I arrived in Morocco on December 16, 2024 with a loose itinerary and an even looser idea of what the next few months would look like. I had an approximate date circled on my calendar. I would leave in early April, stop in Marrakech to meet friends, then fly to Paris for two weeks with another friend. After that, I’d wander somewhere undetermined for a while, before making my way to Bulgaria by the end of June. Simple, and at least somewhat predictable.

But Morocco had other plans for me.

This country has a way of loosening your grip on timelines. And those of you who know me know this isn’t the first time I’ve lost track of time and stayed far longer in another country than I originally planned. Here, the days stretched out, strangers became family, and volunteers flowed in and out. Each one leaving new friendships in their wake and planting seeds for future reunions in their countries or somewhere else in the world. Slowly, the version of yourself you thought you were begins to shift into someone different with different ideas and plans. And somewhere along the way, time kept passing and I simply… never left.

Now, over a year later, I’m still here. Even before my back injury extended my stay, the path I thought I was following had already begun to reroute itself, subtly, in ways I didn’t realize until much later.

On January 1, 2025, I was living a simple life in Tabounte, Morocco, with an Amazigh/Berber/Nomad family. Even though the new year isn’t a significant date on their calendar, much like Christmas, they still wanted to make it special for me. We kicked off the year with a picnic in a park several miles from our home, a day filled with laughter, games, and more good food than we could possibly finish. We’d hired a van to take us there, but the walk home would be on foot.

The long journey back was more than I bargained for, but the stunning sunset that followed us almost made every step worthwhile. By the time we finally reached home, I was exhausted, yet fulfilled in every way that mattered.

As my time with my family was drawing to a close. My friend, Eric, was on his way to visit me in Morocco, and once his trip ended, I planned to move on to another WorkAway. As is often the case, the universe had other ideas. I couldn’t have known then that the next chapter would take a turn I never saw coming.

But before moving on, there was one final, unforgettable punctuation mark: a two-day journey deep into the Sahara. Fifty miles in, to Erg Chigaga, the highest dunes in the desert, where we found ourselves less than nine miles from the Algerian border. That night, gathered around a fire beneath a full moon, the sky revealed a rare alignment: Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Neptune, and Saturn, all visible at once. Before the moon rose, the Milky Way burned so brightly it felt close enough to touch.

In the early morning hours, as temperatures dipped below freezing, I woke and stepped barefoot into the cold sand. It brought me back to a night in 2016 at Everest Base Camp, another place where the world had gone quiet and vast all at once. Emotion washed over me. In that moment, I felt as though I were the only person on the planet.

The desert was pure magic.

Then on a crisp, sunlit Sunday morning in late January, I boarded a bus bound for Marrakech, a 4½-hour journey that would carry me over the Atlas Mountains and into whatever came next. Eric was heading the other way, toward Casablanca, before returning to the United States. Our paths diverged, as they so often do because travel teaches you how temporary everything is.

The night before, Eric asked me what I found hardest to leave behind. It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked that question, nor the first time I’d faced it. I’ve left cities and countries, friendships and chapters of my life. I know that material things are replaceable. You can buy another sweater, find another apartment, learn another route through unfamiliar streets. What you can’t replace so easily is your heart.

In just five weeks, these people had become my family. Somewhere between shared meals and quiet moments, laughter and routine, I had grown rooted without realizing it. I may be well-versed in the art of leaving, but it’s rarely painless.

And then there is the subtler loss, the version of yourself you leave behind. The person you were in that time and place, shaped by those faces, that way of life, that sense of belonging. You can carry the memories forward, but you will never be exactly that person again.

The plan was simple enough on paper: one night in Marrakech, an afternoon flight to London Stansted, one night there, then back to Marrakech. A quick visa reset, just enough days added so I could remain in Morocco while my friends visited.

Somewhere over the Atlas Mountains, my left ear popped and stubbornly refused to unpop. By the time I landed in London, I was dizzy, unsteady, and knew something wasn’t right, and my ear had taken an oozy turn I won’t describe in detail here. I checked into my hotel, grabbed fast food to eat in bed, and stayed there until it was time to return to the airport the next day.

Back in Marrakech, I went straight from the airport to my hotel and back under the covers. I was supposed to head to a WorkAway about an hour outside of Agadir two days later, but my body had other ideas. Thankfully, the hotel was able to extend my stay and arrange a visit to a clinic, because whatever was going on wasn’t improving. It turned out I had somehow damaged my eardrum and developed a middle ear infection.

The Agadir WorkAway was no longer an option. Instead, I found a last-minute placement in Attaouia that could take me as soon as I was well enough to travel. A few days before I was set to leave, the school there asked if I would be willing to go instead to their sister school in Kelaa.

After a week spent recovering in my little oasis, I boarded a bus on January 28th bound for Kelaa. And that, my friends, is how I ended up in a city that seemed to have a grip on me from the start. My plan to leave Morocco in April was still penciled into my calendar, but it would never quite make it off the page.

I arrived in Kelaa on a Tuesday afternoon and was met by a handsome young Moroccan named Said. At the school, Said coordinated the volunteers. Anything we needed, he was the person we turned to. But he quickly became far more than that.

Said wasn’t just the one who helped us navigate logistics. He became my best friend in Kelaa, my confidant, my guide through the city, my personal shopper, and the person who showed up without question when I injured my back. In time, he became family. My story this year and here in Kelaa wouldn’t be complete without Said.

January quickly slipped into February, and on the 6th I left Kelaa for Marrakech to meet my dear friend Teri, who was only here for just under a week. I met her at the airport and promptly whisked her off to our hotel, where she could recover by the pool before I introduced her to the beautiful chaos of Jemaa el-Fnaa that evening.

Her first taste of North Africa was a true whirlwind. The next day we wandered the medina, letting ourselves get a little lost, before calling it an early night and the next day catching a morning train to Casablanca. One bucket-list item had to be checked off Teri’s list, Rick’s Café, after which we walked to the Hassan II Mosque and lingered by the sea before catching the train back to Marrakech.

The following day took us by bus to the seaside town of Essaouira, where we soaked in the laid-back, slightly hippie vibe and sipped wine on the beach enjoying the warm the ocean breeze.

 

Back in Marrakech, we slowed the pace, spending a leisurely day that ended with dinner, drinks, and sunset views from the rooftop at Nobu. Yes, that Nobu, owned by Robert De Niro.

And then, just like that, she was back in Warren, Ohio, and I was in Kelaa again, settling into a different vibe as Ramadan approached.

The air in Kelaa was warming as everyone anxiously waited for the first sighting of the crescent moon that would mark the start of Ramadan at the beginning of March. I still thought the loose circles penciled onto my calendar marked my farewell to Morocco, but instead, my chapter here extended itself.

First, a university where I had given a presentation on the U.S. approached me about teaching English for a semester. It was tempting, but I wasn’t ready to tie myself down. Especially with a one-way ticket and two weeks in Paris already planned for April, plus five days in May to give a toast at a special event for the Panther’s Veteran Organization of the 66th Infantry Division and the sinking of the Léopoldville. So, I declined.

Not long after, the English school where I had been volunteering asked if I would teach a full trimester course: two nights a week, two hours each night, for twelve weeks. I explained it wasn’t possible. I already had plans. Paris plans. A flat. A one-way ticket.

Apparently, they sensed a weak moment. Mashi mushkil (Darija for “no problem”), they said. The students could take a two-week break while I was in Paris in April and a short break again in May. I could finish the trimester afterward and still be done in time to head to Bulgaria for summer camp.

And just like that, I found myself searching for a return ticket from Paris to Morocco and committing to teaching a full English course. Proof that Morocco just wouldn’t let me go.

