“U in Spain? If so, I guess you’re not getting this,” my friend texted.

               “No, actually I’m not…Long story! Let’s get together,” I responded.

               A few weeks later, COVID-19 began spreading along with overpowering, thrashing, careening mass panic, effectively shutting down borders and international travel. I made the right decision not to go teach English in Spain. But not necessarily solely because of the virus.              

               Similar to my zigzagged, roundabout path toward finding a niche in the photography world, identifying my artistic style and preferred subject matter through a process of photographing everything except what I truly loved (travel), this past year I unpacked every restless dream, touched it, explored it, and took steps to make it a reality. Instead of re-packing it all and buying a one-way ticket to Spain, I ended up back at “Plan A.” Why?! My friends ask.

               After a recent trip to Madrid and Ibiza, I found myself crying on my suitcase during the layover in Atlanta. In 2010, I went abroad for the first time to Puerto Rico, promptly wanting to move there. Repeat this same scenario with London, Venice, and Paris. “This is where it is,” a European life of blissfully sipping espresso at quaint cafes, strolls through cobblestone streets, museums, Italian discos, and romance on euphoric heights whispered an enticing promise. However, Spain captured my heart like a foreign lover with ebony eyes, olive skin, and luscious words of adoration, mercilessly drawing me back to its vibrant culture and beautiful way of life. I was in love. With a country. I needed to go back. I had to go back.

            And so began the quest for a “better life,” keenly aware of my ever-searching, restless, wanderlust soul, constantly questioning whether something more existed if I chose a different life, agonizing over missing out, fearful of failing to fulfill all God called me to do, and allured by a temptation to compare my struggles to the blissful appearance of others’ circumstances. Which fence do I want to cross to reach greener grass? In reality, I needed to take off my tinted sunglasses, and exchange them for new lenses to see my own situation in a different light!

 It began with an opportunity presented to work as a flight attendant. I constructed a glamorous picture in my head, imagining jet-setting to Dubai, Iceland, or Tel Aviv with my blazing red lipstick, freshly pressed uniform, and smooth sailing travel. After deliberating, researching, and much introspection, I came to grips with reality…Long, tumultuous hours. Getting transferred. A low salary initially. Customer service. Minimal time in exotic places, those destinations pleading with me for an extended stay. Personal health issues. Through the decision-making process, I realized…My annual trips abroad provided time to discover a country’s nooks and crannies, serving me better than bouncing from place to place. I also began appreciating my stable, reliable routine, previously viewed as a drawback.

The next best option? Go teach English in Spain, of course! Thus began eleven months of planning and preparation. Spreadsheets. Phone calls. Emails. Hours of Google searches, consulate websites, Facebook expat forums.

And then, I hit a major, disheartening snag- I needed a Bachelor’s Degree to teach abroad. I wrestled with feelings of failure, irreversibly screwing up my life, and regretting my decision to resign from college at nineteen years old. Ultimately, this destructive self-deprecation led me to apply at the local community college, investigating yet another option. I dug into possible majors, and weighed future benefits against lifelong goals. After talking with department heads, alumni, and long conversations with Dad, I stopped the frenetic search, asking the question, “Do I like teaching? Do I want to teach? I don’t know. Never done it. No experience. Zip. Zilch. None.” Why pursue an educational avenue without any experiential knowledge?! At least some frame of reference?

Thus, I enrolled in the International TEFL Academy instead, beginning a twelve week course of studying, lesson planning, and two months of student teaching, finally obtaining my TEFL “Teaching English as a Foreign Language” certification, followed by another intensive course geared toward private tutoring online. Although I treasure the experience for many reasons, I received my answer- teaching was not the answer! Nor my calling. Or passion.

I searched other avenues to propel this dream into existence, investigating potential real estate investment properties, circling options like an airplane in a holding pattern, waiting on a Colorado hail storm to pass, pink skies dappled with massive thunderheads. My inquiry slammed against a closed door. Turn the plane around, we can’t land here. I needed an air traffic controller for my life- even praying felt confusing, littered with my own thoughts, fears, and God’s words sprinkled sporadically throughout pages of journaling.

