Since my earliest moments, you’ve told me about how when you were in high school you had a choice between getting a car and taking a trip to the Philippines for the Boy Scouts World Jamboree. You chose the Philippines.
You’ve never looked back.
I was five when we went to Spain. I remember chicken fingers, greasy and perfectly crisp, and sitting at a small restaurant table. I remember this was after a morning being pushed around in my umbrella stroller, staring up in awe at giant paintings by Picasso and Goya in the Prado Museum — paintings I knew nothing of then but would later learn about in school — but what I remember most clearly is eating those chicken fingers and knowing, somewhere inside my little five-year-old heart, we weren’t at home. We were somewhere else. I kept my first travel journal on that trip, because even then you were teaching me to remember.