The rest of February slipped by without much fanfare, and before I knew it, we were scanning the night sky for the thin crescent moon that would signal the start of Ramadan. That date that had been circled on my calendar from the beginning for my Moroccan exodus was there for another reason too. I wanted to be there for the entire month, to experience Ramadan fully. What began as cultural curiosity became, in reality, something far more personal.

I won’t write much here about Ramadan. You can read my two-part story here and here, but I will say this: I completed all thirty days of fasting, and I will carry certain memories with me always. The intoxicating scent of orange blossom. A night sky that somehow felt different during that month. The call to prayer, resonating more deeply. Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like a visitor observing tradition and began to feel part of Morocco itself.

I felt more grounded, more attuned to the energies around me. I will always remember the iftars spent in the homes of friends, and the final iftar shared with children from the Center for Children in Difficult Situations. More than anything, Ramadan gave me a deeper understanding of a country and a culture I had known so little about and a connection I hadn’t anticipated finding.

I had also begun teaching my English class just before Ramadan started. During those hours together, my students often asked how my fasting was going, and Ramadan created an additional bond between us. It became a shared experience. Something that connected us beyond grammar lessons and vocabulary lists.

The month itself passed in a blur. Before I knew it, I was taking a break from classes to meet two friends, Dawn and Margaret, in Marrakech, before jetting off to Paris for two weeks with another friend, Cathy. I would cross paths with Dawn and Margaret again soon enough, as they passed through Paris for a few days on their way back to the States.

Every so often, my worlds seem to collide, and Paris was no exception. I received a message from Brian, another friend from back home, saying he would be in the city for just one day while I was there. I gave him a whirlwind, one-day tour, my version of Paris, complete with a few favorite stops.

The rest of our time in the city was at an unhurried pace. Aside from a truly fabulous evening at the ballet, we spent our days doing little more than what Paris does best: lingering in cafés and wandering without a plan.

My return to Morocco from Paris included an unexpected and memorable two-day stop in Rome. It was there that I reunited with friends from Florida I hadn’t seen in more than twelve years. It was a reunion made all the more surreal by the timing of my arrival, which coincided with the morning news of the Pope’s passing.

We met at Piazza Navona and, sensing the weight of the moment, decided to walk together toward St. Peter’s Square. The area around the Vatican was solemn yet alive with energy, quiet conversations, and an awareness that history was unfolding around us. After paying our respects and taking it all in, we returned to the piazza for a simple meal and time to reconnect before parting ways.

From there, I boarded a bus to the train station and continued on to a small city about an hour outside of Rome to visit one of the Italian volunteers I had met earlier in Kelaa. I spent the night with her, and the following day she took me on a short excursion to the charming village of Stimigliano. We wandered its cobblestoned streets, stopped for coffee, and soaked in the beauty of the place before it was time for her to see me off. Soon, I was back on a train to Rome and onward to the airport.

And then, it was time to return to Kelaa.

Back in Kelaa, Soukaina, a receptionist at the English school, invited me to spend a weekend in the countryside at her family home. After two taxis and a fifteen-minute walk, we arrived in her village. And when I say village, imagine roughly twenty families living among olive groves, farmland, and open meadows.

What a weekend it turned out to be. I was first treated to a meal of rabbit tajine. Her father had slaughtered the rabbit specifically for my visit. It was both humbling and deeply moving. Over the course of the weekend, I was also treated to two picnics in the olive groves. For one of them, we traveled by donkey cart, carrying everything needed to prepare tajine and tea for about ten people, all to be enjoyed beneath the shade of ancient olive trees.

I learned how bread is baked in a traditional outdoor, wood-fired oven and gained a new appreciation for how demanding life in the countryside can be. Yet what stood out most was the strength of the community. When the neighbors learned of my visit, I was often surrounded by women, laughing, sharing stories, tea, and cookies. I was even introduced to the art of henna and left with my hands beautifully decorated, a visible reminder of a weekend of generosity and tradition.

Back in Kelaa, it was business as usual…classes at the English school, shopping at the souk, late-night dinners with the other volunteers, and, unexpectedly, an invitation from one of my students, Hajar, to her engagement party.

An engagement party, I quickly learned, required a caftan. The girls from the school were thrilled to take me shopping, and it was during this outing that I discovered a local custom I hadn’t known about: caftans are often rented for special occasions. Before long, I was heading home with a stunning turquoise and gold caftan, complete with all the accessories, along with a crash course in the etiquette and expectations surrounding such events.

Still unsure how to properly wear my elaborate outfit, I was grateful when, on the day of the celebration, Khadija arrived at my villa to help me get dressed. Once properly adorned, we set off. I’ll simply say this, an engagement party here is no small affair. It lasts for hours and is rich in food, music, and community.

The celebration began with sweets, followed by roasted chicken, other roasted meats, and, of course, khobz, the traditional round Moroccan bread. There were musicians, singers, and what felt like countless guests filling the small space with energy and joy. After hours of eating, dancing, and soaking it all in, I was ready to head home, but not before Hajar’s mother insisted we finish with a bowl of harira, the beloved Moroccan soup.

Another day, another step deeper into culture and tradition.

Soon it was time for my second trip to Paris in less than a month. This time, my friend Teri joined me, along with a last-minute visit from my former Warsaw flatmate, Zaka. While the company made the trip especially joyful, the heart of the journey carried a deeper purpose.

I had been invited to give a toast at a dinner for the Panther Veteran Organization of the 66th Infantry Division. The toast was in honor of the late Leonard, dear to many, and the person who had introduced me to Lenore, who now heads the organization. Leonard had connected us some years ago, bound by a shared love of Paris, and when Lenore asked me to say a few words about him, I felt both honored and humbled.

We would raise our glasses with Calvados, the apple brandy Leonard had once warned me about when he learned I was moving to Paris. It felt fitting to toast him in the city he loved, with the drink he never forgot to caution me about.

Back in Kelaa, life settled into a familiar rhythm again with new volunteers arriving, past volunteers returning, bougainvilleas bursting into bloom, and the weather steadily warming. At the school, I was wrapping up the trimester I had begun all the way back in February.

During my daily walks to and from the school, I started to notice my lower back “talking” to me. Back problems have been a constant companion most of my life, not to mention the fact that I once broke my back in China, an injury that required a seven-hour surgery. I knew I had probably pushed things a bit too hard in Paris, especially on the hills of Montmartre, but back in Kelaa I convinced myself I could power through it.

I couldn’t.

The pain worsened steadily until, sometime in early June, I reached the breaking point. I’m not sure what the final straw was, but one morning I simply couldn’t get out of bed. I told myself a few days of rest would set things right, after all, I had a commitment at the end of June at Zenira Camp in Bulgaria, and I fully expected to be there.

After nearly ten days with no improvement, I finally gave in and went to the local clinic. They sent me for an MRI, and the results brought unwelcome familiarity: an injury that had plagued me more than twenty-five years ago had reared its ugly head again. I had herniated discs at L4 and L5. And, as a bonus, a brand-new herniation at S1.

I was put on strict bed rest, along with pain medication, muscle relaxants, and anti-inflammatories. It soon became clear that I wouldn’t make the start of camp. As it turned out, I didn’t recover enough to make it at all.

The months of July and August passed quietly as I focused almost entirely on healing. The biggest event during that time was not a celebration, but a necessity…my visa was expiring, and I wasn’t healthy enough to fly anywhere. The only viable solution was a long car journey north to the Spanish enclave of Ceuta, where I could walk across the border into Spain, turn around, and walk straight back into Morocco.

We completed the nearly 800-mile round trip in under twenty-four hours. When we returned, I slept for two full days. The journey reset my visa for another ninety days, carrying me through to the beginning of November.

