I never imagined in my wildest dreams that traveling would be a part of my life. Growing up as a child in the 1950s, my mother was often ill, which I now realize meant my father worked tirelessly to cover medical expenses, leaving little for anything else. We lived in a newly built satellite town designed for British migrants arriving in Australia for the princely sum of just ten pounds. I had a strong dislike for the town and its environment. Summers were hot and dusty, while winters were cold with limited heating; I often slept under my dad’s old wool dressing gown. Yet, I found joy in waking up by the window, greeted by blackbirds perched on the cream chimney against a vibrant blue sky. Music filled our home. Both my parents had sweet voices, and my Dad taught us to sing in two and three-part harmony, holding concerts on Sunday nights. He crafted his own steel guitars, and there was always music and art to keep us entertained. I dabbled in the harp, violin, and guitar—none of which I mastered—but I learned to read music, a gift I cherish. How could I have ever imagined seeing the Taj Mahal? It was a dream that felt far beyond reach. Now, travel is an integral part of my life, and I find myself visiting the Taj Mahal at least once or twice a year during our tours. I remember the child I was, filled with wonder about the Taj Mahal, and now when I