10 Most Memorable Travel Moments

Food and water station at Toubkal marathon. 

1. Germany. Long summer days spent lazily dangling our legs into the water while sipping beer. I try to explain s’mores. My friends find marshmallows so I can demonstrate this American campfire phenomenon.

2. Netherlands. Largest student relay race. 4:00 a.m. I am shaken away and handed a jersey. I greet the dawn running through the low-lying hills of the Dutch countryside.

3. Mexico. Tarot card reading in the middle of the jungle. The monkeys howl from the trees and the candles cast shadows against the wall of the palapa.

4. West Bank Checkpoint. Israeli soldiers serenade us with  “Hotel California.” The stars hang above the hills and their voices echo back. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. 

5. Istanbul. Stuck in a hotel elevator. Laughing deliriously when the concierge tells us to stay there while he searches for help.

6. The Dead Sea. My Palestinian friends scatter to the shore, eyes blinking wildly at the silver expanse of salty water stretching all the way to Jordan.  They had never seen it.

7. Jordan. Sitting in a Bedouin camp watching the shadows stretch across red rocks as camels pad heavily into the desert.

8. USA. Greyhound bus. I pull out a map and eight of my new best friends huddle around me as we trace our route across the country.

9. France. Hiking through the Alps in summer, stopping at mountain huts for homemade meals shared with fellow hikers.

10. Morocco. Spontaneously signing up for a mountain marathon up North Africa’s highest peak. 

This post has been entered in the Grantourismo and HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition. 

Finding Home in France

As I step into the boulangerie, the baker flashes me a smile of recognition. There aren't many other Americans waltzing in every morning and mangling the pronunciation of everything in sight.

With my baguette under my arm and a pastry in hand, I stuff the change into my pocket and walk down the street to the farmer’s market.

Moving to Grenoble wasn’t a conscious decision. One day passed and then another and suddenly seven months have swept past me and I'm still here, slinging a basket over my arm and parading from shop to shop in preparation for dinner.

 I brush the flaky bits of pastry from my jacket and swallow the last bite of my chausson aux pommes before pulling out my shopping list.

 Tomates, courgettes, champignons. I load them all into my basket.

The cashier, engulfed in a Gore-Tex jacket, stamps her feet to keep warm as she weighs my stack of misshapen tomatoes.

C'est tout?

Directing my gaze to the rounds of cheese behind her I purchase 200 grams of comté because it's easy to say.

Later as I’m slicing tomatoes and dancing to Serge Gainsbourg, my friends burst into the kitchen, twirling around and theatrically singing along. I smile.

My France is not the Eiffel Tower or the walls of Avignon. It’s the baker grinning as I mispronounce yet another French word, my friends rifling through my cupboards to find the wine glasses, 200 grams of my favorite cheese carefully wrapped in paper. A litany of small beautiful moments that create a familiar space: home. 

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition. 

Christmas in Bethlehem

The bells of the nativity church echo across the valley, summoning the crowds thronging Bethlehem’s sleepless streets. With security guards and fences to keep the multitudes of worshippers in check, it looks more like a scene from a New York nightclub than a midnight Christmas mass.

Huddling in line together, old women clutch rosaries to their chests murmuring prayers to the night sky, children sleep in haphazard positions in their parents' arms, and tourists buzz excitedly, their cameras creating a flurry of flashing lights.

 Stepping into the cavernous hall of the church I take my place among the rows of visitors pressing against the walls as they crane their necks to view a series of religious rites meticulously passed down from one devout generation to the next.

Incense permeates the air, and a man behind me hums softly. Standing in a drafty church thronged by the devout and the curious, my heart warms to the elaborate celebration of such a simple message. Peace.

An Italian nun presses my hand and wishes me a Buon Natale. I return her wish before ducking back outside. The crowds circling the perimeter of the church have increased, and guards with assault rifles carelessly slung over their shoulders eye their flock wearily. 

The lights from a nearby Israeli settlement flicker and Jerusalem’s silhouette can be seen rising above the separation barrier. Just beyond the small towns flanking Bethlehem, the desert hills are bathed in moonlight and exuding the borrowed peace of a Christmas Eve.

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition. 

Breakfast in Nablus

Vendors were beginning to display their wares as I slipped into the morning markets of Nablus. Bypassing baskets of spices and stacks of tomatoes and ducking often to avoid scarves hanging from awnings, I soon stumbled across a vendor surrounded by a crowd.

Wedging my way in-between shopkeepers, farmers, and students, I joined the clamor and dropped shekels into his palm in exchange for a plastic cup of thick, Arabic coffee.

As I reached for my coffee, I noticed the circular pans of my favorite Palestinian dessert in a shop next door.  

Men sat crowded around flimsy plastic tables pushed up against walls lined with cracked tiles. Each had a slice of orange pastry oozing out toward the edges of the plate.

Crunchy and sweet on the outside mixing with the rancid sourness of the Palestinian cheese inside, knafeh is said to have originated in Nablus. Served as a dessert, but often available as a breakfast treat, its taste is a pleasantly acquired one.

These shops--set deep into walls of Jerusalem stone--are where locals often congregate around a precariously placed television set as bakers slides circular pans of knafeh in and out of the oven.

Balancing coffee and plate, I found a cracked plastic chair at a crowded table. Men moved to accommodate me without shifting their gaze from the television. As I took my seat, I fell into ranks with my tablemates, shoveling spoonfuls of knafeh into my mouth as fuzzy images flickered across the screen. 

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition. 

A snapshot from a Palestinian wedding

As I sat eyeing the last remnants of labneh and olive oil on my plate, my Palestinian friend waved to me from the dance floor to get up and join the wedding party; all of whom were clapping and moving in a way that I was certain was beyond me.

I reluctantly scraped my chair back and headed to the dance floor determined to dance for as little time as possible.

I danced the rest of the night.

I stopped worrying about the spectacle I was causing with my feeble attempts to move my body the way my Palestinian friends were moving theirs. I couldn't help it. The atmosphere was jovial and light-hearted as everyone stamped their feet and swayed their hips to the hypnotic songs of famous Arab artists. The bride and the groom were placed on chairs and danced around the room and my friend's Grandmother elicited laughter and cheers as she shouted out blessings to family members in attendance. I forgot that I was an outsider and I felt embraced and welcomed into their community. The aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and other relatives of my friend took me in and showed me how they celebrate their lives. In doing so, they helped me celebrate mine.

This photo was taken at the henna party the night before the wedding. The female family members of the groom sang songs as they presented gifts and henna to the bride.


**This post has been entered into the Grantourismo HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition.**