Travelling the unknown: Europe on 2 Zoloft a day

2005: In my second year of my second major tertiary undertaking, I quite plainly went mad. I swapped jobs, going from a cosy corporate income to what I thought was my ideal career, and had a complete mental breakdown. At the tender age of 25 working for a truly evil boss had finally tripped the switch and driven me bonkers.

By May 2005 I was living off my nest egg, attending night classes and attempting to hold myself together. I was under pressure from all sides - the teachers in my highly competitive course refusing to accept any excuse for failure, my landlord selling my rent-secured apartment out from under me and my health demanding treatment that my finances couldn't stretch to.

Taking all of these factors into account, I decided to do the logical thing: travel from my Australian home and spend two weeks on my own in Europe.

Of course, no-one who cared about me supported this crazy idea. I had never travelled anywhere on my own and had only one friend I could visit in an emergency. To top it off, I was spending the first three days in France, even though I had only a tenuous grasp of French. Nevertheless, I was determined to drag my panic-attack-prone, alcohol-reliant self over the other side of the world.

In my way of thinking, the trip was some kind of trial by fire. Everything in my normal life had been turned upside down, so if I was to survive I needed to get used to changing the way I interacted with the world. Travelling to Europe seemed like jumping off a very high cliff, but I felt this was the way to encourage wings to sprout.

Having a depressive reliance on alcohol really makes international travel so much easier. If not for the hangover and jetlag at the other end, I would recommend it. I slept through most of my journey, was able to appreciate b-grade Hollywood movies as I never had before, and stepped off the plane in Paris feeling no pain.

The step from the airport into the Paris heat was another story. Paris in the summertime is never a good idea. The streets smell like hot dogs (not the edible kind). Every so often, the city council wets the roads down and then the streets smell like hot, wet dogs. I call this 'eau de chien humide.'

I'd felt a bit weepy on the plane as I jetted away from everyone and every thing I loved. Part of me was terrified that I would fail in my self-appointed task, but whatever it had been in my subconscious that had thrown me into this

• 1
• 2
• 3
• next page >>

---

Add your voice

Know something about Travel experiences: Adventures into the unknown?
We want to hear your view. Write now!