In my third year of Primary School in the UK, I had a teacher called Mrs M. Every Monday she would gather us together to sit at her feet where she’d ask us in turn about our weekend. I guess it was an early version of show and tell, without the show.

I’d often become a little jealous of some of my friends as they seemed to have very exciting weekends: ski trips, visits to Edinburgh zoo, ferry trips to islands and historic castles …In comparison, my weekends seemed rather dull and mundane: a visit to my grandma and grandpa, maybe a trip to the shops, Sunday school, and if I was really lucky, a walk to the cemetery to put flowers on my recently deceased father’s grave.

I remember one particular weekend I’d been finishing off a geography project on South Africa. I’d chosen SA for several reasons. I liked giraffes and zebras, I’d noticed that the tin of guavas in the pantry, that we kept for special occasions, came from there and then there were the Outspan oranges in the fruit bowl. Yes, oranges were considered a special treat in 1960s Scotland.

So the following Monday when it was my turn to talk, I proudly announced to the entire class that I’d gone to South Africa for the weekend. There were a few gasps and a few giggles. Then an angry shout from Mrs M who accused me of being a terrible little liar and demanding that I leave the room immediately. Humiliated and ashamed, I left the room with tears streaming down my cheeks wishing that it had been true. I so wanted it to be true. I stood outside sobbing and awaiting my fate. I was reprimanded again and told to come inside and apologise to the class for telling lies, which I duly did with my head bowed and eyes downcast.

The good news is that I received an A+ for my project which I believe assisted my emotional recovery. In spite of everything, my fascination for South Africa continued into adulthood where it remained very high on my travel Bucket List.

Last June saw my dream realised when I landed in Jo’burg on an overcast winter morning. I loved every minute. My visit to Kruger National Park was unforgettable as was the week in Cape Town. But the best part of all was that I spent not just one, but two weekends in South Africa – take that Mrs M!

Just recently as I was gazing out the window of a plane at 35,000 feet, mesmerised by the snow-capped peaks below, it dawned on me how different my husband and I are in our attitude to travel. Now in his defence, he does have to travel a lot more than I do and often has to meet work deadlines en route, but all things considered, we do take a very different approach to travel and he acts the same whether travelling for business or pleasure.

It begins at the airport as soon as we step inside the terminal. My husband, who is not usually one to rush, suddenly changes into a possessed man on a mission, which means that everything has to be done at triple the speed, including check in, clearing immigration, getting to the gate, and especially boarding the plane, lest we miss out on that prime overhead bin space. I end up doing a half skip and run in an attempt to keep up with him, my carry on bag zig-zagging all over the place and my handbag slipping off my shoulder as I see the back of his head disappear around yet another corner. The same procedure occurs in reverse at the destination. It’s imperative we get off the plane in record-breaking time, clear customs, pick up our bags and exit the terminal before the person in row 45 has exited the plane.

I love to sit at the window and watch the cotton-wool fluffiness of the clouds; the tiny ships like small dots in the vast expanse of ocean; the patchwork quilt of dry brown desert interrupted by blocks of verdant lushness; the reflection of the sun on the metal of the aeroplane. I can spend hours lost in the thoughts each scene evokes.

Then turning away from the window there are the faces of the others travelling to the same destination; a collection of life’s stories compounded into one small space for this particular moment in time, yet barely a story shared.

When we travel these days we have become so disconnected from the actual journey and from those who are journeying with us. Our eyes are focussed on screens which seem to capture our attention so much more than even the pages of a book.

I remember a time when it was considered impolite not to engage in conversation with the person next to you. Now we just sit in suspended animation with plugs in our ears, engrossed in whatever Hollywood has determined we must see, or else we frantically type emails so they are ready to send as soon as the inflight wi-fi is turned on, so we can meet our deadlines. We are contactable even at 30,000 feet and I don’t know if that’s a good thing …

As I type, my husband has just left on yet another trans-Pacific flight. I can guarantee that the minute he got on the plane— that’s after sprinting through the procedures outlined above— his noise-cancelling headphones would have been out of his bag and stuck into his ears, as he simultaneously scrolled through the list of new-release movies. He would have been ready to roll even before the flight safety announcements were over. He may or may not have acknowledged the person seated next to him.

I recently listened to Nigerian author Ngozi Adichie talk about the inherent dangers of the single story. By failing to understand and appreciate multiple stories, the single story can end up shaping how we view people, nations and entire continents; our assumptions and opinions skewed by our ignorance and judgements.

For the last two weeks I’ve been travelling – one week at a resort in Mexico, frequented mostly by Americans, and now in Colorado. As a result I’m ashamed to say that I’ve been guilty of casting all Americans into a single story stereotype. That story reads something like this: Americans are loud and overly confident; they talk too much; they are culturally insensitive and disinterested in what goes on beyond the borders of the USA. They are consumed by super-sized consumerism.

In my defence, I may have heard one too many single story-tellers in the last two weeks, but it would be wrong of me to judge all North Americans because of a single story, stereotypical few.

In fact, I have had the pleasure of spending time with some wonderfully innovative and intelligent people who are interested in learning and understanding more of the world; folks whose diverse and multi-faceted stories will help shape the future narratives of generations to come.

Please don’t think I’m being judgemental about Americans, because I know that as soon as I board the plane back to Australia and hear a typical Aussie accent, I will have to remind myself that it takes more than a single story to truly understand the diversity of us Aussies as well.