At the end of August, I moved into a new villa in the Nour district of Kelaa. While it wasn’t as centrally located or easily accessible, I found my rhythm again by relying on a trusted taxi driver I could call whenever I needed to go out. Slowly, I began venturing back into daily life, spending time in cafés, enjoying my nos nos, and stopping by the school when I could, though the six flights of stairs often reminded me that I was still healing.

The autumn months blurred together. Time moved strangely, and I couldn’t quite account for where it went. By early October, I finally felt strong enough for a day trip to Marrakech. This time to add to my growing collection of tattoos, each one marking a place where I had lived or spent a meaningful stretch of time. I had gotten my Poland tattoo in December 2024, just before leaving for Morocco, and now I was ready for my “Ode to Morocco.”

 

Said and I traveled to Marrakech, where I had the words for peace tattooed on my left forearm in Arabic, Amazigh, English, and French. That same month, I began my hijama journey. Similar to Chinese dry cupping, hijama is the Islamic practice of making small incisions before applying the cups. Combined with regular acupuncture sessions every week to ten days, it became a meaningful part of my healing process.

 

Before I knew it, it was time for yet another visa reset. Still not feeling quite ready to fly, I opted again for overland travel. Not long after, I hosted a near-traditional American Thanksgiving for Moroccan friends and volunteers from the UK and Germany. I even made spaghetti the night before, because some traditions die hard.

Having grown attached to my tattoo artist in Marrakech, I returned in November to add a piece representing my time in Paris. Nothing had quite resonated until then, but eventually the idea came together in a way that felt right. With hijama, acupuncture, massage, and light exercise, I was finally beginning to feel like myself again.

Although my visa situation was stable, I decided to book a December trip to Paris to meet my friend Dawn. Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Dawn fell and broke her shoulder the very evening after I booked my flight and she had to cancel. Still, Paris at Christmastime has a pull of its own, and being no stranger to the city, I went anyway.

As the universe tends to do, things aligned. A friend from my hometown happened to be spending her final night in Paris the day I arrived. We met at Harry’s New York Bar and stayed longer than we should have. She had a long international flight the next morning and may still be blaming me for that. At the same time, one of the volunteers from Kelaa, also coincidentally from Minnesota, was in Paris coinciding for a single day with me. So we met up and I showed him my favorite corners of the city.

Christmas was marked back in Morocco with a shared meal of rfissa and all-American cheeseburgers for five Moroccan friends and volunteers from Connecticut and Mexico. And just like that, I found myself quietly closing out 2025 and beginning to plan my departure from Morocco.

Leaving is an art of its own. It’s rarely easy. But my feet were getting itchy again, and I had a clear sense of where and when I wanted to be next. There were too many signs to ignore.

Morocco, you held me longer than I planned. You wrapped me in your language, your rituals, your food, and your patience. You carried me when my body refused to cooperate and reminded me that healing is not linear.

For that, I thank you.

You gave me exactly what I didn’t know I needed, and just enough time to understand it.

Now the healing is done, the bags are lighter, and the next chapter is already in motion.

I leave not because I must, but because I am ready.

Kenya, I’m on my way.

Curiosity has always been my compass, carrying me across continents, into classrooms, markets, hammams, alleyways, and long bus rides where strangers become stories. As a traveling English teacher, I’ve found myself asking the following questions again and again. Sometimes to spark a lesson and sometimes to open a door. My students’ answers, shaped by age and English level, are always surprising and honest reminders of how universal we all are. Travel has taught me that our lives may look different, but our hearts are remarkably similar. My inspiration for this came from the “Twenty Questions to the World” project started in France in 2017. Some questions are of my own invention and some borrowed from the original project. These aren’t just questions; they’re conversations with the world, one voice at a time.

Before sharing my own answers, I’ve listed the questions first so you can pause, wander a bit through your own memories, and discover what your heart might say in return. Some questions might feel simple, others more profound but each is an invitation to pause, reflect, and explore your own story.

1. What three adjectives would you use to describe yourself?
2. What does happiness mean to you?
3. Who would you like to have coffee with?
4. What do you need?
5. What are you afraid of?
6. If you could teach one thing to every child in every school in the world, what would it be?
7. If you could re-live one moment in your life, what would it be?
8. What do you think is your purpose in life?
9. What does religion mean to you?
10. What is the best thing about being you?
11. What song defines you?
12. What does “home” feel like to you?
13. What is your dream?
14. What is your favorite color and how does it make you feel?
15. What is the main characteristic common to all people on earth?
16. Who is the happiest person in the world?
17. What was the best era of your life?
18. If you could participate in one historical event, what would it be?
19. What is your favorite way to relax?
20. What question would you ask the world?

Wendy’s Answers 

1. What three adjectives would you use to describe yourself?                             Curious, Optimistic, Harmonious

2. What does happiness mean to you?

To me happiness is freedom, presence, purpose, and connection. It is the freedom of the unknown. Not knowing what is next, yet trusting that I have a purpose. It’s the hope that somewhere along the way I might make a difference.

It is the connection I share with strangers who become friends, the cultures that make me feel at home, the kindness that crosses languages, and the faces that stay with me long after I have moved on.

It is the presence of being in the moment because a day from now or a week from now or a year from now everything will have changed. It is appreciating the moment and also the in between times of what was and what is next.

Happiness isn’t the destination. It is the journey itself, the moments that connect that are guided by purpose, having the freedom of choice, to move, to feel, to simply be.

3. Who would you like to have coffee with?

If I could have coffee with anyone, I’d choose the Dalai Lama. I would love to hear his story of exile, his thoughts on the world today, and the simple truths he’s discovered through a life devoted to compassion. I’d ask him what he does for fun, what makes him laugh, and how he finds balance in an ever-changing world.

And because I hope to go to Kenya, my second choice would be Stefanie Powers (no comment Teri Surin), not for her Hollywood fame, but for the extraordinary life she’s lived beyond it. I’d love to listen to her stories of travel, adventure, and the world as it once was. She has made a remarkable difference through her work in animal conservation and education, and I’d be fascinated to share reflections on those faraway places, many of which I’ve seen too, though in a different time and with different eyes.

4. What do you need?

What do I need? The answer is simple: time.

The older I get, the more fleeting time feels. I need more of it, though I know I’ll never have enough, to explore all the far corners of the world and show others those places through my eyes. And then, I need the time to record it all in my future memoir, No Cheese in China.

5. What are you afraid of?

I’m afraid of running out of time…of not seeing, doing, and experiencing all the places of my dreams. There’s so much world left to explore, so many stories waiting to be written, and I fear the clock will move faster than my footsteps.

6. If you could teach one thing to every child in every school in the world, what would it be? 

I’d teach them one of my favorite phrases: never stop wondering, never stop wandering.

To go with kindness in their hearts, dreams in their pockets, and eyes wide open to how others live, love, and see. Curiosity, compassion, and courage is the lesson I’d hope to leave behind.

7. If you could re-live one moment in your life, what would it be?

If I could relive one moment, it would be the night of January 9, 2020. The night my brother and sister-in-law reopened the Robins Theatre in our hometown of Warren, Ohio. I can still hear him tell me about standing behind the curtain, taking that final breath before stepping out to a standing ovation. The pride in his eyes, the electricity in the room, the way the whole town seemed to hold its breath and then rise to its feet. It was pure magic.

I was there, watching from the audience, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more pride or more connected to home, to family, and to the belief that dreams no matter how big, how impossible they may seem, really can come true.

If I could live any moment twice, it would be that one. 

8. What do you think is your purpose in life?

I’ve felt since I was young that my purpose is to explore the world with an open heart and eyes, connect with people, and share what I see, learn, feel, and experience along the way. My purpose is to keep growing, never lose my curiosity, keep seeking, and maybe, just maybe, leave something good in every place and every person along the way. 

