An only child—or rather, one with a sibling in heaven. This could be summarized as “fond of solitude but appreciative of good company.” I couldn’t separate my parents from this description; they are the pillars and engines who knew how to accept and accompany me on every flight.
I’ve been talking about “leaving” for as long as I can remember; perhaps back then, I didn’t even know what it meant. As a child, I would spin the globe and place my finger on it. Wherever it landed, I would research. I’m talking about the era when connecting to the internet meant disconnecting the landline, so I often searched through atlases—atlases that, at the time, were still missing countries.
With time and technology, I filled my Google Drive with guides for places I still haven’t visited. Until one summer, between final exams and savings calculations (where money was always lacking), I decided to do a volunteer program in the United States. Nineteen years old, a language I didn’t know, no intermediaries, and far too much excitement. That was my “before and after.” From then on, no party or clothing excited me more than saving up to travel.
I understood from the start that I didn’t need millions to get to know cultures, and that was my main objective. Locals don’t always take Ubers, they don’t eat at Michelin-starred restaurants, and they don’t stay in the most expensive hotels.
