A Journey That Started at Sea

Do you have a favorite place you have visited? Where is it?

My father has a paralyzing fear of planes. It’s not something he dreams of overcoming—travel itself has never appealed to him. I suspect he was always this way, but age only made it worse. Yet somehow, growing up in his house, I became obsessed with everywhere else.

I was that kid glued to National Geographic, eyes wide at distant peaks and jungle temples, dreaming of the places I saw on those glossy yellow-framed covers. Cliché? Absolutely. Impossible? That’s what I thought too, especially when my dad would say the real barrier wasn’t fear—it was money. He couldn’t afford it. Whether he truly couldn’t or simply wouldn’t, I’ll probably never know. But it didn’t matter. His answer only made me more determined.

By my twenties, I’d stopped waiting for permission or a plane ticket. I got creative. Really creative.

The Cargo Ship

My first escape from Brazil happened in the most unconventional way possible. I somehow convinced a company owner to let me and my middle sister board a cargo ship headed for the United States. What I thought would be a quick voyage turned into a month of watching dockworkers load and unload supplies along the Brazilian coast before we finally pushed out to sea.

Then came fifteen days of pure freedom. Just the two of us, walking the foredeck, watching dolphins and flying fish race alongside the ship as if guiding us toward something bigger. When we finally reached the American coast—South Carolina, I think, or maybe North Carolina; the memory’s blurred—it felt less like arriving and more like being let in on a secret.

We spent a month exploring the East Coast, climbing from that port all the way through Washington DC to New York and back down to Baltimore, where we caught the ship home. It was exhilarating and awkward and absolutely unforgettable. My first real taste of elsewhere.

But There Were Better Places

Here’s the thing about falling in love with travel: you can’t pick just one favorite. Southeast Asia ruined me—Bali’s rice terraces, Ubud’s temples and markets and that particular quality of light at dusk. I could stay there forever.

Kathmandu holds something different, something sacred. After pushing myself to my limit on a Himalayan expedition in 1997, I stayed for two extra weeks, still dizzy with altitude tiredness, still somehow unable to leave. My friends and I wandered the valley like we had all the time in the world, and those two weeks felt like coming home to a place I’d never been.

South America has its hooks in me too. Yes, I love Brazil—it’s home. And Canada stole a piece of my heart. But Patagonia, Peru, Bolivia… they’re different. They’re calling me back. Along with everywhere else I haven’t seen yet.

So much left to do. So much still to see.