Finally a pro/con list settled the needed answers, blazing and buzzing like a neon sign outside the local bar on a hot, sticky Midwest night, weighted down heavily with a vital life lesson. The negatives far outweighed the positives- I disliked teaching. I work in a wonderful job, which I felt extremely reluctant to leave. Renting the house, moving back home, selling my car. To live legally, a student visa remained my only option- an extensive, tedious process. Language classes. Homework. Lesson planning. Grading. A shared living situation. Barcelona instead of my beloved Madrid. Leaving Colorado. My family. Friends. The planning stages far from a joyful labor of love anymore, this plan burdened my heart. Deeply. I was moving…Backwards.

My mentors asked, “What are you trying to achieve by moving to Spain? What’s your objective? Can this be done another way?” I identified adventure, travel, a way of life with less hecticness, and taking time to explore a new culture in-depth. Yep, there’s a better way. In the meantime, the plane circled back, landing on Plan A, which worked all along. My best life is here. Now. The grass remains green on this side, a Crayola crayon box green, lush and vibrant, working my office job, embracing my own home, nurturing friendships, pursuing my true God-given gifts and talents.

“Look at that picture,” a friend remarked, pointing at a painting on my wall of a couple sitting in a romantic European café. “How many people are trying to come here to the U.S., coveting the life you have, chasing the life you live?” A lot. If anything, sprawling suitcases of dreams across my bed and examining the contents of each taught me contentedness. Gratitude. Satisfaction. It settled the dust of incessant restlessness, searching for an elusive “better life” out of angst and agitation, the persuasive yet misleading whispers of a robust life elsewhere falling empty like a mirage. Wherever we live, challenges will abound. Bills roll in, someone gets sick, plans change. In a search to elude pains of this world, I only swap problems. “The great life” starts within. Here. Now.

The quest and hunger for adventure remains, but no longer from a position of desperation or fear. Like many of you, I anxiously wait for lifted travel restrictions, itching to explore new territories, and dreams still abundantly abound. Perhaps futuristic shifting winds will lead my life abroad in an unexpected perfect way, but for the moment- I am living my best life here, tending to my own green grass, doing what I love.

               “I’m so jealous!”

               “You’re so brave!”

               “How do you do it?!”

               Yep, solo travel never ceases to amaze me either. Pure aqua blue water, rolling white capped waves, catamarans and white wine. Palm trees, beaches, and sun. Good looking men, relaxed evenings eating Mediterranean food overlooking a sunset on the harbor. The words “magnificent, stunning, and exotic” hardly begin to sum it up. Adventure unfolds, romance beckons, grinning faces fill social media. Yes, it looks like paradise, the ultimate glamorous utopia, almost qualifying for the ethereal “she has a perfect life” phenomenon.

               But what about challenges behind the scenes? The less glamorous side to travel? Typically I enjoy writing about all the wild escapades, funny scenarios, and glorious explorations. But international journeys, particularly as a single solo female American, are not for the faint of heart.

So today, speaking from personal experience, I hope to offer a few insights into common nuances, frustrations, confusion, and messes involved in undertaking a trip abroad by yourself. Not necessarily any colossal-sized tribulations, but a little perspective into everyday snags, and those moments apart from happily smiling social media posts. I want to share vulnerable, less than glamorous, real moments of travel experiences, where various ordeals felt anything but a picture-perfect magazine article, far-fetched from postcard pretty, and just about as un-Instagram worthy as it gets.

