The passport was issued on Valentine’s Day, 1985. I was 15. As I thumbed through the leather-bound book, a movie reel of memories played before me. Luxemburg, 1995. Ljubljana and Slovenia, April 1986. Hong Kong, July 1987. Some stamps were blue, others black. Some were faded, other stamps overlapped with reckless disregard. I could sort my stories, and friends, by continent.

Japan, June 1988. Portugal, November 1988. South Africa, December 1988. That was the adventure of them all – traveling with my best friend to visit her grandparents in Durban. Seoul, South Korea, 1988. A trip to visit my adopted sister’s roots.

I remember the conversation like it was yesterday. My family was sitting down for dinner, eating mom’s chicken livers. “I have some news to share,” Dad said in his matter-of-fact salesman-like manner. “I’ve been offered an opportunity to work overseas.”

My sister pretended not to hear, either that or she suddenly took a liking to her dinner. I, on the other hand, almost fell out of my chair. A spark went off in my antsy, I-want-to-discover-the-world teenage body. “Let’s go!” I yelled. I had just started my freshman year in high school, and leaving my friends wouldn’t be easy, but I was a pro at saying goodbye, and I loved adventure. Dad worked for IBM, otherwise known in our home as “I’ve Been Moved.”

So, I wouldn’t be getting a driver’s license, but I was willing to substitute four wheels for four years in The Netherlands. This was the kind of mileage I wanted. I knew it would be an adventure of a lifetime, but I didn’t realize what a blessing it truly would be.