The air smells heavy with pollution. A thick haze hangs over the city, softening the skyline as if everything is slightly out of focus. It is loud in a way that feels permanent. Horns, yelling, a constant layer of city noise that never seems to silence.

I am in Hanoi, capital of Vietnam. A city of nearly nine million people, dense and unrelenting. We drop our bags and do the only thing that makes sense in a new city: find food.

Scooters pour through intersections from every direction. Sidewalks double as parking lots. The rule for crossing the street is simple. Walk steadily. Do not hesitate. The traffic adjusts.

On motorbikes around me are things that should not fit. Two dogs. Families of four, son, father, daughter, mother. A woman driving with one hand, dragging a small dumpster with the other.

Women wash dishes on the curb. Vendors in conical hats balance baskets from shoulder poles. Young ladies in short skirts wait at street corners, scanning passing pedestrians.

Thankfully, the banh mi shop is a short walk from the apartment. The sandwich arrives in a crusty baguette, a remnant of French rule. An insect crawls slowly along the inside of the glass display case. I look at it, then at the sandwich, and decide to eat anyway.

The next morning, the horns are honking well before I get out of bed. There is no gentle way to ease into the day here. We wander the streets, untethered to a strict itinerary.

Store after store sells fake merchandise. North Face, Patagonia, Lululemon. All the “real stuff” for these brands is made in Vietnam anyway, so skilled workers take leftover material and make jackets and shoes that are 99% similar to the real thing.

Buying anything here is a strange dance. Prices start high, leaving room to haggle. Ask around and every shop seems to open at the same number, as if they all agreed on where to start. Push too hard and you risk insulting the seller and walking away with nothing. Accept too quickly and you know you have been had.

While walking, a man notices my dirty sneakers, still caked with mud from temple-hopping in Cambodia, and says he will clean and repair them for 50,000 Vietnamese dong, about 1.90 USD. Great, now my old sneakers are as good as new!

Anthony Bourdain once said: ‘There is no other way to see this city, Hanoi, than from a motorbike or a scooter. To do otherwise would be to miss it all. It is one of the great pleasures of my life to join the river of people rushing through the streets. Vietnam, it grabs you and doesn’t let you go.’

Here in Vietnam, the Uber equivalent is Grab and, and best of all, you can request a scooter or motorbike. The driver finds you just like an Uber, hands you a green Grab-branded helmet, and you have seconds to hang on before you are swept away.

I do not even know how or what to hold on to. I am told not to hold the side of the scooter because it prevents the driver from turning so I tense my entire body and pray I am not thrown overboard as the scooter hops curbs, drives on sidewalks, and squeezes through inch-wide gaps next to cars and trucks.

I am hit with nostalgia as I remember my childhood trips to India when I would fight to ride on my grandpa’s scooter. There is no greater fun in the world than exploring on two wheels.

The destinations themselves become a blur, almost an afterthought. Buddhist pagodas, lakes, murals, tree-lined streets, French colonial buildings. For less than a dollar, you can cross the entire city.

One of the most popular places to visit in Hanoi is “Train Street”, a working railroad track running through a narrow residential lane. We enter through a small cafe and are shown to a table right beside the tracks. For a while, nothing happens. People sip coffee and take photos. Then the staff begins shouting, quickly pulling tables and chairs away from the rails. There is no warning, no barrier.

Within seconds, a train comes barreling through, so close I can feel the rush of air against my face. It is loud, sudden, and over almost as quickly as it began.

It is absurd and exhilarating. A microcosm of Hanoi itself.

It felt as if Hanoi was trying to prevent us from leaving, its tentacles holding on as we tried to get away. The traffic moved in two directions, people, scooters, and cars competing for space that did not exist. And then there was us, dragging our luggage half on the road, half on the ‘sidewalk’.

Luckily, the taxi was only a few blocks away, and the walk was short but I would pay to see the look on people’s faces back home if they saw this traffic. It took somewhere between thirty and forty-five minutes to reach the outskirts of Hanoi, but eventually we escaped the city and joined a highway heading south.

We arrived in Tam Coc, in Ninh Binh province. Pulling into the hotel brought instant relief. The resort sat along the water’s edge and felt like a different world after chaotic, polluted Hanoi. In the distance, limestone hills rose sharply from the flat landscape. Mountains have always called to me.

We walked along the river, watching boats drift by as guides rowed orange-vested tourists with their feet. The air was cool, and by the time lunch arrived, the tension had slipped from my shoulders.

Several bicycle shops turned us away when we asked about renting a scooter. Some worried about the police, others about our complete lack of experience. The search would continue. I did not want to leave Vietnam without riding a scooter.

For now, e-bikes were enough. They moved nearly as fast as the scooters, and within minutes the buzz of Tam Coc faded behind us. The road wound beneath cliffs and alongside flooded fields. The sky was muted, giving the landscape a quiet mystique. I felt free.

