I used to sit on my bed in my parents house, tearing out articles on Morocco and India, dying at the mounds of colourful spices and the alien brightness of women swathed in saris. Where golden jewels pierced through noses and ears were commonplace and beautiful rather than a symbol of non-conformism as it is here. I used to pore through them in the privacy of my bedroom when my boyfriend was at football training or out with the boys. He didn't want these adventures. They belonged to me. I wanted more.
I could almost smell the headiness of the souks through the pages and in some way, I think I escaped into them then and there for just a little while. I naively, never thought it a waste to methodically tear and squirrel away these pages. I just knew, one day, I would be there. I didn't know when or how (then again, I've never been into practicalities). I used to rank my top three places, revise them and re-rank them and I settled on these...Paris, Morocco, India.
I invite you to come on a journey with me...through the best years of my life. I knew it then just as I know it now.
"They will be the best years of your life," he said. I wasn't convinced.
I thought I loved that boy and that's why I left.