When I left Canada, I wanted the world to humble me, I wanted to get my lily-white skin dirty, and I did. All bundled up in the belly of a giant greyhound with blinders on traveling south-southeast, I was on a quest that took me through the U.S. and as far south as Honduras. Stopping in unexpected places, I let chance decide my destiny; living for months without any cash, trading my skills for food, a bed, beer and stories, I made friendships with Zapatistas’ in Chiapas, Mayans in Guatemala, and Garifuna in Honduras. I met a man who changed my life. He was an old man with purple ankles, rum soaked breath and bushy eyebrows that swept across my cheek when he whispered in my ear, “Let go.” And, I did.