Physical Stamina

Wear your walking shoes. Otherwise, the cobblestone streets eventually commandeer flimsy flats, and destroy those $3 flip flops! If there’s one thing required for international travel, its physical endurance. There have been red-eye flights, curled up in a ball, attempting to impossibly contort into a comfortable sleeping position on a coach airplane seat, efforts to avoid napping on my neighbor’s shoulder, and a neck pillow which silently deflated after two hours- leaving kinked muscles. There have been wildly differing time zones, jet lag, and unsuccessful attempts to sleep, feeling as if I drank two shots of espresso at midnight.

For those of us with food sensitivities, there’s been flawed thought processes with the premise everything will be fine if I eat just “a little” gluten. Followed by consequences, Tums, tea, ginger chews, nausea, and a heady glass of red wine on top of the day’s damage as if this will somehow help the digestive situation. Health conditions have flared up as a result of various stressors, out come the inhalers, and on come the barrage of side effects, not to mention navigating panic attack triggers on a London subway.

Cobblestone streets have shredded Wal-Mart shoes, the new pair rubbing unsightly blisters, with hot pink flip flops a dead giveaway screaming, “This girl is American!” There have been sore feet after walking many miles daily (despite a very active, healthy lifestyle in Colorado), and mysterious leg cramps have crept up throughout the night, interrupting precious sleep. Room mates have fought gnarly colds, persistent coughs, and stomach upset. There have been sinus infections, trips to Urgent Care after returning to Colorado, and a lingering sore throat as a result of getting rundown.

Not to mention hostel life, the chorus of snorers from South America, or that one person who decided to sneak their new flame into bed at 2 am, rustling beneath the sheets until 5 am! Or the Madrid trip, where a doctor erroneously prescribed the wrong dosage of medication just before leaving, and on two occasions, lightheaded waves of nausea invaded my body accompanied by clammy sweats and tunnel vision, with a fair amount of panic as a result. A big trip requires physical stamina, endurance, and a capacity to withstand (as well as tolerate) some bodily discomfort. Neither glamorous nor fun!

Safety

               International travel also demands a heightened sense of awareness, and revving the common sense meter into high gear- this skill frequently sharpened due to an experience with an unpleasant or scary situation. After reading many stories on travel forums or Facebook groups, my heart goes out to those of you who have experienced true, gut-wrenching trauma on any level while abroad. I admire the willingness to share, your tales of triumph and heartache, and the fact you’re still here to tell of your experiences. My hat is off. Personally, though still a heavy topic, a few things come to mind in terms of learning safety as a solo traveler…

Whether walking through narrow streets in wee morning hours to catch a flight, casually sauntering home while sloshed with the Australians at 1am, or taking taxis and Ubers alone, when on an adventure abroad, nerve-wracking situations taught me to rely heavily on my gut, prayer, and a sense of keenly tapping into that small inner voice, “This doesn’t feel right. This doesn’t look right. Something is off. I don’t think this is a good idea. Can I really trust this person?” as well as filtering the voice of fear versus a true intuitive warning. Experiences requiring increased discernment instilled a heavy sense of learning to trust myself.

               As mentioned, the process is not particularly attractive, nor glamorous. There have been pick pocketers blatantly employing their crafty, sly expertise, untrustworthy individuals pressing for a room number, phone number, my body, or time together, trip mates with wallets, cameras, or phones stolen, and things such as turning down a shared Uber ride in Lisbon much to the man’s annoyance.

               There have been fights on streets, massive marches, and heated demonstrations with throngs of people, police, helicopters, chaos, and news media. There’s been road rage, where I watched a furious drunken man chasing after a car, yelling obscenities and spitting on the car window late at night. A woman screaming nonsensical verbiage in a train station tunnel, her foreign words echoing off tile walls down the dark tunnel, shortly swarmed by security officials.

               There have been moments of feeling absurdly out of place in Arabic territory, a fiasco involving personal religious items and immigration police, and waiting incessantly just to walk home with the group. When it comes to safety concerns and awareness, it takes bravery. Its hard, its messy, sometimes confusing, with plenty of sweaty moments and a pounding heart. It involves calculated risk, quick judgement calls, decisions whether or not to drink, and how much. And your best defense is this: An awareness of your surroundings.

