True, I had traveled frequently with my parents as a child, even living overseas for a time. But the first big trip that was mine happened a few days after I turned 16.
My high school was nothing special. Most students came from the rural landscape of southern Pennsylvania. We knew about everyone by name with just over 200 students in my class. Most attended VoTech or VoAg classes. Somehow though, my French teacher arranged a trip every four years. And it wasn’t just a jaunt up to Quebec. It was to France. My opportunity came when I was in 10th grade.
One French teacher, a dozen students, and ten days spent roaming across France instead of a sitting in a classroom. Yes, this had a big impact on my life. My best friend was with me. My parents were not. Quiet and shy, I was still ready to step out into the world without my family.
We flew into Paris and from there went to Tours, Chartres, the Normandy coast to see the D-day beaches, Mont St. Michel, Honfleur, then back to Paris for the final few days. I could tell you about the places: castles, museums, churches, cathedrals, pastry shops, and cafes. Like the time we stumbled into a group of Hell’s Angel motorcyclists in a gilt and velvet room of an ornate white castle. The modern black leather jackets contrasted with the historic setting so that any childish fear I had of them evaporated in a disbelieving smile. They were looking around in awe just as much as we were.
Or I could tell you about the requirements my teacher had of us on the trip. There were journal entries every night. We had to speak in French. We were not allowed to wear jeans and we had to eat everything put in front of us lest we embarrass her. Yet, she arranged dinner on the Eiffel Tower for us. When we went to Montmartre and wine was already on the table, she blushed and said “Don’t tell your parents.” I respected her then and now.
But like all journeys, it wasn’t about where we went. Even now when I see the list of place names, it isn’t the images of the town or cathedral that pops in my mind first. Rather, it is the feeling of discovery, of unknown horizons, and of getting to know myself that awaken. There was so much I didn’t know about myself at that age.
That was the first time I realized daily roving in a foreign country was something that would make me jump out of bed in delight. I discovered that I had a love of history, and that my world view of America was not odd but simply more European. It took me years to respect something that was only 200 years old after standing in cathedrals 4 to 6 hundred years in age. It was the first time I didn’t really want to go home.
I can’t imagine my parent’s fear allowing me to go across an ocean with a woman they barely knew (I have no memory of them ever having had a parent-teacher conference on my behalf!). I know they never hesitated to pay my share and sign the papers. But I don’t know if they considered the trip as an opportunity to see the world or a chance to have the world begin to open up for me.
I did come home, addicted to travel by just the one bite. My college search changed from that moment. I was going to go to a school with a study abroad program! In some ways, I wish I had raised my sites higher and just gone to a foreign university. Goodness knows where I’d be now if I had! That trip was a beginning of a different path for me and a different awareness of the world. And for that, I will always be grateful.
Related articles
- Meaningful Travel (nomapnomad.com)