9. What does religion mean to you? 

Although I was raised Christian, my global experiences have shaped a more open-minded and spiritual perspective. I am open to the beliefs of other religions and hold a sense of faith in something greater. My views on Christianity have shifted significantly, leading me toward respect, understanding, and a more spiritual approach grounded in simply being a “good” person.

To me, religion comes down to the golden rule: “Do unto others…” It’s the central teaching of many of the world’s major religions and philosophies. 

10. What is the best thing about being you?

The best part of being me is the curiosity that keeps me reaching for new places and new perspectives. I explore without fear, listen with intention, and let every culture I encounter shape the way I understand the world.

11. What song defines you?

“Drops of Jupiter” feels like my story. It is the story of leaving, growing, and finding my way back. It captures my constant search for wonder as I explore the world. It’s about crossing borders, collecting stories, and returning with a heart full of stars. The kind of stars that light my map and remind me I’m never lost, in this world or the next. 

12. What does “home” feel like to you? 

The more I travel, the more home feels less like a place and more like a feeling. It’s a sense of belonging that finds me in unexpected corners of the world. It is the comfort of being completely myself, understood, welcomed, and free to just be. Home is the connection I find in the people, places, and moments that make the world feel smaller and kinder. I can honestly say, I feel at “home” in most places I have been in the world.

13. What is your dream?

My dream? Honestly, I’m living it.

Not in some grand way, but in the day-to-day patterns of a life shaped by curiosity, connection, and movement. My dream has never been a single destination or achievement. It’s the ability to step into new places with an open heart, meet people whose paths I never expected to cross, and collect the stories, feelings, and small miracles that make the world feel both vast and familiar. A world where no matter where I am it feels like home.

I’m living my dream every time I board a plane, a train, or bus with no idea what moment will change me next. Every time a stranger becomes a friend. Every time I learn something that shifts my understanding of myself or humanity.

My dream is to keep exploring, keep sharing what I see and feel, and keep letting the world teach me. And in that sense, I’m already in the life I once only imagined. 

14. What is your favorite color and how does it make you feel?

Green is my favorite color, specifically sage green. It makes me feel calm and steady. It reminds me of nature and grounds me, reminding me to breathe and enjoy the moment.

15. What is the main characteristic common to all people on earth?

I think the one characteristic common to all people is the desire to be seen and understood. No matter where I’ve traveled, with different languages, cultures, and backgrounds, I’ve found that everyone wants to feel valued and heard. And at the center of it all is love. We’re all searching for it in one form or another: love from family, friends, partners, or even from the world itself. At our core, maybe, hopefully, we all just want to belong and to love and be loved in return.

16. Who is the happiest person in the world?

Without meaning to sound boastful, I’d say I’m the happiest person in the world. I’ve learned to see the world through different eyes, to follow dreams across continents, and to live a life shaped by intention, courage, and choice, not by chance or convention. Luck didn’t get me here. I’m living my dream. Who wouldn’t be happy?

17. What was the best era of your life?

Although I feel like I’m living my best life right now, my best era was my early 40s. My health was at its peak. I’d lost a little of the wild child from my younger years, but I was grounded without losing my curiosity about the world. Life felt steady. I had a solid income, a strong body that bounced back quickly, and a sense of balance I didn’t even realize I had.

Now, even as I’m living fully, I sometimes forget I’m not in that “40-ish” phase anymore. I push too hard, don’t listen to my body, and pay for it later. I know I need to slow down and be a little more cautious, but I never want to lose the mindset I had then, that mix of confidence and curiosity with a little bit of wild child thrown in.

18. If you could participate in one historical event, what would it be? 

I would choose to be there for the opening of King Tut’s tomb. I’ve always been drawn to archaeology and fascinated by the world of the pharaohs, the pyramids, the mysteries, the stories buried in the sand for thousands of years. To witness that moment of discovery, when history literally opened its door, would have been incredible. 

19. What is your favorite way to relax?

Right now in Morocco, my favorite way to relax is going to the hammam. There’s nothing like the steam, the scrub, and then a long massage that turns me into complete mush. I come home feeling weightless, with the rest of my day wide open, I would choose reading, writing, creating art, cooking, video-chatting with friends… whatever I feel like in that time after. 

20. What question would you ask the world?

 Even though I’ve already asked and answered nineteen questions, I think this one matters the most. It’s more personal, and it comes straight from the soul.

Because beneath every face we pass is a story we rarely get to hear, and I’ve learned through travel that everyone, everywhere carries something tender they want the world to know.

If I could ask the world only one question, it would be: “What is the one thing your heart wishes people understood about you?”

In the end, these questions have become more than a list. They’ve become a map of the people I’ve met and the places that shaped me. Every answer, whether whispered in a classroom or scribbled in my notebook on a long train ride, has shown me that the world is both bigger and kinder than it appears. We may speak in different languages and come from different corners of the earth, but our fears, hopes, and joys echo each other. Sharing my answers is just my way of adding my voice to the conversation. One traveler, one teacher, one curious heart reaching back toward the world that has given me so much.

If one of these questions sparks something in you, I’d love to hear your answer(s). You can send them to me at navel1ring@yahoo.com or via Facebook Messenger. Who knows, your voice might even find its way into my book one day.

 

 

Sometimes fate hides in the people you haven’t yet met, the choices you don’t know you’re making, and the places you never planned to go. I couldn’t have known then that one decision, to leave my job, pack a suitcase, and chase a dream in Paris would set off a chain of moments leading me halfway across the world to a rural village in China, a fellow Trumbull County resident I’d never met, and an unforgettable taxi ride that would leave me laughing instead of quaking about a tank full of illegal gas.

This story begins in Paris, the summer of 2014. I had just asked for a leave of absence from a job I once loved but had grown to resent, ended a long-term relationship with the love of my life, packed my belongings into storage, and pressed pause on everything familiar. With a rented flat, a suitcase, and a one-way ticket, I traded certainty for the cobblestoned unknown and moved to Paris. Things didn’t unfold exactly as planned, but that’s another story.

For nearly six months I lived the dream I’d scribbled into journals for years. I woke to the scent of fresh croissants and the sound of church bells echoing across the arrondissements. In February 2015, I returned to the U.S. unable to slide back into the life I’d left behind. I didn’t return to the YMCA, and Warren, Ohio no longer felt like home. It felt smaller than before, as though I’d outgrown it. My heart was restless, my whole being was pulled toward the far corners of the map.

China became my next leap of faith. I discovered a program that would let me study Mandarin on a student visa while teaching English. It was a perfect fit. So once again, with one suitcase and a one-way ticket, I boarded a plane to Beijing. I wasn’t fluent in Mandarin, couldn’t master chopsticks, and had never faced a squat toilet, but I was ready. After two weeks of cultural training, I found myself in a rural village so small it wasn’t even named on most maps: Xiashan, in Shandong Province.

Xiashan was the China I didn’t know I’d been seeking. The 4,000 or so residents lived in simple homes surrounded by fields and high-rise “ghost” apartments built in the hope that families would someday come. The village’s pride was its new bilingual school, where the population more than doubled when the students arrived each term. I lived in one of those empty high-rises. It was here, far from everything I’d ever known, that I fell in love with China.

It was as far from Warren, Ohio as one could get, not just in miles, but in spirit. Few people spoke English, and many had never seen a foreigner. With my light hair and blue eyes, I stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. I was a walking curiosity. My six-month visa passed much too quickly. I had thought that after spending half a year teaching in a rural Chinese village, I would be ready to return to my old life. But as the end drew near, I knew I wasn’t. Still, I had to return to the U.S. to renew my visa, and the school would need to replace me before I could return.

