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Quite often I find myself over-preparing for many of the situations I encounter in life. If I don’t know how something is going to turn out, my anxiety makes arrangements for every possible outcome. This is also how I justify bringing a giant suitcase, a handbag, and a duffel on weekend trips. Therefore, it was ambitious (and severely uncharacteristic) of me to spend four months abroad in Europe without purchasing a data plan for my cell phone, though I truly could not have predicted the trouble it would eventually land me in. The months leading up to my trip to Paris were essentially a breeze in terms of travel. I was studying abroad in London at the time and had wifi almost everywhere I went; all I had to do was pop into a bustling cafe or department store, and I was set. Even when there was a gap in connection, it felt good to be present in the city, conscious of the history beneath every streetlamp and cobblestone. That being said, the first of many personal travel disasters began while I was on a trip to Paris with a group of friends from my program. Driven by an impulsive tendency that I seemingly adopted after mere hours in Europe, I agreed to join a guided tour of Versailles that would depart from the center of the city and travel to the palace as a group. The only issue with this plan was that none of my Airbnb roommates had wanted to sign up, therefore I would be responsible for getting myself to the tour’s meeting location on my own. So with borderline-comedic optimism, I bought the ticket anyway. The next day, I started the morning in high spirits, loading up the navigation into Google Maps and striding out of our little storybook apartment with the confidence of a young ingénue in a Flaubert novel. Passing a nearby bakery, I was lured in by the intoxicating smell of fresh bread and left with a warm pain au chocolat melting in my fingers. I had granted myself extra time and knew where I was going after all. After a few minutes of walking with steadily decreasing certainty, I finally stopped to glance down at my pre-downloaded map. I was nowhere near the bus stop I thought I was heading towards. A bright panic set in and sent me hopelessly sprinting back in the direction I came from in order to catch my ride. Of course, I had missed it by about five minutes and damned myself for not being more careful. I had no clue if the next bus would get me to the meeting place on time and had no way of contacting my friends. In a blind frenzy, I hopped on the next bus and prayed they’d be there when I got off. After running through storied, winding streets, the sidewalk precariously narrow and my hopes steadily dwindling, I arrived at the fountain square panting, two minutes past the meeting time. Desperately scanning for a familiar face, I walked in circles around the fountain, my eyes stinging with tears. As vendors accepted colorful notes in exchange for delicate chocolates and kitschy souvenirs, I accepted defeat. Before arriving in Europe, I’d never really felt comfortable throwing caution to the wind or doing anything on a whim. Every event or trip or choice in my life required meticulous planning beforehand, especially if I was alone. Standing idly in this fountain square, however, I suddenly felt a rush of newfound boldness wash over me. I was in Paris dammit, and I would be going to Versailles, with or without a guide. So with some help from a Coca-Cola public wifi network and my minimal high school level French prowess, I peeled down the Metro steps onto the train platform and waited on adventure. As my fear transformed into excitement, I once again felt like that young ingénue, sanguine and starry-eyed. However, this time the story wasn’t outlined, bulleted, and endlessly revised. I’d be making it up as I went along, and this time it was okay.