There were poste restante addresses (look it up, kids, it's a great service and still exists in some countries). The going rate for half an hour at an internet cafe was £2.50. That same princely sum would, in a small Scottish town, buy you a bowl of soup made from hydroponically grown vegetables. With bread.
I thought that once back from my OE, I'd use those guides to keep learning the history of these countries, in preparation for future trips. Skimming through them today, I was reminded of how much of these countries I haven't yet explored. Pages and pages of information about cities, churches and galleries; names as foreign to me now as they were then.
But some names shot arrows straight through my heart. I read "Kroller-Muller Museum" and was back in the Netherlands on a hot summer's day, cycling through scrubland in the Hoge Veluwe National Park towards an astonishingly good collection of van Goghs.
The London listing for Pollo, a Soho cafe offering pasta dishes for about £3.50, brought back memories of noise, crowded tables and eating cheaply because I'd spent all my money on theatre tickets.
Tintagel, Avebury, York – places of ancient stone and legends that I revelled in with wholehearted, fresh-off-the-plane wonder.
Sometimes I was embarrassed to be seen using these books. Almost every backpacker in every kitchen of every hostel I stayed at was reading the guidebooks – yet I also met people who scoffed at those following the recommendations. (Those smug so-and-sos then loudly told stories about how they'd shunned guidebook recommendations to discover "authentic" experiences. "I'm not a backpacker, I'm a traveller," they'd say. Plonkers.)
But those guides were my guiding lights. They helped my young, apprehensive self feel a little less nervous about travelling as a solo female. They helped me establish my own way of orienting myself, and moving through the world.
When I held the books today, thinking about parting with them, I realised I was actually afraid of forgetting the sense of excitement I had when first setting out to see the world. One particular phrase is a lightning rod to my younger self. About the highlands of Scotland, a writer said: "This is one of Europe's last great wildernesses, and it's more beautiful than you can imagine."
On reading that before moving to Scotland, my heart clenched with excitement. I didn't know how I would get to that wilderness, but get there I would. And I did. And it was indeed more beautiful than I could have imagined. Re-reading those words today took me back for the briefest moment to that vast, breathless sense of possibility and freedom.
Maybe I held onto the books for so long because looking at them made me happy when I wasn't travelling. I have guidebooks, therefore I'm a traveller. I went to those countries. I will travel again, even though it isn't an option at the moment.
Still, there are books colonising my floor that deserve a place on a shelf. So out went the guides. As I tore off their glossy, familiar covers and photo pages in order to recycle the bulk of the paper, I felt a real sense of loss.
Maybe it was a mistake to throw out the books. Maybe I'll forget the excitement of walking through that departure gate, young and naïve, bound for foreign shores. That saddens me enormously.
But I'm a different person now (older, hopefully a little wiser), and I get different things from travel. That giddy, terrified, soaking-it-up feeling comes up only rarely – but it has made way for a deeper appreciation of the richness of difference, what people the world over have in common, and the knowledge that there's more to learn than I ever will in my lifetime. All the more reason to keep travelling.