince Charming, or a huge house, or a fast car, or a pony. I grew up devouring Indiana Jones and the James Bond films, convinced that travelling was the loftiest aspiration a young lady of means could have.
To my young mind, travel meant glamour, it meant adventure, it meant escape, it meant romance, it meant decadence, it meant glory – and it meant success. I fantasised about visiting every single country by the age of 30. I dreamed of being one of those swishy-haired business people striding purposefully through the airport destined for a meeting in Dallas or Helsinki. I imagined jetting from one party island to the next, from Ibiza to Mykonos to Rio to Koh Phangan, changing destinations as often as I changed party dresses.
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