Safety plays a large role during solo trips, which you sure don’t see in most social media posts unless someone willingly chooses to share a personal story. For those of you traveling alone, use your instincts and trust your gut. I know its not glitzy nor glamorous, but its necessary for survival!

Cultural Barriers

               Probably one of the biggest hurdles of international travel, navigating cultural differences presents a unique opportunity to learn about that country, its people, and way of life- a prime environment for stories of adventure to abound, though not all of them humorous during the moment!

Obviously, there have been communication roadblocks, confusion over signs entirely in Greek or Arabic, and misunderstandings over hotel directions in French. I remember the times I purchased incorrect train tickets, Israeli wine with a Hebrew label (come to find out its actually Shabbat wine with added sugar…), dealt with Google Translate misbehaving, and failed while attempting to use broken Spanish- my questions met with blank stares. There are unique meanings to hand gestures, standards of manners, and different customs. Religious beliefs, sense of personal space, dress code, what’s an acceptable speaking volume, and the restroom situation.

I remember dealing with putrid portable toilets, the smell of dung, a bathroom cleaned with gasoline. Not to mention a lack of toilet paper, or the fact you cannot flush paper in Greece! But go to France, and you find decorative, colored, plush de lux paper, perhaps with a pretty decorative pattern on it. I have yet to travel to countries where you get…Well…A hole in the ground. Although I can laugh at much of this now, it certainly was an added stressor in the moment!

               In the Middle East, I stood aghast as shopkeepers assisted men in line behind me first, or completely ignored my presence as a female at the checkout counter. I received penetrating stares scouring my American clothing if I didn’t cover up enough. At times, our tour manager asked us to hide personal religious items, and I found myself in long black robes while exploring the Temple Mount. I had no choice but to respect their culture, painfully different from mine. For animal rights activists in the United States, or really any Western standards for humane animal treatment, I shuddered seeing camels tethered by chains or whacked with some sort of long stick, donkeys overworked in desert sun, mangy stray dogs, scrawny feral cats, or men yelling at herds of animals.  

               I went sailing through immigration at the Jordanian border, only to find myself stopped, bags searched, pulled into a small room with immigration police, my Jewish religious items confiscated. Slightly horrified, I struggled deeply with how much I’d taken religious freedom for granted in the United States, growing up with equal rights as a female, an ability to choose my beliefs, and freedom of speech. Suddenly I felt oppressed. Constricted. Wrestling to understand a way of life so foreign to my own, pressing down tears, furiously journaling, and shocked.

Though many hilarious tales of adventure result from cultural barriers, so do the more solemn, less glamorous stories. Learning about a new culture and respecting their ways can be challenging, daunting, and overwhelming- far from happy Facebook posts, but it generates personal growth, and fosters a global perspective in a way that hardly any other experience provides!

Money

               Ah, the financial talk. There’s budgets. Preparation. Sacrifices. Scouring the internet for cheap flight deals, and monetary setback. Affording a trip can be a big challenge behind closed doors, and not necessarily openly discussed. The process of implementing a dream vacation isn’t particularly glamorous either, especially for most middleclass Americans with a modest income!

               Generating an action plan greatly helped me manage money. Setting a budget, sticking to it, and paying off debt freed up funds for adventures abroad. Paradoxically, the discipline required to set a spending plan actually generates more freedom than constriction. By assigning where each dollar goes, including an emergency fund, suddenly leaks are plugged, and overspending stops spiraling out of control.

               However, to make a three week trip to Europe work, I’ve had to decline invites to eat out, simply order a small side, limit myself to one drink, and skip out on concerts, events, or movies. I don’t have Netflix. I sure try to buy food items on sale. There have been birthday cards purchased at the dollar store, many holidays requiring homemade gifts, and DIY house projects. Trips to the thrift store, driving an older car, and tedious financial planning. There was a setback with Spain in 2016, and I postponed my trip 6 months due to a lack of funds, rather than putting costs on a high interest credit card. I’ve frequently asked for trip money for birthdays and Christmas. This is not easy. But its oh so worth it!

