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

Back in September 2021, I wrote a piece titled “That Time I let a Stranger Bathe Me – My Experience at a Moroccan Hammam”.  At the time it seemed like a bold immersion into Moroccan culture.  But now, after living in Morocco for five months, I can see it for what it truly was: a Westernized introduction. The hammam I experienced then was tucked inside a luxurious spa in the Riad where I was staying.  It was private, serene, and indulgent – what many would call “the royal treatment”.

Even in that controlled setting, the experience pushed boundaries. After all, allowing someone to bathe you – scrub you – is intimate, vulnerable, and far from anything most Westerners are used to. Still, it was more spa than tradition, an experience meant to ease foreigners in gently. You might call it “hammam-lite”.

Living here now, I understand just how different the real thing can be.

In Arabic, the word hammam means, “spreader of warmth”. A hammam is a place of bathing, and they can be public and private. When I arrived in Kelaa in January of 2025, I discovered one of my students had a spa which I visited almost immediately. I also learned they had a hammam – perfect timing, since the villa I was living in had no hot water. A warm, relaxing weekly hammam quickly became a luxury.

These days, although my hammam is still inside a spa, I have my own kessala. A kessala is the woman who performs the scrubbing ritual in the hammam. Mine is named Fatima. She’s Moroccan and only speaks only Darija (the dialect of Arabic spoken in Morocco), a few words of French – maybe even fewer than I do – and she can’t read which rules out Google translate. Still, we smile in the same language and somehow, we always understand each other.

There’s a threshold you cross when you step into the hammam. The door clicks shut behind you, and the outside world—its traffic, schedules, languages, and labels—fades. The air is thick, ancient, and pulsing with warmth. It wraps around you like a memory.

Without giving too much detail, I’ll just say this: it’s a wet room. I am unclothed, and so is Fatima, aside from the briefs she wears. Most days I am the only one there, but now and then, the room fills with three or four women. I don’t mind public hammams – in fact, I’m quite comfortable in them – but I’ve grown fond of having Fatima each week. I also take advantage of other spa perks while I am there, like massages or a quick hair treatment.

But make no mistake – this is not the Westernized, serene experience I had the first time around. It’s raw, real, and deeply human. And I’ve come to love it.

I used to think the hammam was about scrubbing – peeling away the layers of dead skin, and even a sense of foreignness. In my first post, I described the complex emotions it stirred in me, including the vulnerability of letting a stranger bathe me. It felt like surrender, like exposure. Over time, though, visits to the spa’s hammam became not just a luxury but a weekly ritual. For nearly three months, I never missed a Saturday. Then came a two-week holiday to Paris and Rome. By the time I returned to Kelaa, it had been more than three weeks since I’d had a proper scrubbing.

When I stepped back into the warm, steamy room and greeted my kessala something had shifted. The ritual no longer felt foreign or performative. My first step into the hammam felt like stepping into another world: warm and dim, with steam swirling in the air and the fragrant scents wafting around me. Fatima, the softly smiling kessela with kind eyes, led me gently through this cleansing ritual. She let me settle on the marble bench, her strong hands massaged the soap over my skin. Then, for a moment, I flinched as she scrubbed me vigorously with the coarse kessa glove. Such rough exfoliation would feel harsh back home, but afterwards I noticed the rosy flush of fresh skin and felt a surprising glow.

There is no hiding in the hammam. Not from your body, not from your heart. The scrub doesn’t just strip away skin – it uncovers the invisible layers, the ones you didn’t realize you were still carrying. My limbs were limp beneath her rhythm, and something unexpected stirred. A memory, maybe—a moment I’d forgotten. A person I haven’t forgiven. The heat opens doors I didn’t know were still closed. That quiet Saturday, I wasn’t scrubbed, rinsed, or handled. I simply dissolved. Surrounded by steam and silence, I stopped feeling like a self-conscious outsider. I became water.

Afterwards, I sat on the white leather chaise, wrapped in a towel that clung to my damp skin. My hair was slicked back, my cheeks flushed, and I felt raw in the best possible way. Maryam came in and offered me mint tea and water. I sipped in silence. I had been undone and reassembled, no longer the water I had melted into.

When I went outside, the sun felt too sharp, too fast. The world started to spin quickly again, but something inside me was slower. Emptied. Calmer.

When I leave Morocco, I know I will miss the colors, the call to prayer, the clinking of tea glasses. But more than anything, I’ll miss the ritual of the surrender – the hammam. I’ll miss the sound of echoing water and the quiet acceptance of bare skin. I’ll miss being just another body, melting into the steam, reminded again and again that letting go is its own kind of cleansing. I will miss becoming water.

Sometime last year, as I made the decision to leave Poland, a few WorkAways in Morocco caught my eye. WorkAway is the largest and safest community for cultural exchange, working holidays, volunteering, and house-sitting in 170 countries. I bid my farewells and departed Poland on December 16, 2024. Upon arriving in Marrakech, I took a few days to catch my breath as I prepared for a new chapter in my life. My original plan—though it has since changed—was to stay in Morocco until April 9th, when I would head to Paris to meet a friend.

