An impossibly long time ago, my childhood friend J-- and I embarked on a summer vacation to Europe. Two months on a far-off continent would be ambitious and exciting, an adventure we were sure would connect us forever. To ready myself, I purchased a sturdy blue backpack and stuffed it with the requisite essentials: a plastic poncho that would double as a bathrobe, curlers made from large juice cans, a wad of American Express traveller’s cheques, an unflattering shift that promised not to wrinkle, and the traveller’s bible, “Europe on $5 a Day.” My father took me to the jewellery store and bought me a silver-plated bracelet that listed my full name and blood type. I often think of his fragile faith that this would keep me alive. We were reckless from the get-go. I snuggled
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