They say that travel broadens the mind, that seeing the world is an education in itself. Who wouldn't want to stand in the shadow of the Great Pyramid, look down from the ramparts of the Great Wall of China, or experience the brilliance of the Barrier Reef and the mile deep Grand Canyon?
Long before I had learnt to cross a street on my own, I had travelled to distant and magical lands.
I took my first steps among Incas and Other Men, found my sea legs as I bobbed on the Kon-Tiki, and marvelled at Chichen Itza when Apocalypto was not even the glimmer of an idea in infant Mel Gibson's imagination!
I didn't know what visas and passports and travellers' cheques were about, but I could describe the grandeur of Byblos, the mysteries of the Easter Island behemoths, and certainly the feel of the powdery desert sand under my feet.
As a member of the Travel Book Club through the 1950s and 1960s, my father received a couple of books each month to add to his precious collection.
He covered them and indexed them, then put them on high shelves, away from the sticky fingers of the curious trio in his home.
When he was away, I would sneak in, make my choice and dive under the study table for the greatest adventures of my young life, where, protected on three sides by drawers and panels, neither the piranhas nor the parent could get me!
Surely, I'd travel when I grew up, I thought - backpack somewhere, Eurail through Europe, hitchhike in South America ...
Domestic servitude
Then Life intervened, trampling on my travel plans and taking me off to decades of domestic servitude, spent between nappy changes and packed lunches, car pools and entrance exams, until suddenly, the toddler was towering over me and it was all over.
The last form was filled, the final installment of fees paid. I could live again - and the old dream, long simmering on a backburner, resurfaced.
Backpacking into remote lands no longer seemed possible given the bowing back and the expanding middle but guided tours, coach trips, the evergreen Eurail - they were all within reach. It was time to see the world.
Easy efficiency
Education was the furthest thing from my mind when I stepped into the easy efficiency of the travel agency.
I flipped through travel brochures and asked about bookings and foreign currency; they talked about sightseeing and accommodation, travel guides and ready meals.
My level of anticipation escalated; this was nearly as good as the real thing. I could almost hear the tinkle of the coins in the Trevi Fountain, savour the silence of the petrified streets of Pompeii.
Then I wondered aloud about visas, and they gave me pitying looks. Ten-page forms in English and two-page forms in Spanish or Italian or for all I know Vatican Latin were handed over with a list of documents to be provided to start the process rolling.
When had it become so complicated? Was it post 9/11, 7/7, or had it always been this way? This was a whole chunk of life I had no experience of and feeling seriously disadvantaged, I began my reluctant re-education, reading the fine print, unravelling the intricacies of exchange rates ...
Shuttling between bank and Xerox machine, hiking through the corridors of officialdom, back and forth on busy streets to the travel agent, I felt I'd done enough frequent walker miles to earn me a free trip somewhere!
Until finally, that's what I settled for!
I interred the documents, tossed away the brochures, and without having to worry about how much weight I could carry apart from my own BMI, I backpacked to the cupboard in the storeroom and got out the old books, and without fear of visa rejection and ticket availability, I sailed into wondrous places where aching feet and tired necks don't exist, and the miles to go are where I can still go.
Cheryl Rao is a freelance writer based in India.
