Two years ago, when I was in one of my ‘I-don’t-want-to-talk-to-people’ moods, I signed myself up for a Conservation volunteering project in the mountains of Nepal. I wanted to go somewhere where there would be peace and quiet, and I could do something useful. By the time I arrived, it had been two months since the devastating earthquakes, and the monsoon season was just setting in.

It took two days to get from Kathmandu up to Ghandruk, a small village in the Annapurnas, where the project was based. The last two hours of the trip was an uphill hike following my porter, a little old lady who could have fitted into the basket she was carrying. I arrived hot and sweaty and looking forward to a hot shower and a cold drink. Until I was told that there was no power, as a monsoonal deluge had caused a landslide which had taken out the power lines. That meant cold showers and no warm drinks. It also meant there was no wifi.

My first thought was how was I going to let people know that I had arrived. My second was, ‘well, I did come here to get away from it all’. And so I did. I sent a text message to my parents and hoped that anyone else who wanted to know if I was alive would get in touch with them. And then I forgot about the outside world and got on with enjoying my mountain retreat.

For that first week, the only company I had was the three other volunteers at the lodge, our project manager Raj, his parents, who helped run the lodge, and Jamuna, a cousin of Raj’s, who cooked our meals. She had a gas cooker that she cooked on and boiled the kettle for tea, and as there was no fridge she cooked only enough for one meal at a time, no nothing was wasted. When we went out on projects – bird surveys, checking cameras etc – we took our phones, in case we got separated, but the rest of the time they stayed switched off.

At home, we played table tennis, read books, helped with the cooking, and, with some help from the others, I practised using my camera. In the evenings we played Uno by candlelight and then went to bed early. Playing table tennis was particularly amusing because the table was in such a bad state. In some places it had moss growing on it, and in others the concrete surface had chipped away, so that the ball would often veer off at a bizarre angle, either to the left or right and even once catching the edge of the table and looping all the way back over the other side and into the corn field behind us.

The funny thing was, I didn’t miss being connected or having power at all. I particularly enjoyed the evenings, eating a meal and playing cards without any phones going off or people getting distracted. Jamuna had more fun than any of us – perhaps it had been so long since anything had happened up there, or maybe she just liked Uno, but her enjoyment was contagious, and her company made all the difference. Her English wasn’t great – when we tried to explain the rules she would nod and say “Ah, ok, yes!”, play a completely wrong card, and then collapse into a fit of giggles when we told her she had to pick another one. It was peaceful, and companionable – it reminded me of family holidays when I was young when we would sit around the campfire or play cards with no phones or television to distract us. You realise how precious and important human contact is when you are 100% present and in the moment.

I found the absence of the outside world calming and liberating. I was much more aware of the environment around me, of the lush greenery flourishing in the monsoon, the sound of running water, of birds, frogs and insects that weren’t competing with phones, cars and televisions, the smell of damp earth tinged with the faint aroma of animal manure and the ever-present monsoon mists, which crept in and out of the valley, occasionally giving us spectacular views of the snow-capped Annapurnas and the mighty Machhapuchhare, also known as the Fishtail because of it’s disctintive double peak. All this I took in because I didn’t have my nose in my phone.

Isn’t it interesting what technology does to us? When we finally did get power back, the effect was remarkable. Suddenly all our phones were plugged in all the time, we were all sitting around the table with our laptops, our feet getting tangled in all the cords, uploading photos so we could show to others what we should have been looking at ourselves. Suddenly, after being perfectly happy checking my phone only once a day, I needed to have it on all the time, in case I got a message or notification.

Isnt it funny how this happens? I’m sure I’m not the only one. I even felt a bit sad about it, even as I realised it was happening. Still, I think it was good for me to learn that the world could cope without me for a few days, and it was especially nice to know that I could cope without it – beforehand, I would never have thought that I would manage so well for so long without power of any kind. I even managed the cold showers without complaint. It was just a pity we couldn’t chill the beer.

Ten years ago, I did not have a Facebook account, nor was I a member of any other social media – in fact, I had never even heard of Facebook, and whatever other forums that existed at the time all seemed like too much bother. Which was a good thing really, because at the time I was in Italy making a regular fool of myself, and it is a great relief to me (and to the other parties I’m sure) that there is no Google-able evidence of it.

I arrived in Padua, in the Veneto region, much earlier than expected after a very uncomfortable train ride up from Rome. I had landed in the early hours, dashed on to the train with seconds to spare, and as a result failed to obtain sustenance or relief of any kind. So for most of the four hours or so that I was on the train, I was desperate for the loo but too afraid to leave my bags to go and find one, wearing far too many clothes for the warm weather and sitting next to a man who snored for the whole trip and spoiled the countryside views by drooling all over the window. The only snack I had was a packet of Mentos, which I chewed very slowly, with almost indecent relish. I don’t think I have ever felt more appreciation for wrapped confectionery.

To top it all, my early arrival meant that my host, a friend I hadn’t seen in seven years, was still several hours away up in the mountains. So I was picked up from the station by his parents, who I had never met before, welcomed into their home, showed to their kitchen table and given one of the most delicious roast chickens I’ve ever had. It was one of the most peculiar days of my life so far, especially with jet lag setting in. But despite the strangeness, I felt completely welcome, and completely safe. Until, that is, I tried to speak to them in Italian and informed them that “sono partita d’Australia domani” – I left Australia tomorrow. Then I just felt completely stupid.

