People say that going home is never easy. After seven months of traveling, they're right. No one wants to trade amazing experiences, like jumping out of a plane moments after the sun rises, holding your breath as you leap off a bridge and plummet towards cerulean blue water, or sitting on the beach under a sky filled with countless stars, as boys play their guitars. No one wants to trade all of that for home, where those memories are destined to fade into the background as you start the relentless search for a job, an apartment, and a "real" life.

The only thing you're going home to after traveling is debt. I knew all of that, as I boarded my Air Pacific flight in Sydney, Australia. Yet somehow, after months of traveling in Australia, New Zealand, and Vietnam, I checked my bags and forced myself on the plane.

I had only one thing left to look forward to: a two-week stopover in Fiji.

Brochures promised sun-drenched beaches, rum filled drinks with mini-umbrellas, and moonlit walks. What I found, when I arrived in the Yasawa Islands, was a little different.

There was an equal mix of rain and sun during my two weeks. The gorgeous beaches were just like they promised, but the hostels were a little more dilapidated. Instead of the warm scent of coconut oil, the air was filled with the overwhelming smell of SPF 30 mixed with 20 percent DEET. And, I couldn't have been happier.

On the Yasawa Islands in Fiji, most backpackers you meet are doing the exact same thing that you are. They're chilling out - hiding, if you will, for a few more days or weeks, before facing their own personal realities. They're sealing their memories, writing them down and pouring them out to the person in the bunk next door. In that sense, Fiji is unlike almost anywhere in the world. On those tiny little islands lost somewhere in the giant Pacific Ocean, islands you can't find on a globe, you realize that the 'unique' experiences you've had over the past six months, aren't really so unique.

You're not the only one who went skydiving in Taupo or who partied at The Holy Cow the night before. Some people did Stray while others did Kiwi Experience, but everyone bungy-jumped in Queenstown. You all spent way too much money on cheap clothes in Hoi An and too much time chilling in the Tamarind Cafe in Hanoi. Everyone else ate the same 10 baht banana pancakes and bought the same souvenirs on Khao San Road. Except for those few lonely souls headed in the opposite direction (the Brits just starting out who leave Fiji with a stack of Lonely Planet travel guides), you've all pitched tents on Fraser Island and stood in the rain during the Penguin Parade in Melbourne.

My Fijian memories are of campfires and crab races, guitars and bonfires, card games and conversations. It's summer camp for 20-something budget travelers, complete with palm trees and no mandatory activities.

Your days are spent with people from all over the world who are exactly like you, lying on the beach or dodging the rain in the dining room. Your nights are spent getting stoned on Kava and dancing the Bula. You wake up each morning at 8 a.m. to the ringing of a bell. You eat whatever breakfast is put in front of you. At noon the bell rings again for lunch and once more at 7 p.m. for dinner. Even picky eaters learn to deal. The food served at meals is the only food available on most islands. Except, of course, for the tea and cake offered at select hostels at 3 p.m.

Certain hostels have a lights out policy at 11 p.m. It's not by choice, that's just when they lose electricity. You have to make sure that you've used the toilets in advance of lights out, otherwise, walking across the grounds, you risk being mauled by dogs.

Since there's no chance your mosquito net was put up any time in the last two decades, it's advisable to have a few plasters on hand to patch holes. No one wants to spend their last week on holiday with Dengue Fever. And you need to watch out for the coconuts. If it gets kind of windy, they're rumored to be the leading cause of death. However, none of that matters - not the mosquitoes, or the dogs, or the random meals you'd never imagine eating in the comforts of your own kitchen.

When you're lying on the beach, looking out at the clearest blue water you've ever seen, you can imagine staying forever. Making necklaces out of seashells, falling asleep to rain beating down, knowing that you're safe and sound, underneath your patched mosquito net. It's impossible to believe, when you're on a tiny little island with no phones, televisions, or internet, that you're only a week or two away from home.

And, maybe, in spite of the inconsistencies between the brochure and reality, Fiji is paradise. A backpackers paradise to the soundtrack of crashing waves and Jack Johnson CDs, where you meet people from all over the world with whom you have nothing and yet everything in common.

I'm not sure if my time in Fiji made it easier or harder to return to the United States. I just know that I can't imagine what it would have been like not to go. Getting on a plane in Sydney, heading east towards the United States or the European Union, can seem like the loneliest experience in the world. But if you land in Fiji for a week or two, you realize, you're not alone at all.

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