I’m Theodora. I’m nomadic.
That means I, and my twelve-year-old son Zac, live anywhere, everywhere, and nowhere.
We bounce from adventure to adventure, to mishap to mishap, and travel pretty much all the time.
Workwise, I’m a freelance writer. Which is, mercifully, portable.
Which doesn’t stop me moaning about it. (I’m British. What can I say?!)
I get asked three questions very often. The first is “What do you do for money?” (write, but here’s how some other people earn enough to travel).
The second is “What do you do about school?“.
And the third is “Where have you been?“.
I’ve also put together a helpful set of longterm family travel FAQs, which should answer a few more questions — feel free to ask more if they’re missing.
Way, way back in January 2010, after the year from hell, I sold my house in London, packed up a backpack and my then nine-year-old son, and set up a blog called Travels with a Nine Year Old.
We were going to be gone for a year, you see. Because you can totally see the world in a year, right?
Right? Err, right…
And, yeah, Travels with a Nine Year Old is totally a futureproof name for a blog…
So now we’re EscapeArtistes, and I do hope that’s better, cos I’m fucked if I’m changing it over again.
I like to think I answer the big questions of travel, along with a funny motorbike story or two.
What can you learn from hunter-gathering nomads about happiness?
What does an 80p bottle of whisky taste like?
What’s the appropriate reaction when a monkey starts having sex with your ear?
What does burning human flesh smell like?
And what’s it like doing maths in Chinese?
And, umm, how about an elephant cuddle?
I write about the apparent mundanity of leading a life less ordinary, of rolling into a new, foreign town and finding an apartment, reacquiring the art of driving in Lebanon’s unforgiving traffic, or grappling with the temptations of social media and persistent cretins in a pizza joint in Bali.
I stick up photos of fabulous, crazy and just plain bizarre places we’ve visited. I rant about topics from politics to books and films, and I share the odd embarrassing sex story.
But most of all this blog is a love letter to my son, an account of a journey through mother love and motherhood, every last sweary, shouty, screamy and plain infuriating minute of it.
Sound soppy? Read this post and you’ll be a little bit sick in your mouth.
Want to keep up with us? I do hope so. Because I’m apparently a family travel expert.
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