I can pinpoint the exact moment when I determined that some part of me, at some point in my life, needed to move to New Zealand. Not permanently, not even for a full year, but an actual move, not just travel. I was on an early morning walk through Queenstown, eager to wake up before my travel buddies so I could venture off for hot chocolate and wifi (I wasn't a coffee drinker yet, gasp), basking in the pure joy of being somewhere new and feeling like the whole world was opening up in front of me. I was 20, fresh out of a semester abroad at the University of Western Australia, road-tripping around the North and South Islands of New Zealand with some fellow Notre Dame study-abroaders before returning home for Christmas. We had two hilarious Wicked campervans, a steady supply of bread and peanut butter, a zest for adventure, and no set itinerary. It was delicious. 

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