Later that day, when my friend had returned, he took me for a ride on the back of his Vespa, and the day went from peculiar to terrifying. Zigzagging between cars on the wrong side of the road while he kept turning around to point out various buildings and features, I was convinced I was going to die. The ride home was worse, because it was dark and I was sure there were all manner of cars and lorries and buses heading straight towards us that we couldn’t see. (In fact, it took several days for me to completely relax on the Vespa. After that, I began to love it, zipping around the city, or cruising around the countryside with the wind in my face. It was the feeling of freedom.)

The next day, I spoiled a perfectly good moment, looking out over Verona from a window of the Roman arena by putting my hand down in a pile of pigeon droppings. The next day I fell over coming down the stairs, causing my hostess some considerable alarm, and the next I dropped food all over someone else’s coat. On another day I slipped on some water from a leaky fountain in Venice and skidded along the cobblestones, arms flapping madly, until my friend recovered from laughing long enough to catch me. The children playing in the fountain were similarly amused. It wasn’t all bad for me though, my friend had his share when he dropped his brand new USB stick with his just-completed thesis on it down into the drain outside the printer’s office. We went back a couple of days later and rescued it with a garden hoe and some chewing gum. Well he did, anyway. Mostly I just laughed and took photos.

So, all in all, I’m very glad there was no Facebook at the time to document or share any of this. I do have, however, a journal I kept at the time, full of all the details of how I embarrassed myself on a daily basis and all my amazement at the many things wonderful and new. I have a flick through it every so often, and am rewarded with memories like being assaulted with a barrage of different smells every time I opened the fridge, zooming around the Venetian countryside on the back of a Vespa, and being looked after by someone who seemed to regard feeding the guest as a full-time job. I discovered then that if an Italian woman asks you “do you like pasta?” she actually means “would you like me to cook you some pasta right now?” There were a couple of very awkward scenes before I figured that one out.

I guess, if Facebook had been around then, it would be asking me about now if I want to look back on my memories from ten years ago, which, as it happens, I do. I may have made a fool of myself quite a lot, but I would have been more of a fool if I hadn’t gone in the first place. It felt like a risk at the time, traveling on my own and staying with people I hadn’t met before, but it was worth it, and because I did, my courage has grown and today I can do those things without a second’s thought. It’s one of those things my current self would thank my past self for, if that sort of thing was possible. I like to think that my past self, as she zooms by on the Vespa, would wave and say, “you’re welcome”.

Ten years ago today, give or take a few hours for time difference, I stood at a check-in desk at Adelaide Airport and handed over a UK working visa and a one-way ticket to Rome. The lady behind the desk was having some trouble comprehending this.

“But it’s only a one-way ticket!” She kept saying. “How will you get home?”
I found this exasperating. Why did it matter how I was getting home? I wasn’t intending to come home any time soon, and I was pretty sure that when I did I would be able to book a flight from a foreign computer. She handed over my boarding pass, still looking unconvinced, and I headed into the airport, farewell party in tow.

What filled me then were the same feelings I still have whenever I leave a country that has become familiar – a mixture of sadness, excitement, anticipation, a little regret, and a sense of completion. Once chapter finishing, another one beginning – another blank page to fill, hopefully with something that hasn’t been written before.

On this occasion, I felt like I was starting a new page after many, many pages of the same old, same old. I’d always dreamed about travelling overseas – and finally it was happening!

But why did it take me so long? Oh, there were so many reasons. I needed to save more money, I’d just started a new job, there was a birthday, a wedding, always some occasion coming up. It was my grandmother who finally gave me the answer, although she didn’t realise it at the time – she was planning her next holiday – Alaska I think – and she said to me, “It’s pointless me trying to save for a holiday – I just put it on the credit card, enjoy myself, and then when I’ve paid it off I book the next one.” I realised that if I waited until I’d saved the money, I would never be going anywhere. I went to the bank and took out a loan. The very next day I went to a travel agent’s and booked a one-way ticket to Rome.

My plan was simple – I would spend a month or so in Italy, staying with some old friends and generally having a holiday, then I would fly to England and look for work. I didn’t know how long I would spend in Italy, so I hadn’t booked my flight to London – I think this is what gave the check-in lady such consternation. I stayed just long enough for a friend’s wedding and the previously mentioned grandmother’s 80th birthday party, then I was off. It was a Saturday – June 30th, 2007.

Thinking back on it now, I’m struck by the confidence and conviction I had in my plan, which was hardly a plan at all. I had no doubts – unlike the check-in lady – that it would all work out ok. The only thing I didn’t have much of was money, but I was going to get a job so that was fine. I didn’t know for sure how things were going to turn out, but I knew without question that it would be alright.

Ten years later, I can look back and say that it was. Some things went to plan, some things didn’t, but that’s ok. I’m proud of myself for making that initial decision and finding a way to make my dream a reality. But what happened to that person who believed that “things would work out the way they always do”? Thinking on it now, I can’t remember if I’ve felt such conviction or confidence since that day, when I was standing at the check-in desk with my one-way ticket and a suitcase full of things I didn’t need. A decade of life experiences and a string of frustrating circumstances have worn down my confidence and sapped my energy levels. Don’t get me wrong – in that time I’ve had some amazing adventures and meeting some truly inspiring people – I wouldn’t change any of it. But what happened to my confidence, that feeling of certainty, the spring in my step?

That’s what this blog is about. The next chapter, the next dream. I don’t feel ready, I still need to go to work, there are many other things that I really ought to do. But it’s time to start writing. I don’t know what I’ll write about, I don’t know how long it will last, and I don’t have that same belief that I did ten years ago that it will all work out fine. But I’ve taken the first step, and now I’ll wait and see where the road leads. After all, isn’t that the point of a one-way ticket?