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accoutrements?”
    â€œCheck.”
    â€œThe Traveler’s Friend–brand travel accessories in their entirety?”
    â€œCheck.”
    â€œAll three Genteel Traveler’s Guides and three Savvy Sojourner’s Guidebooks ?”
    â€œCheck.”
    â€œWater purifier?”

    â€œNice try, Dad. You know very well that’s covered under the subcategory of Traveler’s Friend–brand travel accessories.”
    â€œOne hundred and fifty-three items. Looks like you’ve thought of everything,” said Dad, handing me the itemized Packing List and pink highlighter.
    â€œ Numquam non paratus —never unprepared.”
    He gave me a wan smile. “I’ll go put on my back brace so I can load up the cars.” Then he headed up the stairs.
    With a grunt, I snapped the last of the locks on my ten pieces of black luggage, which filled the entire living room—the reason we had to take both Volvos. I carefully tucked the keys into the flesh-colored money belt hiding under my Traveler’s Friend Linen Blouse and zipped it shut. Denise, Laurel, and Amber all watched solemnly, sandwiched between my suitcases. This was a portentous occasion. The farthest Laurel and her mom had traveled was to the Grand Canyon. Amber’s family skied Vail in the winter and jet skied Newport Beach in the summer. Denise’s family had been as far north as Banff and as far south as Cancún. And no Spore had ever left the state.
    Until now.
    Oomp pa pa! Oomp pa pa! I checked my PTP—Portable Travel Planner. A going-away gift from my parents. A matchbox-size Dayplanner Organizer/watch/mini-computer/cell phone/compass/atlas/encyclopedia all in one, conveniently located where my watch would be.

    â€œMy PTP has just informed me that I have four hours before my plane takes off. So we’ll be departing for the airport in exactly thirty minutes.”
    â€œWhat song was that? Sounded like our school’s marching band,” said Amber, unwrapping some Red Vines.
    â€œJohn Philip Sousa. Dad programmed it.”
    Laurel daintily blew her nose, then tucked the Kleenex into her periwinkle skirt pocket. “Vassar, you won’t forget my spoons, will you?” She’d given me $100 to buy a silver-plated sugar spoon from each city I visited. It was a habit she’d picked up from her grandma—who happened to be one of the more traditional variety. “I want to add to my collection.” (“Collection” in her case meaning two: the Grand Canyon and Yosemite.)
    â€œWell, it’s on my To Do List, and if it’s on my To Do List—”
    â€œIt’s as good as done,” said Amber, Laurel, and Denise together.
    Laurel handed me a bundle of little white envelopes. “Open one a day for a quote that should in some way pertain to your trip.”
    â€œThey’re in Latin,” said Amber.
    â€œTo keep you mentally supple,” said Denise.
    I opened the first envelope, labeled “Day of Embarkation,” and read:
    â€œ Da mihi sis crustum Etruscum cum omnibus in eo …”
    Amber and Laurel laughed uproariously.
    â€œI don’t get it—”

    â€œSubstitute ‘pizza’ for ‘crustum,’ and you’ll die laughing,” said Denise drily.
    â€œâ€˜I’ll have a pizza with everything on it.’ Ah, yes, that’ll sure come in handy in the jungle.”
    I read another one: “Are you in omnia paratus ?” I smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am ‘ready for anything.’” I gestured at my mountain of luggage. “Everything I could possibly need is in here. Even a collapsible plastic shower.”
    Dad walked by wearing his black back brace. “Ladies, you have six minutes, forty seconds to say good-bye to Vassar.” He headed outside. I heard the beeps of the Volvo alarms.
    Denise got down to business:
    â€œSo, the plan is that you’ll email us each chapter