Why Travelling is more than a holiday

As most little girls do, I always thought I was destined to be on stage. I would perform at talent shows, went to dance classes and perform endlessly to my mum. And like most childhood dreams it fizzled out to be nothing, only because of the small matter that I could not sing or dance. I could act pretty well, but without a tuneful note in my voice box or my limbs, I was hardly a triple threat. I left my dreams to continue my background ambition of being a writer, something which you can do whilst sitting in your pyjama's.
When I was 16, I was told that as an A level drama student, I could go to New York. Of course, as a failed child star, I felt it was my destiny. Yes, that does sound cheesy, but that's all the rage with these Hollywood types.
Arriving in New York City felt like old hand to me, I had been there two times previously, but never amongst other people who were other actors in the making. The familiar smell of petrol, candy and baked goods that wafts around in a comforting fug around New York makes me feel at home, and as I head to my hotel, I just know that the next five days to come were going to be perfect.
I must press on to the most significant part of the trip. Whilst booking, I nagged my teachers to make 'Wicked' one of the shows that we were going to see. And on day three that was going to be a reality. However, in the daytime, my teacher had another surprise for us.
We knew that we were going for a workshop of some sort, but as we headed some some avenue on something-or-other street, we arrived at a dance studio. Oh yes, dancing.
Inside we met the choreographer of Wicked, (who also plays one of the flying monkeys!) and she told us of the task that we were about to undertake. A two hour workshop of dancing...and singing. At the same time.
Now, most failed child actors would either recoil in horror or stand forth at the front of the class, unashamed of their complete inability to do perform either talents. I suppose you can already tell which one I went for.
I stood there, centre stage, barely looking at the song sheet that she had given me (being a hardcore Wicked fan, giving me the lyrics was almost an insult.) and I worked my hardest. I pivoted, I belted out the tune, I moved my arms in all sorts of directions. And I could not have been happier.
It was only at the end, when my teacher gave me a thumbs up and I saw I was the reddest and sweatiest in the class, I knew that I was either really unfit, or damn talented.