               Once in another country, money always presents its own unique little challenges. There’s unexpected expenses, such as arriving in Tel Aviv on Shabbat (all public transportation shuts down), and paying a hefty price in Shekels for your taxi. There’s been under budgeting, going over budget, and unplanned hotel bookings. Smaller surprises such as nominal charges to use the facilities in Germany, tipping, and tolls.

In Israel, due to a miscommunication with my bank about travel dates, my debit card refused to work, and suddenly I found myself without cash in a “cash culture.” Without a 24 hour bank card phone line, the added complication of time zones, limited cell phone minutes, and extensive hold times, I found myself a pretty distraught solo traveler. Although generous trip mates offered to lend me a few Shekels, I finally resolved the issue, but not without a meltdown over the phone- calling home in a frenzy of sobbing!

               To pull off a big trip, it demands meticulous planning, careful budgeting, and reworking the plan as needed. Life happens. Something breaks on the car. You get sick. Expenses fly out the door while at home, or abroad. I know many of you have probably had to cancel trips, wait years for your dream vacation, or wrestle with shattered dreams, and my heart goes out to you. Please don’t give up hope! Although not discussed much, yes money is a huge part of travel, and its certainly not always a pretty or perfect process!

Miscellaneous Stressers

I’m sure my fellow travelers on here are thinking of your own challenges and wild stories, which I always love hearing! To note a few miscellaneous points which I’m sure many of us share in common, there are other struggles such as homesickness, loneliness, and fierce reliance on your own strength. Yes, this builds character and I cherish these priceless difficult emotions for molding me into a more confident, dynamic woman. However, for all the times I recall wishing a vacation would last forever, I remember an equal amount of trips with meltdowns by the end, longing for American soil, desiring nothing more than to see a U.S. flag at the Denver Airport, and patriotically posting about U.S. freedoms on Facebook.

There have been times certain situations required I simply sit with the stress, frustration, and tears, without a cell phone or internet signal, and no travel buddies. This sense of loneliness created a strength I rely heavily upon today, but it took an inner fight, a desire to press on, and the will power to untangle knotted, matted feelings.

There’s dealing with others’ moods, such as the girl who snapped angrily for my finagling with a finicky hostel door key, or other unhappy travelers dealing with their own personal hurricanes, their storm sweeping out and affecting fellow travelers. There have been dropped cameras, dropped phones, misplacing the passport, and urgent searches for drug store items. Getting lost, dwindling phone batteries, and misguided Google Maps without a proper data signal. Disagreements between roommates, forgotten personal items, airport transfers, oversleeping, and nearly missing flights- due to the entire city center shut down for a local 5K race!

As a solo traveler, there’s watching your own bags, dragging the entirety of your luggage to the bathroom, and lost suitcases. Sweaty shirts, something that spills on a pair of pants intended to be worn for several days before washing, or a bag full of damp, smelly items covered in red sand and dirt. Broken zippers, purses falling apart, running out of toilet paper in the Italian bathroom at an inopportune time. I laugh at these stories, but at the time, it stretched my capacity to withstand pressure- neither glamorous nor particularly fun!

             To draw this to a close, know I always love hearing others’ stories. Feel free to share, and please hear my heart regarding this post- its not meant to discourage travel or create fear! But throughout the years, I’ve taken part in conversations alluding to the elusive, “you have a perfect life” phenomenon, with travel stories placed on a pedestal, magnified by sharing only highlights on social media. Well…This is the reality. Its called adventure for a reason! It writes an irreplaceable story in your heart, and without the ups and downs, that adventure might get pretty dull. Go travel. See the world. Stumble. Get back up. And return with priceless stories.

