I memorized the world’s capitals when I was in high school. Anne of Green Gables and Harry Potter were second only to the atlas—my loot from my grandfather’s extensive bookshelf. The very first work of non-fiction that struck me, and which I have never forgotten, was a travel feature of Lake Como in Italy.

Deep in the recesses of my mind, I knew I wanted to see the world. Every page I leafed through—the Machu Picchu of Peru, the Statue of Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro, and infinite expanses of vineyards and rolling hills—I devoured more than my Chemistry and (gasp!) Physics notes.

And then I was introduced to the camera—that powerful piece of black metal-and-plastic I had never tired of cursing because of the shoulder and back pains it had brought me, not to mention an uneven pair of biceps that could give any man a run for his money. But it has allowed me to do something a lot more normal than being, uh, punctilious in school. I am, of course, far from perfecting it. God knows I get bouts of laziness one too many times, resulting in inferior photos, or worse, picture-perfect moments missed.

What first struck me as no more than isolated cases turned out to be milestones—discoveries and habits that have, gradually but surely, influenced how I would think the days and years that followed.

But there’s just too much to learn still—in writing, asking the right questions, making lasting connections, taking pictures that matter, catching that fleeting shaft of light. The list just goes on and on.

I am barely there. But I will be.

And now with that map, and maybe some pushpins..