Hi! My name is Jojo, I'm a writer and editor, I've just turned 30 and I'm moving to Australia in March 2016. No, I'm not doing it the adult way, I don't have a work visa - Lord, no - I'm grasping my last chance to spend one (hopefully two) years 'bumming around' (technical term) and becoming reacquainted with a long lost friend of mine: Relaxation. Yes, that's right, I have a working holiday visa.
We arrived in Barcelona for five nights last month on a sunny Monday afternoon, after spending three days in Girona at a friends wedding. The drive was around an hour and a half and we dropped the rental car at Barcelona-El Prat airport before catching the Airport Bus into one of the main squares, Placa de Catalunya.
For most of us, travel is one of life's biggest pleasures. We hop on board a plane, leave our lives behind, and absorb ourselves in a different way of life. We relax on beaches and explore cities. A few times while we're away, we'll utter the words "I don't want to go home" and "I wish I could stay here forever". But how true is that?
I'm hot, sweaty and wishing more than anything that the guy behind me would stop leaning against me breathing alcohol fumes in my face. Sadly there is no room to escape. I am crammed into a tube carriage, with my 60-litre, mud-covered backpack, dodging evil looks from commuters because I made the fatal faux pas of passing through central London at 8:30am on a Friday morning.