                Our tour bus lumbers toward immigration signs labeled in Arabic and English, directing us toward Jordan’s border while we all sit on the edge of our seats ready to disembark. We receive detailed instructions on the tedious entry process, which ends up changing anyway, and I clutch my travel documents excitedly while excitedly picturing this country’s natural wonders. I’ve seen pictures in magazines, many Facebook posts about Petra, and Instagram newsfeeds.

                We slowly maneuver through lines, checkpoints, minimal interrogation, waiting areas, passport stamps, important slips of paper, and luggage rearrangements. Egads. What a process. Lastly we filter through security, sending bags onto the conveyor belt just like an airport, our Jordanian bus driver and new tour guide waiting on the other side. My bags are pulled aside, and I know better than to show exasperation or any sort of annoyed attitude right now. Just let them do their job, Hannah, I tell myself. Several ladies in beautiful pastel head coverings began searching every fold of clothing, every crevice, every makeup pouch. I calmly and patiently wait. More corners, zippered compartments, bags of souvenirs are searched. I begin wondering what on earth they’re trying to find, and whether a stranger placed a threatening item in my bag unbeknownst to me…But I kept an eye on my things the whole time, so how could that be? Our entire tour group now on the air conditioned coach, my Jordanian tour guide strolls in to speed up this process.

                “Do you have a menorah with you?” one of the security ladies finally asks me in a thick Arabic accent.

                “Um yes, in this pink carry-on bag,” I quickly reply, openly inviting her to freely search with no qualms of conscience. Great. We just spent ten minutes on my suitcase alone. Suddenly every item is unwrapped, including my new menorah, a shofar ram’s horn instrument, scented prayer oil, and other Jewish items spread out all over the stopped conveyor belt. Many words in Arabic are exchanged with varying voice intonations. Baffled, my stomach tightens and I innocently watch with confusion, trying to understand the issue here. I feel sweat beading under my arms, the type of sweat no brand of deodorant would successfully stop, my mind desperately grasping onto some shred of logic or knowledge that might help me navigate this situation.

              Finally my Jordanian tour guide calmly leans in and explains, “Hannah there was a recent political issue here just a few weeks ago. Several Israelis recently brought in a menorah, ram’s horn, and anointing oil to film a movie, the premise being that Petra rightfully belongs to Israel. It caused a big stir, and they don’t want these items going into Jordan.” My head spins. The issue revolves around my religious mementos, not me. But it feels personal in a way I cannot explain yet. I breathe shallow breaths, my face hot, looking in shock at my dismantled belongings as he continues, “I’m going to explain you’re a tourist, and try to convince them to let you into Jordan with these items. Let me help, okay?” I nod in agreement.

                We make our way back through a stone walkway tunnel to several entry guards with the menorah and shofar. One of the men glances at my face, then I inwardly gasp as I catch his eyes roaming from the top of my body to bottom, and back up. I tried to pull off “conservative dress” today, but I feel his stare practically penetrating through the fabric, my stomach squirming as I cannot force him to avert this grotesque gawking. I feel like a fish in a fishbowl in a kindergarten classroom. More words in Arabic. Panicked, I perform some emergency self-talk. Stay bold. Pray. Don’t let them see your scared state of mind right now. You know how to play a role when it comes to acting, so be strong here.

                My tour guide introduces himself and encourages me to have a seat as we now wait in the immigration police office. Have a seat?! I have enough adrenaline to run the fastest 5K of my life right now. Have a seat?!! I perch on the edge of a worn down dusty chair, its frayed fabric highlighted by light streaming through a window. Clearly noting my nervousness, Mauyyed begins small talk with me to avert my racing thoughts. Suddenly several men in uniform enter, they take my menorah and shofar from my tour guide, and for what seems like an eternity, Mauyyed and the officials exchange many words.

