Today I begin again. Today I see that being on the road makes me act with my heart.

I am way less likely to be an asshole. Not that I really am, but everyone has an attitude at university. The worldview is so narrow and everyone is focused on exams. Or social functions.

 

 

I am currently sandwiched between an elderly, overweight Qatari couple 20,000 feet in the air. I only know their nationality because when the woman shook her head at my American accent, I pulled out my offline map. The man had a walking stick that only fits if it goes across my feet. He squeezed the bag of rolls sitting on the dinner cart when the flight attendant wasn’t looking. I smiled and asked if he approved by offering a thumbs up. I think he did.

I’ll back things up.

I finished my junior year, another two-semester whirlwind of breaking boundaries. I maintained my grades, I’m nearly done with my nutrition degree, and I took the MCAT as early as possible in order to not interfere with my precious months of summer travel. I prepared for the exam in airports, trains, and planes across four countries from three continents. I refused to take a prep course since I don’t believe in spending $2000 on video links. I stick to study methods accessible to everyone.

I scored well, but a month prior to the exam I had decided to hold off on medical school. So my plan is to let my score expire and take a world trip, and come back and retake the MCAT.

Really.

I know how to study so this is not a big deal to me. I think it would be silly to let the fear of not doing well enough next time hold me back from my biggest dream. It takes a lot more than that to scare me. I detailed this decision in my conclusion post for last summer.

 

 

This summer, it’s Southeast Asia. I feel a significant difference in the tone I’m using compared to my update one year ago. I don’t have much planned, but first Myanmar, because I can’t seem to stay away from places people know little about. Places new to tourism with locals who are not sick of it. Quite honestly, landing in the middle of this region of the world has me deer-in-the-headlights about which direction to start dirt-bagging because they are all SO GOOD.

I’ve already done so much thinking in the past 24 hours because like I said, I am living with my heart. When I come back I’d like to get into violin again. A month or two ago I decided over the years on the road, one of my goals is to completely stop judging others. I’m not bad, but wouldn’t it be something if I could just look at anyone and see a human being and nothing else, naturally withholding from impressions no matter what they look like and no matter what they say?

****

 

Day 1

My dad wasn’t about to drive me to the airport in the next state over (don’t worry, I helped) without getting his dose of historic landmarks. He was set on Stone Mountain in Atlanta, Georgia.

And I wasn’t about to eat everything now that I’m not in my small home town. I’m a sucker for Buford Highway, an ugly American road with hidden treasures: thousands of immigrant owned businesses, mainly food.

 

 

My dad loved the Bangladeshi cuisine last night at Purnima. So much so that after we cleaned two full-sized curries, he ordered a third. And judging from the number of thighs in the korma, it had more than one quail going into it. Our small Chinese bodies managed to also take in an order of garlic naan, the rice, and the most amazing complimentary pakora of my life, complete with small bowls of mint and tamarind chutneys.

Our airbnb hosts were originally from Mexico City. So if they tell me tacos are good, they are. They took us to their friend’s apartment for lamb Barbacoa brunch.

 

 

We couldn’t believe our eyes. It was an undercover taqueria serving some authentic shit. Everyone was eating family style, grabbing at the lime wedges, onions, and cilantro, and corn tortillas that continuously flowed out of the kitchen. Jaime, the hero who cooks the meat underground from 2am to 3pm (he starts prepping three days in advance), came around and checked on all his friends. Little boys took our orders for drinks, which where of course sodas. Everyone also gets a giant bowl of lamb broth with chickpeas.

 

 

The people sitting at our table liked hearing how much I’ve traveled and told our hosts that I looked like I knew how to make myself a taco. Little did he know I had a few too many habaneros, and they were starting a fire in the pit of my stomach.

 

It was like I walked into the doorway and I was in a diner back in Latin America. And when I walked out, I snapped back to Georgia. It was a bit emotionally demanding.

 

 

It was just Dad and I for Stone Mountain. We hiked up in about 20 minutes, while most others were embarrassingly out of shape. Down below we walked to the stone relief carved by Gutzon Borgum, the same artist who completed Mount Rushmore. Then Dad left me at the airport, but not before requesting a selfie, as always.

 

 

I felt the best way to exit America is on a full stomach of cheeseburger and fries. I can get pretty much anything when I’m backpacking, but no place does a GOOD burger like this country.

 

 

I walked two full terminals for Grindhouse, a chain that doesn’t exist in Florida. My digestive system approved. Craving satiated.

 

Day 2

I had left off at dinner. Time zones get muddled since I was skipping ahead seven hours, but each meal made the whole plane fragrant and involved paneer and lentils. Basically I keep getting served food because we keep fast-forwarding in time.

The woman next to me couldn’t rip open her single-serving packet of cheddar cheese, and everyone deserves cheese, so I did it for her. Ten minutes later the man was struggling with his cheese, tried to hand it to her, she gestured to me, I thought he was trying to feed it to me and shook my head before I caught on and opened his as well.

 

 

I woke to brunch and noticed the multiple side-glances from the man. I realized he needed help again, this time opening his tab of butter. I later recounted this to Nina, who just landed to solo backpack Greece and more, and the story had her in tears on her hostel bed.

On the opposite end of the marriage spectrum, my next red-eye had me seated by a Sudanese couple on a honeymoon. They married two days ago and had quiet, intimate conversations. Her hands and feet had beautiful black henna.

So yeah, all the Arabic was the stimulation I craved. Walking through the airport and staring out into the city lights of the Arabian peninsula from my window seat felt just right.