One of my childhood best friends was Portuguese. I was always so jealous when she’d come back all freckle-faced, a colourful braid in her hair and a lunch box full of snacks we don’t get here in the UK. I thought it was so cool that she got to spend her summers in AFRICA (…I wasn’t the brightest child). I, too, wanted to explore Portugal! This desire didn’t die as I grew up, or when I learnt which continent it was in. Now I, a fully grown adult capable of making my own decisions, can go whenever I please! (Which isn’t often because my bank account won’t allow it).
I blame the birth of my flying phobia on three things: university, my friends and family, and the media.
Desert views (Phoenix, AZ to Los Angeles, CA).
I was 24 before I travelled outside of the UK. My first flight ever had been a few months prior, from Birmingham to Glasgow, to see Sum 41 at the 02 Academy and eat haggis in a suspiciously empty Wetherspoons. Nothing had made me feel uneasy about flying, so when my boyfriend and I decided to do a road trip across America, the thought of the eight-hour flight there didn’t bother me at all.