Life in Xiashan was simple. I bought vegetables at the street market, meat from hooks, and once even waited while a sheep was slaughtered for me. Reluctantly but determined, I went back to Warren, I immediately sent my passport, application, fees, and hopes to the Chinese Embassy. Two and a half weeks later, a ten-year multiple-entry visa was stamped in my passport. I was so sure I’d return that I had asked the school to keep my things until I did and they had graciously agreed.

Before I left China to renew my visa, I already knew where I’d be spending Chinese New Year once I returned. Not in the fireworks and frenzy of Beijing, Shanghai, or Hong Kong, but in a quiet farming village with my co-worker Alina’s family. I couldn’t have asked for a more genuine celebration.

When I arrived in Xiashan, Alina and her brother met me at my apartment, he, thank goodness, effortlessly carried my fifty-nine-pound suitcase up twelve flights of stairs before whisking me off to their village, just fifteen minutes away. On the way, Alina reminded me that her parents were simple farmers and spoke no English. I told her I was honored to be invited into their home for such a special occasion.

Her father was waiting outside when we arrived, smiling shyly in the crisp winter air. Their home was a modest concrete building with three rooms: Alina’s small bedroom, a cooking area, and a main living space that doubled as her parents’ bedroom. There was no indoor plumbing; the toilet was a concrete trough outside, shielded only by a low wall. Yes, I had the midnight adventure of discovering it at three a.m. under a freezing sky.

I didn’t know it then, but these quiet 3 a.m. moments, stepping out into the dark, breath turning to mist, the world hushed and waiting, would become a recurring theme in my travels. In the years ahead, I’d find myself awake at that same hour in the shadow of Mount Everest and again beneath the stars of the Sahara, each time reminded how alive and present the world feels when it’s just you, the cold air, and the hum of something greater.

Her mother was already preparing a lunch of steaming baozi, soft buns filled with minced meat and served with garlic-vinegar sauce. They were delicious; I ate two and was thoroughly stuffed. Afterward, Alina translated a bit of conversation before her mother insisted I rest after my journey.

When I woke, the courtyard was alive with the evening’s preparations. Her father was butchering a chicken, slicing pork, and cleaning fish and prawns while Alina’s brother helped their mother fold dumplings for the midnight meal…symbols of luck and prosperity. As evening fell, the table filled with dishes I couldn’t always name but will never forget. We toasted the New Year with red wine her brother had brought, laughter cutting through the cold.

After dinner, we gathered on her parents’ kang, a wide, tiled bed warmed from beneath by a coal burner. A thin cushion softened the ceramic surface, and the radiant heat spread slowly through the room. We watched the televised celebration from Beijing. Just before midnight, we ate dumplings and stepped outside to light firecrackers, sending the crack and sparkle of good fortune into the sky.

Alina’s father insisted I “live” with them for the night, so Alina and I shared her warm bed, listening to distant bursts of celebration fade into quiet. In the morning, her mother poured hot and cool water into a basin so I could wash, then served mantou, plain steamed buns, and reheated leftovers for breakfast. After we ate, Alina and I wandered through the village before riding her scooter to Xiashan Lake for the New Year’s Day market and festival.

It was simple, authentic, and perfect. No luxury, no fanfare, just family, generosity, and tradition. I was profoundly honored to have been welcomed into it, and I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.

I spent the next ten or so days quietly tucked into village life, maybe taking one bus ride into Weifang, but mostly lingering in the stillness of Spring Festival. The streets were nearly empty; no students yet, no chatter spilling from the school gates, just the sound of wind through fields and the occasional bark of a dog echoing between concrete walls. I was waiting for the new foreign teachers to arrive while finalizing my next placement with my agent. Those days passed the way still days often do, unhurried, uneventful, and somehow gone too soon.

When the time came to meet my replacement, the village seemed to hold its breath. The air was crisp and bright, the kind of quiet day that makes you feel both grateful and nostalgic at once. Knowing my time in my first Chinese home was ending, I took my scooter out for a long, ride. The dirt roads, the clusters of concrete houses, the open-air market where I’d bought vegetables and laughter in equal measure, all of it felt suspended in memory even as I moved through it.

I rode down to Xiashan Lake, at the base of our small mountain – xia meaning “beneath,” shan meaning “mountain” – the namesake of our village. And then, not by coincidence I think, I found myself pulling up in front of 1-Der-Ful Dumpling, a tiny shop where I’d eaten soon after I first arrived. Inside, women were folding meat-filled jiaozi faster than I could count, their hands moving in a rhythm older than the town itself. I sat there with my plate, the steam fogging the window, thinking about all the people and moments that had made me fall in love with this quiet corner of China.

Eventually, it was time to head back and meet the newcomers. “Small world” doesn’t even begin to describe what happened next. When I returned to the apartment, the four new teachers had already arrived. Two would share my three-bedroom flat with me until I left; the other two had the one across the hall.

I happened to be wearing a Cleveland Cavaliers shirt. Fitting, since it was a big year for the Cavs. One of the new arrivals, a guy who was rooming with the girl across the hall, noticed it.

“Hey,” he said, “you’re from Ohio? Colleen’s from Ohio too.”

“Really?” I asked. “Where in Ohio?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know it,” he said with a shrug. “Some little town near Youngstown.”

I laughed. “I’m from a little town near Youngstown…Warren.”

His eyes widened. “Well, she’s from Cortland.”

A few minutes later, Colleen came over, and we obviously both knew that Warren and Cortland neighbor each other in Trumbull County, we both just stared for a moment, then burst out laughing. Two people from the same corner of Ohio, meeting for the first time in a tiny village in rural China not even marked on most maps.

The world, it turns out, isn’t so big after all.

Life, of course, had other plans. What was supposed to be six months in China no longer had an end date. One city led to another, and then another, three in total before I’d finally leave in July of 2019 to begin a new chapter in Bali. Each move brought new faces, new lessons, and new ways of seeing the world. China had become less of a stop along the way and more of a home that kept reshaping me. I often thought back to Xiashan. To its dusty roads and quiet markets, to the people who had unknowingly marked the beginning of this long, unfolding story.

And then, as if the universe wanted to remind me that the world loves a good callback, our paths crossed again. It was Christmas of 2018, not far from that first meeting. I had traveled to Weifang to spend the holiday with a couple, Amy and Harrison, who had met in Xiashan, an American teacher and her Chinese husband, now married and building a life together.

Colleen wasn’t there when I arrived, but she was still living in the Xiashan–Weifang area, and we arranged to meet for dinner. Sitting together that evening, we couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer improbability of it all. Two girls from Warren, Ohio, who had never crossed paths back home, somehow only managed to meet up on the other side of the world, in China.

Leaving Weifang after the holidays, I was ready for nothing more than a hot shower, my quilted pajamas, and a martini with two almond-stuffed olives. But first, there was the small matter of getting home. A journey that started with a train from Weifang to Jinan, followed by a two-plus-hour car ride to Dong’e. It’s a route I’d taken before, the kind of long-day travel that usually ends quietly. But in China, the unexpected isn’t the exception—it’s the rule.

When my train pulled into Jinan, my driver was already waiting. Because Dong’e is so far from the nearest station, it’s common to arrange shared cars. I’d used this driver several times before, so when I saw three passengers already packed into the back seat, I simply smiled, climbed into the front, and off we went.

For the first hour and forty-five minutes, the ride was uneventful. Pitch-black roads and stretches of countryside broken only by the occasional flicker of neon from a roadside shop. Then we turned down a narrow, one-lane dirt road, the kind with ditches on both sides, to drop off the first passenger. It was so tight the driver had to make one of those awkward three-point turns to get us facing the right direction again.

About ten minutes later, we turned down another single-lane track even darker than the first. The remaining two passengers got out and climbed into a small cart that was waiting for them. Side note, it was about seventeen degrees that night. And then there was one: just me and my driver, heading toward Dong’e.