                I naively blurt out, “But I’m a Christian! I’m touring Israel, and these are really just souvenirs!” The men question me in thick accents, and no amount of justification proves the innocence of these items not to mention the hole I just dug myself deeper into by blatantly announcing my faith in Arab territory, despite the fact this country is working hard to be accepting of other religions and cultures. They ultimately confiscate my things never to be seen again, my mind now dizzy, heart stunned, speechless, and this little room feeling oppressively hot. Mauyyed apologizes to me as we quietly make our way to the tour bus, and he firmly tells me, “Personally? Its nobody’s business what religion you are.”

                Sheepishly I board the coach, making some sort of obligatory apology I feel necessary, “Sorry guys. Had a little issue with immigration,” while making a beeline for the back seat, completely out of character for me. I slump down and hide, trying to calm the whirlwind inside. I quietly cry. Not for “stuff.” Not for items. Not for money lost. Not even for this slightly traumatizing experience. But for my religious freedom- to be Jewish or Christian. Suddenly I long for home, my entire being yearning just for the sight of an American flag and all it symbolizes. During private prayer time before embarking on this trip, I remembered sensing, this trip will be full of perspective. Perspective. Perspective. Now I get it. More so than I wanted.  

                Mauyyed gives us a thorough history lesson as we bounce over cracked, potholed roads, but I obliviously stare out my window, my senses incapable of taking on any more stimulation. I neglect to even think about texting home. We pass dry, arid desert land. Its hot. Its flat. Red dirt. Abandoned buildings. Little roadside establishments selling local food or goods, adorned with graceful Arabic writing, and perhaps a stray camel or goat.

                At the convenience store, they help the men first. I quickly realize I am considered less of a priority here due to simply being female. Slightly aghast, I tell myself to respect this culture’s norms and wear my poker face, but inside my jaw drops as I watch this scenario play out multiple times.

                I notice trash along the streets, graffiti, and pry my eyes away for the comfort of my travel journal instead. While journaling, my handwriting looking like a child’s as the bus thuds and rattles over broken pavement. I hear our tour guide’s voice, “The best resource here is its people, the most important thing is education, and the biggest issue is a water crisis.” One of my biggest loves is water. We can’t drink it here. I feel so far from it. And so far from…Home.

                In Amman, tall white buildings stained by the elements stack themselves like blocks, electrical wires running from one establishment to the next with more European style cars buzzing by. I don’t see any…Well, Westerners. I see various styles of head coverings and turbans, and I can’t read a single sign. Despite my initial negative first impression, our tour guide shows us great kindness, revels over the beauty of his country and why to visit, and enthusiastically speaks of its rich history. The hotel staff welcomes tourists with exceptional customer service, smiles, and grand appreciation. Still feeling a bit uneasy and…unwelcome, I appreciate their warm hospitality and try to keep my whirling mind open.

                The trip results in spectacular activities despite a rough start. We visit the Iraq Al-Ameer Women’s Co-Op, an organization run by women for women to further their workforce skills. With unemployment at 33% for ladies in urban areas, and up to 45% in rural areas, I admire the idea of creating a sanctuary for them to begin earning income. We partake in a delicious meal- vegetables, rice, and dips laden with exotic spices surrounded by mysterious foreign herbs, the taste lingering on my inquisitive pallet, deciphering flavors and savoring simple richness. I wonder where to find these seasonings back home. We admire the women’s art pieces, and giggle at the older lady shooing off feral cats with a stick, sharply saying something in Arabic to them.

                We visit impressive Roman ruins in two different cities, the daily call to prayer siren eerily wailing as I wipe sweat, rearrange my camera to the other shoulder for the twentieth time, and finish yet another large water bottle. We soon come across three men jovially playing bagpipes in the amphitheater, a musical instrument apparently not limited to Ireland and Scotland. Several locals mingle for the impromptu concert, our group meanders in, and we perch ourselves on white stone seats warmed by desert sun, ready to sit after wandering around in oppressive heat. The men finish playing, and our tour manager asks if anyone in our group sings…Everyone sits on their hands. Not one volunteer. I nervously look around, and before I could think, my hand shot up into the air. Oh God NOW what’s coming? I think.

