Getting to South America (or: "Nothing worth having comes easy"...)

So.

Imagine you're me for a second.



You've decided to go travelling round South America for an undetermined amount of time, despite the fact their wifi is spotty and your straighteners won't work properly over there.



You've quit your job, put your life in storage, and booked yourself a flight to Rio de Janeiro.  



What is there to do next other than sit back, relax and spend some quality time with your loved ones before you jet off?



I'll tell you what there is to do: 



Worry.



I'm a natural worrier. My favourite pastime is making myself anxious about things that are either out of my control or could never feasibly happen in a million years.




Don't believe me? Here's a few of the things I worried about in the three weeks leading up to my trip:

• I'm probably going to be violently robbed as soon as I get off the plane.


• What happens if we can't get to Heathrow and we miss our flight?


• I could be sharing a hostel with someone who decides to murder me in my sleep


• What if I inadvertently wander into a favela and have to join a gang or become a drug mule to avoid being shot?


• The pound is probably going to collapse while I'm away and leave me essentially penniless.


• Could there possibly be an arrest warrant for me that I don't know about? I might get to the airport and find out I'm not actually allowed to leave the UK. 

And those are just the highlights.



Some anxiety before a big life change like this one is inevitable, but when you find yourself periodically panicking that you'll be detained at the airport and thrown in jail because of an arrest warrant you didn't know about, especially when you've never really done anything illegal in your life, there's probably a bit of an issue there.



By the time the big day actually came around, I was a ball of nerves. I was convinced something would go wrong and we wouldn't actually get there. So when we arrived at Heathrow on time, I was relieved. When I got through check and security without being arrested, I was ecstatic. And when we made it onto the plane (a mere 20 minutes delayed), I was delirious with happiness.



Direct flights to Rio were far too expensive for our backpacker budgets. So the plan was to take a quick plane to Frankfurt, wait round for an hour and half, and then get a 12 hour flight the rest of the way.



I'm not really a fan of changing planes. I regard my baggage getting from point A to point B without me personally watching it some kind of witchcraft on direct flights, so I have absolutely no faith a small barcode on a tag will ensure my luggage arrives at the same final destination as me instead of getting lost somewhere in Saudi Arabia.



But, I thought, we're flying with Lufthansa. German efficiency. There's no way they'll let anything at all go wrong.



And then, while we were waiting to take off, the pilot told us we weren't allowed to leave Heathrow due to thunderstorms (which thunderstorms I have no idea - I certainly couldn't see any) and would be waiting on the runway for around two hours.



Two hours!



Factoring in the delay we'd already had, we'd be leaving Heathrow at the exact same time our flight was meant to go from Frankfurt. We were definitely going to miss our connection.



I hadn't actually worried about this eventuality, so I had no worst case scenario contingency plan prepared for it. I just had to sit.



And worry.



Of course.

• We've wasted money on a night in our first hostel we won't even get to use.


• How will we find a hotel to stay in tonight?


• What if they tell us we have to pay for a new flight to Rio?


• Why did I go for the cheap insurance? It's not going to cover this...

And on and on and on for a full 50 minutes until the thunderstorm apparently stopped and we were allowed to take off.



Eventually we landed in Frankfurt about 8 minutes after our second flight was due to leave. I prayed to every god I could imagine they'd held it for us, but of course they hadn't, and we were told to go to the Lufthansa desk where we'd be given a new flight time for the next morning and a hotel voucher for that night. It was apparently easier for our bags to be kept in the system (witchcraft!), so we were given a little overnight kit by the airline and glumly went to find out what our new flight time was and which awful airport adjacent hovel we'd be staying in that night.



Luckily the Lufthansa staff took pity on us and asked if we'd like to be put on a flight that same night - boarding in about an hour. We jumped at the chance and took the last two seats (unfortunately not together, but someone would surely switch?).



I tried not to think about my poor bag (probably stuck forever in the Floo Network) which would never be returned to me. At least I had all the most important things in my hand luggage: phone, iPad, makeup.



Going through security in Frankfurt, my rucksack was searched and swabbed by a terrifying looking German policeman. I was so done with life by this point that I wouldn't have been surprised if 10 kilos of heroin had somehow made its way into my rucksack and I'd been thrown in prison for the rest of my life.



But it turned out to be a random check - and the policeman was more interested in talking about Brexit than anything else (a recurring theme of this trip so far).



We boarded our plane, took our separate seats, and I asked the nice Norwegian man next to me if he'd possibly consider switching with my friend, since I'm a nervous flier.



He took one look at Alex's seat, which didn't recline because it was at the back of a section of the plane, and refused.



How did I respond to this? The way any reasonable, mature adult would respond of course.



I burst into tears.



I explained to my new Norwegian friend and the flight attendant who was trying to lake the switch that I was anxious, we'd missed our first flight, I was going to be away from home for at least 6 months, and that I just wanted to sit next to my damn friend.



I reckon they thought I was a teenager and that I was having some kind of nervous breakdown because it was all sorted pretty sharpish after that and Alex came to sit next to me for emotional support.



The rest of our flight was uneventful. I didn't sleep much, didn't eat anything. Oh, and the screen on my iPad smashed when the girl in front of me rammed her seat into my knees.



Could anything else go wrong?