There were a few reasons I chose April for my departure. First, since I was no longer a resident of Poland, I had to adhere to the Schengen Visa rule of 90 days within a 180-day period. Although I had reapplied for temporary residency in Poland, my application was still pending when I left, meaning I couldn’t enter any Schengen countries before March 15th. Secondly, a friend was coming to Marrakech for a yoga retreat in early April, and I wanted to see her while she was here.  Lastly, Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, was set to begin on March 1st or 2nd, depending on the moon sighting. I couldn’t think of a better way to immerse myself in the culture than by experiencing this sacred month firsthand.

On December 19^th, I boarded a bus with all my belongings for a 5-hour scenic ride over the High Atlas Mountains to Ouarzazate, Morocco, the Gateway to the Desert, for my first WorkAway. I was met at the bus station by two young ladies, 2 of the daughters from my WorkAway family. The Berber family with whom I would spend the next 5 weeks, but that’s another story for another time. However, they are part of the inspiration for this post.

When my time in Ouarzazate came to an end, I returned to Marrakech, where I developed an inner ear infection that sidelined me for about a week. That unexpected turn of events ultimately led me to El Kelaa on January 28, 2025, for my current, unplanned WorkAway – though that’s a story for another time.

El Kelaa is a small city in central Morocco with a population of around 100,000, known primarily for its olive tree cultivation. After spending a few weeks here, I realized it would be the perfect place to experience Ramadan.

As this month-long celebration now nears its close, I felt inspired to write this short introductory piece while walking home from the English School a couple of nights ago.

El Kelaa, isn’t a tourist destination, so there’s a good chance I’m the only person with blonde hair in town. As a result, I’m easily recognized as I go about my day. I walk everywhere since taxis are rarely necessary-living near the city center means everything is in walking distance: my school, my souk, my spa, the laundry service, and plenty of cafes and restaurants. Except for about 7-10 days near the start of Ramadan, when it rained every day, the weather has been quite temperate, even for late night walks.

For some reason, on my way to school, around 20:30 (8:30 pm) that evening, it struck me – I was walking down a street in North Africa, in a town that now felt like home. As I walked, the call to prayer echoed from the mosque and as I rounded the corner, I took a moment to really notice the 50+ men praying both inside and outside. I pass this mosque everyday, but that night, I truly reflected on how deeply woven it is into the fabric of their culture. As I continued on, turning the next corner, a group of young boys kicked a soccer ball back and forth. They greeted me, as they always do, with cheerful calls of “Hello”, “Ciao”, “Hola”, “Salaam”, and “Bonjour”. Sometimes, they even kick the ball my way. But that night it made me think about how fortunate they are to grow up multi-lingual – here, it is common for kids to speak two to four languages with ease.

A few moments later, I arrived at the school, ready to teach a late-night English class. Even though we don’t finish until 22:30 (10:30 pm), my students were eager to learn. Our lessons often lead to meaningful conversations, and more often than not, I find myself learning just as much as they do.

El Kelaa has little light pollution, and as I was walking home from school that night around 23:00, the sky was crystal clear, filled with stars that even the glow of the last-quarter moon couldn’t diminish. The streets were fairly quiet and as I turned onto my street, lined with orange trees, a gentle breeze rustled the  branches, carrying the intoxicating scent of orange blossom through the air.

When I arrived home, I went up to my rooftop terrace, the scent of the orange blossoms still lingering in the air as I gazed up at the night sky. I have always been fascinated by the stars, and that night, I was reminded of three other times when I was overwhelmed with emotion looking towards the heavens.

The most recent was during a two-day journey deep into the Sahara, led by the Patriarch of my Berber family. I was sitting by the dying embers of a fire, the moon had yet to rise, and the words of the Eagles’ Peaceful, Easy Feeling came to mind: “I wanna sleep with you in the desert tonight with a billion stars all around”. Out there, 50 km deep in the desert, with zero light pollution, the Milky Way stretched across the sky so vividly it felt like I could reach out and touch it. And in that moment, it truly looked like a billion stars above me.

In 2016, I camped at Mount Everest Base Camp on the Tibetan side. Around 04:00, I stepped out of my tent, and despite the biting cold at 5,200 meters (17,060 ft), I stood mesmerized for nearly 20 minutes, unable to tear myself away from the breathtaking beauty before me.

The final memory that came to mind was from the early 2000s, on a mountaintop in Fornalutz, on the island of Mallorca. A little drunk on wine and lost in love, we lay on a blanket for hours, watching shooting stars and passing satellites, feeling as if we were the only two people on Earth witnessing such magic.

So, what does all of this have to do with Ramadan?

Ramadan is a time of deep spiritual reflection, self-discipline, and a strong sense of community.

Over the past couple of weeks, friends have made a few comments that stuck with me. One told me I’ve never looked more vibrant. Another said Ramadan seems to have made me more introspective – that I was glowing. A third friend agreed. Maybe their words led me into a deeper reflection that night, or maybe it’s simply the energy of Ramadan itself.

As for self-discipline, I have been fasting for 25 days now, and by the end of Ramadan, it will be 30. And the spirit of community? I feel it every day, especially when I have been invited to share Iftar, the meal to break the fast at sunset, with students and friends in the community.

I’ll share more about my month-long expereince in Part II of this post after Ramadan comes to an end. For now, I’ll leave with a quote I’ve often turned to from Gene Wilder, “My only hope is that even for a moment, I helped you see the world a little bit different.”