One time this happened...

My mom insisted on packing a week's worth of snacks before we boarded the plane to Paris - goldfish crackers by the handful, granola bars with dates that were probably older than my aunt - and we ended up getting stopped at security three times because I wouldn't give them up, and now I'm standing at this gate with a tiny carry-on bag and no idea where we're going first.

The worn leather journal I scribbled notes into on that disastrous trip has given up its fight, pages now a mangled mess of tea-stains and scribbled out train times. I remember being convinced that a well-timed rendition of an obscure Bulgarian folk song would ease the pain of being lost in a foreign city.

The smell of my aunt's famous fried chicken follows us onto the plane, an aromatic anchor tethering me to the suburbs. As we soar into the air, the seatbelt sign flickers above, and I squirm in seat 17C, the armrest digging into my ribs like a judgment.

For a blissful five minutes, I forgot where I was when they asked me to pay for the overpriced hostel Wi-Fi in the middle of a Cambodian village festival, the cacophony of motorbikes blurring into a pleasant background hum.

The dim glow of my phone illuminated the worn, leather seat beside me as I fumbled with the safety belt on the crumbling Italian bus. I'd never been good with words, but something about my Italian phrasebook seemed to be triggering involuntary Italian monologues.

Sometimes a foreign hotel room's eerie silence makes me rummage through the bathroom drawers for some semblance of comfort. My fingers dance over the cheap hotel toiletries, the ones with garish labels and dubious fragrances, as I attempt to create a mini- routine.