I wasn’t worried; he lived there too, and we’d traveled together before. We passed through a few small villages with no streetlights, just the occasional glow from a window. And then, about fifteen minutes from town, we pulled into what looked like a small parking lot. There was one car and a shack, maybe four by eight feet. My driver honked, and a rather large man emerged, climbed into the back seat, and we started off again. I assumed he just needed a lift into town.

Well… not exactly.

About thirty yards down the road, we turned into what looked like an abandoned factory. The driver said something in Chinese I didn’t understand, then backed the car up perpendicular to a box truck. The big guy got out, opened the truck’s back doors, and to my astonishment, there was a full fuel pump inside. My driver turned to me, smiling, and said something that sounded like “just a few minutes.” I nodded, smiled back, and pretended this was the most normal thing in the world.

They filled the car from the truck, paid whatever arrangement was owed, and we drove the man back to his shack before heading toward Dong’e again. No harm done. Just another little adventure in my China life.

By the time I reached home, I was equal parts amused and relieved. I kicked off my shoes, stepped into a hot shower, slipped into my quilted pajamas, and finally poured that martini with two almond-stuffed olives. As I settled under my thick blanket, I couldn’t help but laugh. Some people collect souvenirs; I collect stories, and this one, well, could only have happened in China.

China had a way of reminding me that plans are only suggestions and certainty is overrated. From chance meetings to midnight detours, life here kept proving that the best stories never begin with “everything went as expected.” What was meant to be six months had stretched into years, and I had the feeling this was only the beginning. Fate, coincidence, and a touch of chaos seemed to follow me wherever I went and I was learning to welcome them. After all, the road was still calling, and somewhere beyond the next horizon, another story was already waiting for me.

Because in China and in life the detours are sometimes the best part of the trip.

 

Eleven years ago I packed a single suitcase, certain I was chasing one adventure. Somewhere between missed trains and ever-changing addresses with a revolving door of flatmates, the adventure became my life. Four continents later, the borders blur. Once unfamiliar spices drift through my memories. Friendships, some with fellow travelers who drifted in and out of my days, others with locals whose roots I briefly shared, have become the landmarks of each place. What follows isn’t a checklist of places but a scattering of moments, fragments of the many worlds that now live inside me.

Living abroad is…

…Realizing you have built a life across multiple worlds. When I left Warren, Ohio with a one-way ticket to Paris, I thought I was starting a chapter. I didn’t realize it would turn into an entire book, each place a different world, each world reshaping me. Paris gave me my first taste of life beyond the familiar; China challenged me to navigate rhythms, a language, and rituals utterly unlike my own; Bali offered a slower cadence and a kind of spiritual hospitality; Poland and Bulgaria grounded me in history and resilience; Tanzania gifted me a warmth and joy that pulsed through everyday life; and Morocco, where I now find myself, wraps me daily in color, dust, and deep tradition. Somewhere along the way, I stopped belonging to just one place. My life became a patchwork, not unlike the quilt I sent home from Bali, stitched from many worlds, each one alive within me.

…Discovering that “home” is no longer a single dot on the map but a constellation of places and people. For a long time, home was one address, one skyline, one set of familiar streets. But after years of crossing borders, I’ve come to see it differently. Home is no longer fixed. It’s a constellation scattered across the globe, each place a bright star in my night sky. Paris sparkles first, like the Eiffel Tower each evening, where I first dared to step into another life. China flares bold and unblinking, filled with lanterns, fireworks, language, and endless lessons in patience. Bali glows softer, a star of stillness and incense drifting on the air. Poland and Bulgaria shine with the steady light of history and community. Tanzania blazes warm with laughter, rhythm, and the kindness of strangers who became family. And Morocco, the newest star, burns vibrant with color, call to prayer, and the scent of mint tea rising with the dawn.

Each one is a second star to the right, leading me not toward Neverland, but toward many lands, each holding a piece of me. Together, they sketch the map of a life I never planned but now can’t imagine any other way.

…Speaking three languages in one sentence and forgetting which one holds the right word. Fluency is a tricky thing when you’ve lived across continents. I’ve learned just enough of each language to charm waiters, confuse taxi drivers, and occasionally get myself into trouble.

My best party trick? The ability to order coffee in at least seven different languages. Sometimes with such confidence that I don’t realize I’ve chosen the wrong one until the barista gives me that confused smile.

In Morocco, I never know what language the kids on the street will toss my way. It could be “salaam,” “hola,” “bonjour,” “hello,” even “ciao.” I answer back with whatever greeting leaps first into my head, never quite sure which language my tongue will choose.

But the real tangle comes after moving between countries. Months in Poland, then a quick trip to Paris, and suddenly the wires cross. I’ve replied to “bonjour” with a cheerful “dzień dobry,” or found myself blurting “dziękuję” instead of “merci” or “au revoir.” Once, without thinking, I even slipped out a “xièxiè” left over from my years in China. These moments always catch me mid-word, leaving me smiling at the puzzled look across from me.

Even small choices carry weight, like how to say the name of a country. Is it Tan-Zan-Ya, the way it sings on the lips of those who live there, or Tan-Za-Nia, as I first learned it back home? In that hesitation, I discover the beauty of a word that belongs to two worlds at once.

This shifting language of mine is far from fluent, far from perfect, but it is alive and I do try. It comes from encounters, from voices that have touched my journey, and from the places that continue to shape the way I speak the world. Along the way I’ve gathered favorite words and phrases, each like a keepsake tucked into my memory: lala salama in Tanzania, a gentle blessing of “go in peace”; chrząszcz in Poland, a tongue-twisting word for “beetle” that still makes me laugh at its impossible cluster of consonants; enchanté in France, where even an introduction feels like a little charm; suksama in Bali, a thank you that carries a sense of grace; and here in Morocco, the phrase I return to most – mashi moskil, “no problem.” Two simple words that hold the warmth and resilience of the culture, reminding me daily that the heart of a place often hides in its everyday language

…Carrying spices, tea, traditional clothing and stories in your suitcase instead of souvenirs. I don’t bring home the usual trinkets. Instead, I take with me the pieces of each place that have shaped me. My condo back in Ohio holds photos I’ve had made into canvas, reminders of the lives and landscapes that became part of mine. Prayer flags wait to be strung above the fireplace, whispering blessings into the air. From China, I carried delicate white tea for my sister-in-law, a taste of the life I spent there.

From Türkiye, a small cezve or ibrik, ready to brew thick coffee that tastes of conversations stretching into the night.

Morocco has given me flowing jallabas and caftans, Bali the temple clothes of a kebaya and kamben, Tibet a chupa that feels like a second skin when I slip it on.

And always, from Paris, I carry back beurre sel de mer, salted butter, impossibly French, impossibly simple, to wherever in the world I happen to be living next. These things are more than objects. They are echoes that taste, sound, and feel of the places I’ve lived and visited. And still, they are only the surface. What I truly bring with me are the stories. More stories than I could tell in a lifetime and the comfort of knowing they will never run out.

I write them into postcards, too, stamped, sent across oceans to friends and family. Each one a small reminder that I was here, I thought of you, and this moment now belongs to us both.

… Celebrating Holidays That Shift With Each Country. One of the surest ways I know I’ve built a life across borders is by the way my calendar keeps changing. In China, the year truly began with the thunder of firecrackers and the red glow of lanterns at Spring Festival, where streets pulsed with music and families gathered around banquets that stretched late into the night. In Morocco, the rhythm of the day bends to Ramadan and the slow afternoons, the waiting for sunset, and the joy of Iftar, breaking the fast together over dates and mint tea.