The paved road gave way to gravel. Smaller paths branched off toward scattered homes in the distance. Near the end of the road, an English motorcyclist was studying an itinerary scribbled on a piece of paper. He was traveling solo across Vietnam for twenty days and showed it to us. I admired his sense of adventure. These are my kinsmen, regardless of background or nationality.

A tattered bridge, with several planks missing, led to a narrow path through thick foliage. Farther on stood an old ladder, a handrail on only one side and rising almost straight up. A short scramble over the rocks brought us to a vantage point overlooking the landscape.

The light was fading, and it was time to return to town. Fishermen and ladies in straw hats lined the route back, a final glimpse of the countryside before the onslaught of traffic resumed. What an adrenaline rush. This was the Vietnam of my dreams.

The next day, the search for scooters resumed. I did not think I could call myself a traveler until I had earned the "badge of honor" of riding a scooter in Southeast Asia.

Luckily, it did not take long. The first shop said yes immediately when we asked if we could rent one, no questions asked. No request for a license. No request to see a passport. No asking if we had ever ridden a bike before. We filled out a form the owner did not even glance at. No instructions. No return time. For 100,000 dong, about three dollars, we had a scooter indefinitely.

One of the scooters was nearly empty, so we were pointed toward a gas station somewhere "that way," about two kilometers down the road. We asked for a little gas, paid a few dollars, and headed out.

Beyond town, the way to Bich Dong Pagoda wound through a landscape shaped by water. Ponds, flooded fields, and narrow waterways stretched alongside the road.

The pagoda sits against the base of a mountain. A bridge crosses over lotus flowers before a narrow path leads to the entrance. Stone steps climb through a cave lined with stalactites and emerge at a small overlook above the valley.

Next came Mua Caves. I am not sure why it is called that, as the main attraction is a 500-step climb to a viewpoint, with a dragon statue perched at the top of the mountain. The steps were manageable until the very end, where the rocks turned sharp, almost like knives pressing through the soles of your shoes.

On one side were views over the rice paddies, and on the other, the river and the mountains, each one fading lighter than the last, like silhouettes dissolving into the haze.

After the climb, we sat on the wooden walkways, watching fish rise to the surface and gently nip at the water. Lily pads stretched across the surface, with the green hills in the distance.

Later that evening, we took a boat ride through Trang An, a scenic area of rivers, caves, and limestone karsts in Ninh Binh.

Getting there was a ride in itself, weaving past the edge of town, through a chaotic roundabout and out toward the countryside. Before long, an elderly Vietnamese woman was guiding our narrow boat across the water.

The route wound through several caves, the longest of which was Dot Cave. Before long, its dark entrance appeared ahead. For nearly twenty minutes, the boat drifted through the one-kilometer passage. At times the ceiling was so low that we had to duck, our heads nearly to our knees. Stalactites hung overhead, dripping steadily, while yellow lightbulbs cast an eerie glow through the darkness. I had never experienced anything quite like it.

The next cave was much shorter but opened into a vast chamber. It felt like a throne room for some river-dwelling king. At one point, langur monkeys appeared along the water’s edge.

Between caves, temples emerged from the landscape, tucked into the cliffs and along the banks. The sky was overcast, the light muted. The mountains seemed to rise straight from the water, creating a landscape that felt almost prehistoric. It was easy to see why scenes from Kong: Skull Island were filmed here.

The next day, it was time to return to Hanoi. A few hours later, we were boarding a flight south to central Vietnam and the old trading town of Hoi An.

I wound through narrow alleyways from my hotel into the old town of Hoi An. The outskirts offered glimpses of local life, smiles from the elderly, open doors into living rooms, children playing in the streets. But soon enough, the lanes led into the tourist center, Vietnam’s “yellow town.”

The buildings were indeed a fading banana yellow, weathered by time and the tropical climate. For centuries, Hoi An was one of the most important trading ports in Southeast Asia, welcoming merchants from China, Japan, and Europe. Today, the old town remains remarkably intact, its narrow streets lined with ancient houses, temples, and workshops.

I sat near the Japanese Bridge, watching tourists pose for photos. One model dropped her shoe into the river while trying to pose. Nearby, a local painter worked quietly on capturing the scene.

Hoi An is also famous for its tailors. Nearly every street seemed to have a shop promising custom suits, dresses, shoes, and even leather bags within a matter of days. Instead, I found myself drawn to a lantern shop overflowing with hundreds of hand-painted lanterns and left with a few of my own.

As evening approached, the town began to change. One by one, lanterns illuminated balconies, storefronts, and alleyways until the entire old town glowed in shades of red, gold, blue, and green. Hoi An's lantern tradition dates back centuries, influenced by Chinese merchants who believed the lanterns would bring good luck and prosperity.

We took a boat ride along the river as lantern light danced across the water. Floating lanterns carrying tiny candles drifted by in every direction, each one sent off with a wish.