It turns out it actually couldn't, because we landed smoothly at about 5am local time (a mere hour and a half later than originally planned), got through security and into the country without a hitch (they didn't even ask to look at the onward flights we'd panic-bought the might before which pissed me off) and after a tense 20 minutes of waiting at the carousel, our luggage even arrived looking pretty unscathed.



We wandered out into the Rio morning with a driver from our hostel, and promptly got stuck in the rush hour traffic. With so many new things to look at I didn't mind too much though.



By the time we arrived at the hostel it was about 7.30. We were greeted by the most stereotypically looking Australian guy I've ever met, and clearly woke up our dorm-mate checking into our room. Never let it he said that I don't know how to win friends and influence people.


The logical end to this blog post would involve me telling you that we got a few hours sleep and then headed out to explore a bit of Rio in the afternoon. But I'm not a particularly logical person, so instead I'll leave you with this sneak peek of our first day, which I'll cover when I next post.

• We ended up in a favela. Essentially by accident. On our very first day in Rio. Having had no sleep.

I'm leaving the country! (Or... Lib-xit)

Britain. 

The birthplace of the Toby Carvery, Lord Sugar, and about 17 million slightly racist grandparents. 

Good old grey drizzly comforting Blighty. You can’t beat it. 

When you reside in Her Majesty’s United Kingdom, it’s easy to think there’s no need to ever go to any of those other nasty countries, where they don’t show Eastenders on the telly and you can’t find a decent chippy, and everyone’s a bit too relaxed because of all the sun.

Here in Cool Britannia, we’ve got a rich history, incredible scenery, and thousands of years of culture. Not to mention, we invented afternoon tea. A whole extra meal you get to eat just because you’re posh!

But since Nigel Farage, Boris Johnson and Michael Gove collectively fucked anyone who plans on living longer than about 7 years with, essentially, a huge referendum-shaped dick, I’m starting to think now might be a pretty good time to leave for a while. 

Which is fortunate, really. Because today is my twenty-I-don’t-feel-comfortable-revealing-my-age-anymore birthday. And a few months ago I realised that ageing and death are actually inevitable, I but haven’t really done anything valuable with my oh-so-fleeting life yet.

It was time to make a change. 

So on Friday, I left my job. It was emotional, guys. People almost cried. I made a speech which was probably very moving and not at all awkward. They gave me gin (every job I’ve ever left has given me gin as a leaving present…). 

Five weeks prior to Friday, I handed my notice in.

Now, in the immortal words of Oscar Martinez, “I love a good quitting story. It makes me feel like I have control over my own life.”. And as much as I’d like to tell you I marched up to my boss in the middle of the office, told him he could stick his poxy job, and then went off to the pub with the cheers of my co-workers ringing in my ears, real life resignations are rarely as glamourous. 

I actually sidled up to him after a meeting and asked him for a private word. When I explained what I was going to do, he looked at me like I was crazy. I started to think maybe I was crazy and realised that I didn’t have a firm plan beyond “flying to Rio de Janeiro on July 11th”, but by this point I’d already committed to the resignation. And you can’t really un-resign without looking like an idiot so I was a bit stuck. (plus the flight is non-refundable).

So… I’m flying to Rio on July 11th. 

Here is a list of the most common questions people have asked me since revealed I was quitting my secure job in an economically uncertain time for no discernible reason. 

How are you going to cope without having someone around you to verbalise your every thought to?

Good question. Luckily my good friend Alex is coming along with me for the first three months of the trip. She’s really patient and I’m sure will tolerate me saying literally whatever comes into my head at any time of the day or night without killing me.

The first three months? How long exactly are you planning on being away?

My plan is to spend 6 months travelling (3 months in South America with Alex and a further 3 in Central America alone), and then hopefully head up to stay with my aunt in Northern California for a little longer. Money permitting obviously. And let’s be honest, there’s every chance I’ll blow through my savings by the end of August and beg my mum for the cash to get an early flight home. 

Six months is a long time for you to go without Netflix…

This was an initial fear of mine too, but luckily you can get Netflix anywhere you can get an internet connection. And Gilmore Girls has just been released worldwide so I think I’ll probably be good.

How on earth does someone as high maintenance as you fit everything they need into a backpack?

The answer is “with great difficulty” and also “By risking an injury carrying too much weight around”. My backpack is almost completely full (although I suppose at least I’ll save money not buying souvenirs) and I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that I can’t justify taking high heels or any eyeshadow palettes with me. But I’m holding on to my straighteners and full skincare regime for dear life.

Where are you going to live/work when  you get back to the UK?

Well firstly with British politics the way it is at the moment let’s not even assume we’ll have a country left by the time I get back. Teresa May could have completely eradicated our human rights by then.

Secondly: please refrain from asking me this question again in case I have some kind of breakdown.

Aren’t you going to be the oldest person by far in most of the hostels?

*quiet sobbing*

Although my crippling fear of change and anxiety about the future are both starting to rear their ugly heads, I am actually excited to go on this trip. I’ve been working in one form or another for my entire teenage and adult life, so to know the next 6 months to a year of my time is completely my own is really freeing. 

And at the risk of sounding like an absolute wanker, I think it’ll be valuable time to “clear my head” (because it’s not empty enough already), “work out what I want to do with my life” (marry rich and design handbags), and perhaps even do a bit more writing.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to eat more cake and examine my face for emerging wrinkles.