                “Stand here,” my tour guide Mauyyed instructs with a warm smile, the bagpipers now standing around for my impromptu little show and an air of heavy anticipation hushing my trip mates.

                “Sing something!” Someone shouts out. The National Anthem? A song…Any song…What song?! My mind races, despite my years of musical training and plethora of song choices to draw upon. “Amazing Grace” whirs through my head. It blares through my inner ear, refusing to hush, so I begin to sing,

                “Amazing grace…” The amphitheater falls as silent as a sound proof room. Someone echoes,

                “How sweet the sound…” My cue. From the depth of my spirit, every lyric rolls off my tongue, every voice lesson, every worship practice, and solo rehearsal. Every inch of breath space, my soul clinging to His power in this moment, projecting a song from the depth of my being, the sound ricocheting, waving, racing up the structure and producing the most magnificent, unimaginable acoustics I’ve ever heard. I lean into the words, press into each syllable, launching my notes like playing keys of a piano in my mind. As it draws to a close, I suddenly notate my shaking legs and trembling hands.

                Now, some adventures I anticipate. Perhaps a wild night of dancing, some sort of travel hassle, reservation debacle, interaction with an eccentric individual, or something involving elements of danger. But singing a Christian song in a Roman amphitheater in front of Middle Eastern bagpipers with Muslim onlookers in an Arab country wasn’t one of them!

                We visit Petra. Horse drawn carts rattle through the canyon at blazing speeds, ancient red stone structures rise majestically from the ground, each attraction bustling with tourists, camels, merchants, and animals. Saturated with rich history, I now wish I’d read more on Petra. We hike to the Monastery.

Longing for my Colorado hiking gear, I shift my heavy camera equipment, rearrange my bag, and drinking water proves unhelpful for my strange dizziness right now. I sit, leaning my head down, blood rushing to my hot face as hair sticks to sweat. I try to deeply breathe. I smell donkey shit. Flies perpetually land on my skin, gnats flitter, and I hear the sound of local mountain dwellers calling out, coaxing us to buy goods from their little huts. Bewildered, I sometimes see children by the path’s side, selling jewelry or rugs, or occasionally leading a donkey up the trail. Right before my eyes, I watch aghast at the mistreatment of animals here, or at least according to our Western standards. I want to go home so bad. I use putrid facilities at the top, an exercise in holding my breath I prefer never to repeat.

                The Wadi Rum Desert. More vast expanses of dry land, picturesque views, caravans of camels, and colorful saddles. We take a 4x4 tour, the truck wildly bouncing over red dirt, ripping through red ground baking in the blazing hot sun. We hike up a sand hill putting off searing heat like an oven (not recommended in flip flops) upon which we see Saudi Arabia in the distance, with the option to take a snowboard down. My feet practically broiling on the ground beneath us, scorching even the undersides of sneakers, we rally down the searing hot mound of earth and pile back into the truck, one of which has no speedometer. We make our way back, passing Saudi oil trucks and slogans painted on walls such as, “Education is the movement from darkness to light.”

                Mauyyed shows me extra graciousness throughout the trip. At one particular overlook stop, he slowly approaches me with a smile as I fiddle with my camera settings. I feel at odds with my camera at this point in the trip, exasperated with its nuances and level of devotion required to carry the thing everywhere. I look up, and he extends a beautiful scarf in his hands, lowers his head and voice, quietly but firmly stating, “This is from me, on behalf of the Jordanian people, to apologize for what happened to you at the border.” Once again, I am reminded never to lump an entire culture into one particular stereotype or judgement, but to look at individuals.

                The Muslim women I met showed me a beautiful level of kindness. Not all the men treated me sub-par, nor did every guy gawk or stare. Our tour guide brilliantly represented his country, and although I plan to visit other places in the world besides Jordan in my coming years, I will always remember his thoughtfulness and the priceless perspective this experience gave me.