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One trip fixed that. Five weeks. No parent. College dorm accommodations. Two teacher-escorts with specialties in art history and literature. My dad was a community college teacher. But I lobbied hard. London was the first stop on the trip, and I was desperate to see the country that gave the world the Beatles. The rest of Europe? But they had lived briefly in Germany and honeymooned in France and Italy, which were all on the itinerary.
They knew what the trip could mean, and they made it happen. Pretty soon, I was drinking my first pint of Guinness legally and hunting down the Abbey Road crosswalk. At some point between Big Ben and a fledgling restaurant called the Hard Rock Cafe, a few of us struck up a conversation with a retired concert pianist on a park bench at Hampstead Heath. We talked about various cities in the world. He found New York pleasant enough, but those numbered streets and avenues?
Was nobody creative enough to give them names? This seems like such a meager insight now, but I had never had that sort of conversation with a foreigner. Ever so gently, he was letting me know that the U.
Over the following weeks, as we traipsed through museums, palaces, libraries and cathedrals, each stop pried open my mind a bit further. Travel had me. By the time we got back to California, I felt like a different person — still pimpled and awkward, but now with a dash more savvy and emboldened curiosity, all invisible to the naked eye.