In Poland, Christmas is marked not by Christmas morning but by Wigilia, the Christmas Eve feast. The table is laid with an empty place for an unexpected guest, the first star in the sky marks the beginning, and dishes like pierogi and carp bring centuries of tradition to life. France, by contrast, has given me long, elegant holiday dinners with champagne and oysters. In Bali, the cycle of life and death itself is honored through the Ngaben ceremony, a cremation ritual where families and entire communities gather to accompany the spirit on its journey. It is not a day of mourning but of celebration, color, and music. A reminder that in some places, even endings are infused with joy.

Each country has handed me its own rituals, and with them, its own meaning of celebration. I’ve learned that holidays are less about the date on the calendar and more about the people who opened their doors, the flavors passed across the table, and the stories that anchored us, even far from where we were born.

…collecting friends like postcards. Every country I’ve lived in or passed through has left me with a multitude of friends. Some were fleeting companions I know I will never see again, yet they’ve left indelible marks on my heart. Others remain in touch, and I know that if I landed in their country tomorrow, they would open their homes and their arms without hesitation. There are even friends I’ve never met in person, friends of friends, or voices found through social media, who still bring something meaningful to my journey.

So many I long to see again, though I know deep down that reunion may never come. That is the bittersweet rhythm of this life abroad. To love deeply, then to let go. With time, I have learned, almost mastered, the art of leaving. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice. Each farewell has taught me resilience, though the truth is the goodbyes never get easier; in fact, they weigh heavier with every year.

And yet, like postcards, they remain vivid in the albums of my memory: their laughter, their kindness, their presence, each one a snapshot of a moment that will always belong to us. Even as the years carry us in different directions, their colors don’t fade. They are the companions of my journey, the proof that no place was ever lived alone.

…Feeling like a local and a stranger at the same time. To live abroad is to carry two truths in the same breath. I slip into the rhythm of a place until it feels like second nature. Buying fruits and vegetables from the same stand each morning, knowing the café will bring me my nos nos (coffee) without my even needing to order, and walking streets that no longer need a map. In these moments, I feel like a local, moving as if I have always belonged..

But then something reminds me. I catch a glimpse of a photo or a reflection in a window and realize I am the only light-haired, blue-eyed person in sight. Or I notice I am the only woman without a hijab, the only person whose tattoos peek from beneath her sleeves. In those moments, I am again the stranger. Welcomed, yes, but never fully of the place.

It doesn’t matter whether I am in Paris, China, Bali, Bulgaria, Poland, or Morocco; the feeling follows me everywhere. I stand both inside and outside at once, rooted and unrooted, at home and away. Perhaps that is the beauty of this life: to see the world with both sets of eyes…the ones that belong, and the ones that will always be passing through.

…Measuring distance not in miles but in time zones and late-night calls. When you live across continents, distance stops being about geography. It becomes a matter of clocks. In Morocco, it’s just five hours between me and Ohio, an easy subtraction until I forget about the adjustment during Ramadan. When I was in Poland and a friend calls when I’m winding down with a glass of wine and they’re only just pouring their morning coffee. In China, the distance stretched further still, twelve hours apart, as if we lived on opposite sides of time. The awkward math of time zones becomes second nature, yet mistakes are inevitable: missed calls, sleepy “hellos,” messages arriving in the middle of the night.

But there’s a strange intimacy in it, too. I’ve learned that closeness can travel through glowing screens, voices stretched across oceans, laughter exchanged between dusk and dawn. Sometimes, those conversations feel sharper, more precious, precisely because they require effort and timing. Living abroad teaches you that connection isn’t measured in miles. It’s measured in how far voices are willing to reach.

…Understanding that leaving and returning are just different forms of belonging. My greatest fear has never been boarding a plane to somewhere new. It has always been the return. In eleven years, I’ve only gone back to Warren, Ohio four times, the longest stay just two and a half months. When I finally step back on American soil again, it will probably be more than seven years since I last walked those familiar streets, since February 3, 2020. No one talks about how hard it is to leave one home in order to go home. To leave friends in one place so you can see friends in another.

The question that follows me is: how do you slide back into a life that once was yours, when you’ve been stretched and changed by the journey? The people I return to have lived through their days without me, their routines, their joys and heartbreaks, their ups and downs. I have done the same, but in other languages, other landscapes. My mornings no longer look like theirs, my words carry the rhythm of places most have never been.

It will be impossible to feel as if I never left. And maybe that’s the point. Terry Pratchett wrote, “Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.” I return not as the girl who left, but as the woman who carries Paris in her nights, Morocco in her mornings, Bali in her prayers, China in her patience, Poland and Bulgaria in her resilience, Tanzania in her warmth.

Leaving and returning are not opposites; they are different forms of belonging. Each departure has stretched me, each arrival has reshaped me, and together they have given me more than one home, more than one self. Perhaps the question isn’t where do I belong? but rather how extraordinary it is to have worked for, and earned, the chance to belong in so many places at once.

When I first set out with one suitcase, I never imagined it would carry me across four continents and more worlds than I can count. And though I don’t yet know where the road will lead me next, I am certain it will continue to change me. My only hope is that in return, I have left some small mark on all the places and all the people that have left their mark on me.

Where the Sand whispers and the silence speaks, the Sahara stretches into forever. In January, I set out from Ouarzazate with fellow Warrenite, Eric who had come to visit me in Morocco, on a two-day sojourn that first took us to Zagora and into a small shop where desert scarves were wound around our heads like ancient travelers. From there, the road carried us past the famed sign “52 days to Timbuktu” and the lone tree of life.

Because there were no roads leading to our destination for the night, travel required a 4×4 vehicle, a camel caravan and an organized excursion. We were fortunate to be traveling with Brahim and Mohammed. Brahim comes from a Nomadic family, a local Amazigh (Berber) family who run desert camps. I had spent the last 5 weeks living with his family in Tabounte assisting his children with their English, but also helping with his social media presence for his Sahara Tour business, Caravane, Cimes, et Dunes.

By late afternoon, the asphalt gave way to merely sand tracks that led toward Erg Chigaga. Erg Chigaga is not the desert you stumble into by accident; it must be sought out. Unlike its more visited sister, Erg Chebbi, Chigaga lies deep and hidden, often described as feeling closer to “the true Sahara”. It is sixty kilometers (thirty-seven miles) beyond the last village of M’Hamid, and only fifteen kilometers (nine miles) shy of the Algerian border. There are no paved roads here, only rocky plains, dry riverbeds, and shifting tracks that lead to the horizon. The dunes themselves rise and fall like a golden sea, stretching some forty kilometers (twenty-five miles) long and fifteen wide (nine), with crests that can tower nearly three hundred meters (984 feet).

But, before reaching the dunes at Erg Chigaga, we stopped at a desert camp for lunch. It was tended by a young Nomad, and for that hour it felt as though the whole desert belonged only to us. We were welcomed with the ritual of Moroccan tea. First wafers and peanuts, then the art of pouring. We were told the higher the tea streams from the pot, the greater the respect extended to the guest. I was encouraged to try it myself…the glass filled with froth and sweetness, the wind’s whisper hushed, time seemed to stop, the world stopped turning, and all was focused on that single stream of tea.

Lunch was in true Moroccan fashion. We had a bowl of salad greens with olives, onions, tomatoes, and carrots, followed by a tajine of tender meatballs (kefta) simmered with lentils, all scooped up with warm rounds of Moroccan bread (khobz), After a brief rest, it was time to move on, The sun was already heading westward, and we needed to reach our overnight camp before it slipped behind the dunes.

When we arrived at our desert camp where we would spend the night, Eric and I exited the jeep, slipped off our shoes, and wandered barefoot into that golden sea of dunes. Eric had been told that skin against the earth is the truest way to recharge the body, spirit, and soul. Here we were where the Sahara was at its most untamed. A place where remoteness almost felt sacred.

