trust me, I'm not the gap year type

my unexpected flea-bitten journey to a gap year at 30

My name is Lauren. A few weeks ago, I quit my job in big tech to travel the world, after ending an 8 year relationship, finding love again, shattering my leg in a road accident and surrendering to the concept of living a wild and precious life. This is my story.

Whilst one is writing about the past, a story is coloured by what presently is happening to its writer - J.L. Carr, A Month In The Country.

I have four Mondays left until I leave for my world trip. This week, the anxiety about quitting my job, and my life in London, has slithered into my narrative. I knew deep down that my gut was telling me to go. But the battle between heart and mind rages on. And I’ve never had a lot of luck whilst travelling.

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‘Everything works out in the end, and if it hasn’t worked out yet, it’s not the end’, I assure myself, as I throw up into a Pringles tube on a coach trip from Havana to Trinidad. I repeat the same proverb whilst a Cuban dentist, baring an alarming resemblance to Edward Scissorhands, diagnoses me with a wisdom tooth infection.

When I was 22, I embarked on my first adventure holiday to Cuba, now a ‘State Sponsor of Terrorism’ according to the U.S government. Cuba was intoxicating - literally, rum was cheaper than water (#PringlesGate). It was a riot of sun-faded colour, burnished brass, peeling paint, exhaust fumes and crumbling colonial facades. Life in pastel. Strong coffee. Atlantic salt. Dust.

havana-oo-na-na

Arriving in Havana was an assault to all my senses. The air was thick with petrol, many buildings were in various stages of decomposition and music drifted from every direction. Old car engines growled. Cubans, in sun-faded t-shirts and worn shoes piled noisily onto the streets; laughing, dancing, smoking cigars, playing dominos. I was a chicken-nugget-eating young Brit, who’d only been outside of Europe on family trips to DisneyWorld Florida. What the hell was I doing here?

Jet-lagged and dazed, I arrived outside my hostel as the sun was setting, only to find hundreds of Cubans blocking the entrance. My hostel was the location of a rare public Wifi hotspot (internet was heavily restricted at the time of travel). Once I climbed my way through the sea of faces, dimly lit by phone screens, I found my room. My roommates: my (now ex-)boyfriend, a couple of geckos and a mosquito or two. I switched on a retro television - purely out of curiosity - and read through the thick, slightly curved glass screen, ‘La Habana sufre un brote de fiebre del dengue’ (Havana suffers a dengue fever outbreak). I noticed an itchy red mound forming on my right leg.

Meanwhile, my ex-boyfriend let out a gasp. When I asked him what was wrong, he explained he’d been struck by the sudden urge to learn about the history of capital punishment in Cuba (yes, I have a type). He’d searched ‘last execution in Cuba’ via our public WiFi card and been immediately disconnected. If the dengue didn’t finish me off, a visit by the Cuban secret service would.

Alas, I survived both.

Havana time travel

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More recently, Tim and I shared our first romantic holiday together. We were six months into our relationship and I can confirm the ‘can I call you my girlfriend’ conversation is just as cringy, delightful, toe-curling and joyful as it was a decade ago.

In my mind, Tim had well and truly ‘earned’ boyfriend status by then. I had spent the past six months learning to walk again after I was hit by a taxi and was sent into grief-stricken hysteria when my darling little hamster, Tuppence, passed away. Of course, the issue of the world trip remained. I didn’t have an answer, so I did what I do with all unresolved things. Shoved it as far under the proverbial rug as I could. Though the elephant remained in the room - the chunky bastard.

my mum went all out with the headstone

Craving sun, sea and luxury, and because I wasn’t mobile enough to do anything else, we selected an all-inclusive resort in the Dominican Republic. This is going to be perfect, I thought, as I meticulously planned my beautification regime. Gel nails, brow dye, lash perm, waxing, teeth whitening. I ordered new sundresses and bikinis. The more treatments I booked in, the more naturally gorgeous I became.

The first few days were paradise. Pina Colada consumption begun at 10am. We lounged, ate, read books, played Monopoly Deal and walked along the beach at sunset as the syrupy sun melted into the horizon, turning the last whispers of light into gold.

the scene of the crime (keep reading)

It was all going to plan, until day three. I was mid-Pina Colada sip, when my stomach began to twist. Don’t panic, I thought, it’s just a little cramp. Fast forward a few hours and I’m out of excuses as to why I keep running (*SPEED-LIMPING) to the toilet, my multi-layered silk beach wrap flapping gloriously behind me. ‘I’m absolutely fine’, I say to Tim, ‘I just need to pop back to the room again’. Nothing says romantic getaway like digestive fireworks.

But it was about to get worse.

That night over drinks, I could feel my feet burning up inside my trainers. It must be sunburn, I concluded. My Dad raised us with a deep awareness of the perils of un-creamed feet. Clearly traumatised by a past affliction, he would lie for hours, baking every inch of his body in the sun, with the exception of his feet, to which a towel would be (rather morbidly) wrapped around his ankles. Each evening after a beach day, with a bright red face, burnt chest, peeling back and pale white feet, he’d say with unsettling sincerity, “but seriously kids, never forget to suncream your feet”.

When we were back in our hotel room, I had to ask Tim to help remove my trainers. I lay back on the bed, my stomach aching, my skin grey and my shoes, stuck on my soles. We finally managed to pry my trainers off. My feet had ballooned into two giant marshmallows and my toes looked like angry dough balls. Christ alive.

This isn’t sunburn. It’s a flea feast.

three days post flea-feast

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All of this is to say, I am not the gap year type.

I’m terrified of insects.

I’m a fussy eater.

I tend to contract strange illnesses (often related to said insects).

I’m lazy. I don’t like walking. I don’t like hiking. I don’t like public transport.

I’m introverted as hell.

Yet here I am, four weeks away, about to give up my life in London for a trip I never thought I’d take.

And maybe that’s the point, because

‘life is either a daring adventure,

or

nothing

at all’.¹

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Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading my story. You can catch up on all my posts here. Consider subscribing if you’d like to hear more as I prepare for my gap year. The story continues next week.

1. Quote attributed to Helen Keller, ‘Let Us Have Faith’ (1940).