Member-only story
I remember my first international trip as a child. It was a hot, sweltering summer day in New York, and my father was driving us to the airport. We were flying to Morocco and I was so excited.
It was my first time visiting my parents’ home country and I couldn’t contain my joy. I loved being on the plane, squealing with delight the entire time during take-off while other children cried. I was born to be a traveler.
At 17, I left my family for another country that I had never been to before. I wasn’t scared or shy. I was dying to explore the world on my own.
At 22, I left again for another destination. I had fun, I made mistakes, I grew more in those 6 months than I had since I was a teenager.
At 25, I wonder where I will go next. I sit in quarantine and dream of the adventures that lie ahead.
I am who I am because I have traveled. My family isn’t defined by blood but by the sharing of food and laughter.
High up on a mountain in the north of Greece, in the most unlikely place, I got to speak my native Moroccan dialect with a young man who had weathered terrible struggles to reach Europe.
All it took me was my passport, a couple hundred euros, and a plane ride, but this man had been on a boat that has capsized and long treks through treacherous…
