Name: Justine

Travel resume: Cuba, Dominican Republic, Aruba, Venezuela, UK (London), Italy (Rome, Pisa, Florence) France (Nice, Carcassone), Spain (Barcelona, Zaragosa, Madrid), Germany (twice, if you count the airport terminal as travel), various Canadian provinces (Vancouver, Quebec, Ontario) various US states (Ohio, New York, South Carolina, Pennsylvania, Michigan…)

My Favourite Travel Photo: A group of girlfriends and I took a trip last May to Varadero, Cuba. We spent a week tanning, swimming, and partying into the wee hours of the morning. Its one trip I will never forget and one that I suggest every woman takes. A trip with just the girls, to do whatever you please with no responsibilities (other than to save each other tanning chairs on the sandy beaches) - the best adventure. This picture was taken in the middle of our trip, during one of our self-proclaimed 3 pm happy hours. I think we figured that since time stops when you’re on vacation, why not start drinking earlier than normal? Even just a few months later, I can look back on that week and smile, hoping that every woman gets to grow old knowing she once spent one amazing week being a real girl.

Favourite Travel Story: When I was in high school, my parents sent me on a twelve-day school trip touring Spain, France, and Italy. Our first stop, Madrid could only be reached via Heathrow Airport in London. As the group of students and teachers were about to board the plane, I couldn’t find my passport or tickets. Of course, this was less than two years after 9/11, and airport security was still very strict. I spent eight hours in London with a crazy history teacher as my chaperone, trying to locate my missing I.D. We must have walked the distance of Manhattan, and still could not find my passport. And the option of visiting the Canadian Embassy was out of the question since new airport security meant, that although I am a citizen of a British colony, I needed a passport just to leave the airport. At this point I started to imagine someone using my identity to commit fraud. After a hysterical phone call to my mom, and a mad dash by my family to make arrangements for a new passport to be delivered to me, my belongings were located: all the way in Madrid in a classmate’s travel bag. The wonderful people at customs in Spain allowed me to board the plane with little more than a boarding pass and a facsimile stating I was permitted into the country. A man by the name of Brian, who worked for a British airline, was my saviour that day. He made all of the phone calls and arrangements that allowed me to continue on my dream trip of Europe. To this day, anytime I hear someone with a British accent or when I travel to London, I am reminded of the man who treated me like his own daughter and helped out even though he didn’t have to.

Monday, January 14, 2008 | general