By the time I was 9 years old, I could have happily lived in airports and on airplanes for my entire life. I’d learned all the tricks, all the secrets, and in many ways they felt like home themselves, considering all that my dad had us traveling. I’d even go as far as to say I was more comfortable sleeping on the couch in some hidden corner near the boarding gate of wherever Dad had us this week than I did in a proper hotel room. Of course, being home with Mom felt the most like home, but I was only there once every three weeks or so, usually only for a night or two. Then dad had a new plan. And we were off again. Mom stayed home with my brother, who didn’t care for the traveling, but she saw how much I was my father’s daughter, how much I loved going from place to place, So—she approved my homeschooling and signed the slips that let my father take me out of the country with her blessing.
By the time I was ten, I had more stamps in my passport than days I’d spent in a regular classroom, but I’d be willing to bet that I had learned more than anyone else my age. After all, history was taught to me in the ruins of the society we were discussing. Pride and Prejudice was read just down the road from Jane Austen’s final resting place. Science was studied knee deep in a swap with some insect or other trapped in my hair while my dad and his friends tried to identify it and I just really hoped it wouldn’t bite me. Whatever struck my dad’s fancy that month, that’s what we were learning about, that’s where we were going.
So, yeah, I think it’s safe to say I had an unusual childhood, and a less than orthodox education. But go ahead and quiz me. I bet you I’ll know everything you want me to and so much more.