My younger sister Leah and I have been travel companions as long as we’ve been able to hike and carry our own backpacks. Mom and Dad never underestimated our global-hardiness; our passports can attest to it. We’ve canoed the Dordogne River of France, biked the Flume Trail in Lake Tahoe, camped in Costa Rica’s rain forests, climbed Zapotec ruins in Oaxaca, snorkeled along Cozumel’s reefs, and scurried around the markets of Hong Kong. On more than one of these trips we’ve faced disasters , such as confrontations with the wilder side of wildlife, post-mountain biking stitches and black-eyes, and stomach illness after drinking the water in Mexico. Nevertheless, these otherwise painful and often embarrassing dilemmas have seemed trivial and even amusing with my sister-travel-companion at my side. Her joking manner and gruff “get over it” consolations provided enough spirit for both of us to hobble over the next mountain, to take one more bite of the indigenous-mystery food, and to revel in the awesomeness of travel. For the past decade we’ve split meals, air fares and hotel beds; we’ve shared the world between us, and there’s no looking to home now. Where’s the next stop, sister?