I was about twelve years old when I first and truly felt bad about killing a plant.
But besides that minor murderous incident, I now look back on what might have been the best class trip of my school career.
Then in sixth grade, my class mates and I, plus two super-nice-people-but-very-strict teachers spent an entire week in a youth hostel in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. I now know that if it had been absolutely necessary, my mom could have come and got me in like two short hours. But back then, it felt like a long way from home.
Also, I want to be very clear that although there is no place like home, I did not tap my little red ballerinas and my mom did not have to come rescue me. Because I was a big girl, of course.
And I was no longer wearing glitterfied footgear.
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