I am sitting on a luxurious private jet with nine other women from New York City and California. We are not traveling to posh resort in St. Tropez or the Cannes Film Festival in France. Not even close. I am in Africa – yes, that’s right, Africa – and we are flying to a rural airstrip in the middle of the South African wilderness. For the next sixteen days, we will be visiting four different African countries as we embark on a charitable safari, to raise money for schools in impoverished communities. And, get this, I only have one bag packed. It weighs less than twenty-five pounds and contains little more than three pairs of khaki pants, two pairs of khaki shorts and six t-shirts.

I am both nervous and exhilarated. I’ve never been away from my husband and daughter for such a long time. Sure, Avery and I have gone to Southampton or Aspen a day or so before Mario and Avery has gone away to camp, but I have never been away from both of them for this long or this far away.

I adjust my seat, put on my face mask, close my eyes, and brace myself for the journey of a lifetime.

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