Wanderlust

Why dreaming is a large part of the globetrotting fun

I’ve been dreaming of France since I was 10 years old. My primary school let me choose between learning French and Italian and I swung Chanel’s way choosing Français. My high school taught Italian so I got lost for a little while. However, I never lost the desire to wear a beret, strut about like a Can-Can dancer and purchase anything and everything reminding me of this country I longed to see. For a week I’d been tossing and turning trying to decide whether I go out on a limb, forget all reasonable thought and responsibilities and just go. So I booked. I maxed out my credit card and secured flights in and out of romantic Paris. I was ecstatic, elated, on top of the world. I started planning my wardrobe, the miniature toiletries I’d have to buy, and organised to borrow a massive suitcase to fill with teacups, art and presents, all emblazing Parisian icons. I watched three Audrey Hepburn films in a row, all set in France, and read the two Parisian guides I naturally already owned. I saw Coco avant Chanel and started on her biography. I needed to absorb as much knowledge as possible before this whim of a trip began. Then I hit a wall. My supposedly free accommodation was no longer and I couldn’t afford the trip without such a luxury. And to make it worse my tickets were non-refundable. Fuck… excuse my French. So I made the only choice a recession-unfriendly, struggling writer has and changed my flights to the following year. Shattered? Yes. But we’ll always have Paris. So back on the bandwagon I hopped booking 6 weeks, 10 countries, and true European bliss. I realised that if my last-minute voyage hadn’t gone topsy-turvy I would have missed out on how exciting it is to dream up the perfect trip. Within hours I’d devoured the Contiki website, restaurant reviews, and Lonely Planet guides from more countries than what my highly-desired and now non-existent Frenchcapade had offered. There are so many options! And I now have the motivation to save money – so I can actually eat more than a lone baguette each day – and something to look forward to. I can count down the days until I clamber to the front of the waiting crowd, rush to my allocated seat, buckle in, await lift off, and about 30 hours later arrive at my destination… Paris, when it sizzles.