The Last Vikings

#GirlsWhoTravel

I have always wanted to go to Antarctica, to be fair. I did an option course on Polar Environments in my Ecology degree.

The snow, the orchestral blue ice, the isolation... it all sounded so romantic.

As did the beautiful Argentinian post-grad who taught the course in Edinburgh. I still remembered his name. Paulo Garcia.

I stalked Paulo online after I signed with InTrepid, a healthy break from my Jocasta obsessing.

I even added him as a friend on Facebook. He accepted, but I was disappointed to see his profile was largely empty. He worked at Cambridge now, but that was all I could see. Paulo Garcia was clearly too cool to be active on Facebook, unlike me.

I was hoping that the Antarctica trip, my Actually Having A Life, might limit my Jocasta obsession, but it didn't.

Three weeks on, interspersed with grief at leaving London and terror at being caught in my minor GlobalGreen fraud, I was still committed to my creeping.

Jocasta and Ben had a mini break in Barcelona. She was #passionate about her Amazon rainforest film. She signed a petition against micro-plastics. I wrapped myself in a single duvet and cried and ate macaroni from a pan.

Five weeks on, I left GlobalGreen with little fanfare, and sent my possessions up north. Now there was only me and my InTrepid recommended Antarctic luggage; SPF and merino base-layers, good quality boots.

Despite everything, I was still thinking about Ben and Jocasta. I still didn't feel like a whole human being.

At Heathrow airport, I took a photo of the departures board and finally announced my crazy plan to the Internet. I was perpetually anxious either InTrepid or GlobalGreen would identify me as a fraud, but my desire to make contact with Ben was bigger.

I uploaded the picture to Instagram, and captioned it solo journey of a lifetime...see you in Antarctica! I almost hash-tagged, but didn't.

The whole flight, I was imagining Ben seeing that picture, being surprised at how he got me wrong. Or Jocasta seeing it, knowing I was going somewhere she had never been.

I briefly fantasised about running into my old teacher Paulo Garcia in Buenos Aires, coincidentally home to visit his family. Impressing him with my Antarctic adventure. Joking that he taught me everything I knew.

I turned my phone on as soon as we landed, but it didn't get used to the Argentinian networks until the shuttle bus got me to the port at Buenos Aires, where the InTrepid Ice boat was docked. My rusty Spanish and lack of sleep had made the airport stressful, and it was a relief to see everyone on the ultra-sleek liner, almost as big as the skyscrapers around it, spoke English.

I checked in, and was shown by a disinterested administrator my room on board, functional and windowless-white. It had twin beds and no bathroom. A sign at the end of the corridor advertised Thursday Churro Night! and Pub quiz!

The boat felt as meaningless and empty as my life in London, and I started to suspect the problem was me. Oh well. At least I could lie down in private now, have a cry, see what Jocasta had been up to.

I'd just got out my phone when the cabin door opened, and Suzie came in.

All-American teeth, yoga pants.

That was the first time I met her, and I'll always remember her like that. Not the way she ended up.

"Suzanne Beeks." She extended her hand and flashed super-white teeth at me. "Brand ambassador and lifestyle blogger. I think we're roommates."

I introduced myself, emphasising the GlobalGreen, which raised a spark of interest.

Suzie sat down with a sigh. "So, Jennie, you heard about the...incident?" she asked, voice wary.

I shook my head. "What?"

"Oh, Nothing. Some...freak accident, out at the hotel. They said it's nothing to worry about, so..." she shrugged and took out her iPhone.

You believe in instinct? Gut feeling?

Well, I got a gut feeling then, and if I'd listened to it I never would have gone to that inhuman, frozen place.

None of us should have. We should have listened. We should have heard that we weren't wanted there.

But Suzie browsing her phone got my fingers itching, so I went back to my own and checked my Facebook.

That's when I saw it.

I'd cross posted my Instagram photo from the airport, and it had 57 likes—a record for me—and two comments.

The first was from Ben, just saying 'wow'. He'd given me one of the Facebook 'shock face' like-things, too.

It was the first attention I'd had from him since I'd cleared my things out of his flat.

It wasn't much, but I knew him so well I could read it exactly.

He was surprised, and also mildly annoyed that I'd surprised him, that he'd underestimated me. My heart fizzled with victory, an effervescent vitamin dropped in Coca-Cola.

The second was from Paulo Garcia.

Seems he wasn't in Cambridge at all.

He was at the British Antarctic Research Station, and he wanted to see me.

Really wanted to see me. There was a private message, too.

How could I listen to instincts after that?

There was no way I wasn't going out to the tundra.

I was doomed.