After only a week in Italy, everything became clear. After the fog of jet lag had lifted, I saw my purpose in life. I realized that I was made to live on gelato and champagne, basking in the autumn sun of the Mediterranean. Since I was a little girl, it had always been my sacred dream to spend money like it can never run out, drink like I never have to get up early in the morning, and wax philosophically with the lightheartedness of someone who never had to make a real decision. All those years of searching and agonizing, when the answer was staring at me all along from the glossy cover of Luxury Travel: I was born to be an independently wealthy tourist.

I’m sure that if I had taken one of those career tests in high school, it would helpfully point me to Rich Tourist, right between Rice Grower and Rickshaw Driver. My teacher would congratulate me, shake my hand, and send me to the career distribution office right next to the school library. The secretary to the dean of career distribution, a brassy middle aged woman with supernaturally red hair, would crack a smile when she saw my paperwork. “Rich tourist, huh. I pulled mid-level bureaucrat, and I never looked back. I tell ya, they really look out for you around here.” Then she’d reach down into her desk and jangle innumerable keys, all the while snapping her gum and winking at me mysteriously. She’d then emerge with a burlap sack with a big green $ sign on it. “Well, good luck. Not that you’ll need it. I tell ya, they really look out for you around here.” And then I’d be off to the airport for my first flight to Rio de Janeiro.

I must have been out sick that day. If anyone has an extra life's savings lying around and wants to make a little girl's simple dream come true, send it my way.