To stand on the highest ridge of Erg Chigaga is to feel both small and infinite, suspended between the earth and the sky, with nothing but time and silence stretching forever. The vastness seemed to draw close, it had a silence that felt alive until it was broken by the whistle of the wind. Grains of sand tinkled across the surface of the desert and nipped at the exposed skin of our hands and face.

As the shadows were starting to lengthen, we saw Brahim and Mohammed leading our camels to us, their silhouettes slowly taking shape against the amber light.

If you know anything about camels, you know they must kneel before you can mount. At Brahim’s command, our camels sank to the sand. The trick is to wait until they are fully seated before you even attempt to climb aboard. A stirrup helps you swing one leg over quickly before settling into the saddle. Trust me it is not as easy as it sounds.

Once you are seated, there is a handle to grip with both hands to stabilize yourself. Here’s is the critical part, you need to lean back as the camel rises. A camel pushes itself up with its back legs first, causing a sudden jolt forward, sending you lurching forward in a motion that feels like a desert roller coaster.

Well, my camel decided to rise before my second leg was even in the stirrup and I hadn’t leaned back. For a split second, I was certain I’d be catapulted over its head. At the last moment, as the camel straightened its back legs and rocked up on its front, I jolted backward, thankful for that firm grip on the handle and just enough balance to shift into a proper sitting position.

So, off we went, led by Brahim and Mohammed, the swaying gait of our camels carried us slowly into the heart of the desert. Mine, with a bit of personality, kept nipping at the butt of Eric’s. As we rode across a high ridge, we watched the sun starting to spill the last of its light across the sand. If I told you the silence was deafening, then the darkness was blinding, and so we turned back toward camp in the final minutes before the sun lowered itself into the sand for the night.

 

Our desert camp was simple but surprisingly comfortable. Several unheated tents, each with two double beds, were tucked into a circle around a fire pit. The beds were piled high with thick wool blankets, much needed once the desert night began to bite. The temperatures would dip below freezing. I think Eric even slept in his quilted coat. I had already grown accustomed to cold nights: Brahim’s home, where I had been staying, was also unheated. A shower tent stood nearby, along with western toilets, a dining tent and an open-air canopy with stools and a low table for sharing tea.

By now, six other travelers had joined us. A reminder of humanity in the vastness of the Sahara. Until then, it had felt as if the desert belonged entirely to us.

When the sun finally slipped behind the dunes, we gathered in the dining tent for a traditional meal of soup, bread, olives, and tajine. Afterward, we emerged to find the guides had lit a fire in the pit, and the sky above was beginning to sparkle. Far from any trace of light pollution, the heavens erupted with stars. The Milky Way unveiled itself in all its brilliance, and that January night treated us to an even rarer gift: Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Neptune, and Saturn, all visible at once.

As we circled the fire, the other guides joined Brahim and Mohammed with drums and traditional instruments, filling the night with the rhythm of desert music. When the last flames flickered and only glowing embers remained, the moon rose, nearly full. Its light washed away the stars but bathed the dunes in silver, transforming the desert into a dreamscape. Time stood still once more.

If the air hadn’t been so sharp with cold, I might have slept out there beneath the stars, feeling suspended in another dimension. Instead, I padded barefoot through the cold sand back to my tent, the Eagles’ Peaceful, Easy Feeling looping in my head.

Sometime in the dark, cold hours of night, nature called. As I stepped barefoot into the frigid sand, I was reminded of another night nearly ten years ago, at Mount Everest Base Camp, when I had stood beneath a sky that seemed too vast to belong to this world. That night, jagged peaks framed the heavens; here, it was the soft curves of dunes. Different landscapes, but the same overwhelming pull of infinity above me.

On my way back from the toilets, I paused at the fire pit where a few embers still glowed faintly, like fallen stars. I looked up and just as I had on Everest, I was overcome with emotion. Time dissolved, the silence grew loud, and I felt like the only person on the planet. For that suspended moment, both Everest and the Sahara folded together, as if they belonged to the same dimension, one I was fortunate enough to glimpse twice in my lifetime.

The next morning, I rose just as the sun began spilling over the dunes and the moon still lingering in the sky. For some inexplicable reason, the cold sand and my bare feet had formed a bond, and I trailed barefoot toward the dining tent to see what awaited us for breakfast. Inside, I found Eric, happy about the desert adventure but grumbling about being frozen, wrapped in every layer he had brought. I couldn’t help but laugh.

After a filling breakfast, we packed our things, loaded the 4×4, and found that the other travelers had departed. Once again, the Sahara belonged entirely to us.

We spent the morning driving across dunes, dried riverbeds, and other shifting terrain, stopping occasionally to drink in the scenery. Heavy rains the previous year had given the desert a temporary new face, one unseen for decades. Dried lakes and riverbeds held water again, the sands were dotted with green shoots, and flowers had burst into bloom from dormant seeds.

Navigating this ever-changing landscape was an adventure in itself. Only landmarks could guide our driver as the wind sculpted the dunes into new shapes. Eric quickly dubbed him “Evil Khalid,” much to my amusement.

Eventually, we stumbled upon an oasis, where a lone Nomad welcomed us with tea and offered his wares. I bought a small camel woven from wool. A keepsake I hope will always carry the memory of that extraordinary time in the Sahara.

About an hour after leaving the oasis, the first strip of asphalt appeared. A thin, dark line that signaled we were nearing the edge of the desert. Civilization was creeping back in. We stopped in a small village for lunch, savoring one last moment before the return to paved roads and busier towns. Along the way, the scenery was still breathtaking: rippling dunes softening into rocky plains, and at one point, a Nomad herder guiding his caravan of camels along the road, a timeless image of the Sahara’s rhythm.

Before reaching Ouarzazate, we visited an Amazigh village and made the inevitable tourist stop at a rug-weaving shop. Obligatory, perhaps, but not without charm. Back in Warren, Ohio, Eric works in the carpet and flooring business, so this stop actually piqued his interest. He listened intently as they spoke of their craft, the symbolism in the patterns, and the tradition of Berber carpets passed through generations.

By late afternoon, we rolled back into Ouarzazate, the desert journey behind us but still clinging in spirit. I still wore my tagelmust, the long, green cloth wrapped around my head to shield me from sun, sand, and wind. It is the traditional mark of Tuareg men, but for me it had become something else: a keepsake of my Sahara sojourn, a reminder of the stillness, the vastness, and the strange way time seemed to fold in upon itself out there.

The desert gave us more than shifting sands and star-filled skies. It gave us a story we will tell again and again. Eric will probably remember the cold nights, the camel with a mischievous streak, and the carpets at the weaving shop that reminded him of home. I will remember barefoot walks across the dunes, music by firelight, and the way the stars shone so bright and close I could almost touch them. Together, we carry the Sahara back with us, not just in keepsakes or photographs, but in the way we felt out there…suspended between earth and sky, small yet infinite, humbled yet alive.

By the time we returned, the Sahara had already become more than a memory. It was a place inside me. Out there, beneath a sky filled with stars, the desert became its own kind of magic, a world outside of maps and clocks. The Sahara was not only vast dunes and shifting light; it stilled me long enough to hear my own heartbeat in its silence. It was a place that stripped away time and left only wonder. And I realized, the little girl named Wendy, you know the one. The one who has never stopped seeking what lies beyond the horizon, had once again stumbled into Neverland. This time it was hidden in the sands of the Sahara, where the night sky itself felt like a map of dreams. Standing barefoot in the cold sand beneath a billion stars, I realized I had once again found my very own Neverland. The Sahara was a world apart, a dreamscape both real and impossible, and like Neverland, it will stay with me forever.

In the end, the Sahara became more than a journey. It became a reminder that wonder is still out there, waiting just beyond the horizon, for those of us who never stopped looking.

“To live would be an awfully big adventure.” – J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan