Maturity

For most of my youth, admiring travellers from a distance, I considered independent travel to be a sign of maturity. All the “adults” I knew had done it and all had returned; better for the experience. In terms of “growing up” it was of wine swilling, tax evading, lease signing, hymen tearing significance. I regarded it with a peculiar mix of trepidation and self assuredness. It was a daunting concept, but one the fourteen year old version of myself was quite certain she could handle better than anyone (and everyone) else. Ah, the follies of youth.

With all the enlightenment of twenty one measly years and several accompanied and unaccompanied overseas jaunts, I do indeed feel much more adult than perhaps I would if I had stayed home. The advantage I have over my younger self, however, is an awareness that this is bull.

I'm no adult, I'm a child playing dress-ups in entire countries. Smugly certain that I'm achieving international cultural sensitivity whilst simultaneously putting on an embarrassing representation of the Australian people.

So, to the people of Australia and those foreigners forced to tolerate me on their turf: I am truly, truly sorry. 


Not going to stop, though.