Late July, 2005

I didn’t think I’d be able to stand up, much less walk. My borrowed purple backpack was a monstrosity, almost as tall as me, and stuffed with tank tops, underwear, a camping stove, and whatever else I thought I’d need for the next month. It was all part of the crazy idea James and I had come up with to backpack around Europe after we graduated from art school. Crazy to me, anyway; I’d never dreamed of doing anything like this, and up until a few months earlier, had always said I hated camping and had no desire to do it. (This claim was based on one night in a tiny tent on the beach with my church youth group when I was 12. My sleeping bag wasn’t warm enough, my socks were damp, and the youth pastor’s kids threw rocks at my tent all night.)

Nevertheless, James and I came up with a plan: after we finished art school at our respective universities, we’d take a month to travel around Europe by train, carrying everything we needed in our backpacks, and find cheap campgrounds to pitch our tent in along the way. By the time we returned to London, my 3 year student visa would have expired, and I’d have to pack up and move home to southern California.

That July was an eventful month. After a rigorous campaign, London won the bid to host the Olympics in 2012. The Red Arrows flew over the city toward Buckingham Palace in celebration. The following morning, London’s underground and bus systems were attacked by suicide bombers. Thankfully, none of our crowd was lost or injured.

My family flew in for our graduations. Degree shows came to a close. James and I had a weekend trip to Wales, where I experienced the joys of peeing outdoors, along with many other firsts. (Lentils being one of them. Also sleeping in a sauna and seeing the Milky Way.)

And then it was time.

I looked at my backpack, innocently sitting on the floor of my room. I somehow contorted backwards, stuck my arms through the straps, and tried to straighten up. And immediately fell backwards onto my bed.