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.

My passport expired a day before boarding the flight I spent months saving for, so I convinced the airport staff it was simply 'temporarily laminated'. To my credit, they bought the laminated passport charade until the second they looked for visa stamps.

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.

Sometimes my mind wanders back to the time I got lost in Rome's Termini Station because I thought our hostel was near a gelato shop that I'd seen earlier, and by 'lost' I mean I stood on the exact same platform for three minutes, watching my family hurry towards the escalators because they'd already given up. I stared down at the faded advertisement for a local beer, wondering if it was an omen.

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.