Recently, my dreams of getting my UK passport and thus being able to work in the EU were horribly crushed. It seemed I was not eligible. But yesterday my sister, being much more intelligent than I, discovered that we were, in fact, technically already British citizens… and therefore, my UK passport is just an application away.

And there doesn’t seem to be any good reason for me not to get it and go back to Europe. I was recently toying with the idea of teaching English in Asia. My childhood ambition to become some kind of professor died completely when, at 17, I taught swimming to bratty children who emitted a startling range of bodily fluids–at any rate, the dream was based more on hero-worship of my father than any actual desire on my part. But it does seem like a handy way to make money and see the sights in Asia, as well as gain valuable life experience and experience cultural immersion. And it’s what drama students from Guelph do when they become disillusioned with what life is offering in Toronto.

But while Asia is calling me (I WILL learn muay thai in the jungle! It MUST happen), my long love affair with Europe isn’t over. It may never be over. And, armed with a UK passport, I could work my way around the continent. Get shady jobs in hostels and bars! See the sights I missed in my mad dash! Have a torrid love affair with a charming and mysterious man with a sexy accent! Go back to Spain for more shopping!

Romanticism aside, it turns out that what I’m really happy doing is writing, and my inferiority complex manifests itself by demanding I make my life more interesting if that’s what I’m going to write about. I envision myself as a better-looking and less-douchey Chuck Klosterman and a less-hilarious, female Bill Bryson; that is to say, I want to write personal essays about experiences, preferably travel ones. And it’d be really awesome if someone could, you know, pay me for that sort of thing.