Later, the rain began to fall and the water level slowly rose. There was a faint smell of something burning, mixed with exhaust from passing scooters, incense drifting from somewhere unseen, and the constant hum of horns in the background.

This was the end of my trip to Vietnam. I had wanted to come here for years because, in my mind, Vietnam was synonymous with adventure. It felt distant, chaotic, and vaguely associated with a war I knew very little about.

Ultimately, adventure is exactly what I found. Vietnam is not a country that lets you sit on the sidelines. It demands participation. Learning how to cross the street. Learning how to bargain. Learning how to ride a scooter through traffic that seems impossible.

I can understand why Anthony Bourdain loved this place. It feels alive. People are always out. Markets spill onto the sidewalks. Meals are eaten on plastic stools along the side of the road. Things are constantly happening. Vietnam reminded me of what makes travel exciting in the first place, the feeling that something unexpected might be waiting around the next corner.

An hour later, we arrived at our hotel. The staff greeted us with their hands pressed together and a slight bow, and a young woman with a smile I would remember showed us to our room. Over the days that followed, this first impression would prove true again and again. The Khmer people I met were gentle and warm, a kindness that felt all the more striking given that Cambodia had lived through one of the worst genocides of the twentieth century only a generation ago.

Siem Reap is the gateway to the ancient temples of Angkor, one of those places I had always vaguely known about, like the pyramids of Egypt or Machu Picchu. An iconic monument of the ancient world, something I probably learned about in an elementary school textbook but never really imagined I would stand before myself.

The next morning, our driver picked us up and we left the buzzing streets of Siem Reap, its dusty grid dissolving quickly into the greenery of the jungle as the road narrowed and trees pressed in from both sides. Then, almost without warning, we arrived at one of the ancient gates of Angkor Thom. Four immense faces crowned the stone tower above us, serene yet unreadable, perhaps smiling, perhaps judging.

Angkor Thom was a vast, walled capital, the heart of the Khmer Empire at its height. From the ninth to the fifteenth centuries, this empire dominated much of mainland Southeast Asia, building cities, canals, and temples on a scale that still feels improbable today. The city was laid out with intention, its avenues leading inward toward Bayon Temple at the center, where religion, politics, and power converged.

Hundreds of carved faces looked down from every direction, believed to be the likeness of Jayavarman VII fused with a bodhisattva, an enlightened being, blurring the line between king and the divine. The temple itself was a maze. We wandered through room after room, tracing inscriptions, peering into dark corners, always aware of the faces watching from above, while trying not to stumble over the uneven stone floors. A sudden burst of bats exploded overhead, disappearing into the shadows just as quickly as they appeared.

Just ten minutes away was Ta Prohm, often called the Tomb Raider Temple after scenes from Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, starring Angelina Jolie, were filmed here. Unlike many of the other temples, Ta Prohm has been left largely unrestored, its stone walls locked in a quiet struggle with the jungle. Massive tree roots spill over doorways and corridors, prying blocks apart, while piles of fallen stone lie scattered below, softened by moss

It gets very hot in Cambodia, with afternoon temperatures easily climbing past ninety degrees, the humidity making it feel worse. Tourists fall into a familiar pattern. Mornings are for exploring, afternoons for long stretches of rest, and evenings for heading back out toward sunset. After resting through the worst of the heat, we set out for Pre Rup, a tenth-century Hindu temple catching the fading light with a copper glow as we arrived.

Pre Rup is a mountain-temple, built as a symbolic representation of Mount Meru, the center of the universe in Hindu cosmology. Its steep tiers rise above the surrounding jungle, forcing you upward rather than inviting you in. We climbed the impossibly steep and large steps to the top of the temple. It was a pinch-me moment, standing on a thousand-year-old Khmer temple at sunset. We made a small circle around the summit before sitting on the steps, watching the sun drop behind the jungle as bats flew in the distance.

The next morning, when we entered the complex of Angkor Wat, it was still dark. Above us were the lights of the constellations, and below, the glow of tourists’ cell phones as people felt their way along the path. I had no idea where we were walking. At some point we passed a small temple, then kept going until the ground opened up and a reflecting pool appeared ahead of us. This was where the towers would finally reveal themselves as the sun rose.

This wasn’t a sunrise you experienced alone. Hundreds of other visitors staked out their patches of ground, waiting quietly for first light. And yet, there was something communal about it, watching dawn break together over one of the wonders of the world. Slowly, the sky softened into shades of orange and purple, and the towers of Angkor Wat, along with the surrounding palm trees, appeared in the water.

Angkor Wat was an engineering marvel. It was built at the center of a vast, man-made landscape of reservoirs, canals, and moats designed to control water on a monumental scale, storing it during the monsoon and releasing it through the dry season. This hydraulic system supported a city of hundreds of thousands and allowed Angkor to flourish where it otherwise should not have.

When the Khmer Empire declined, the jungle slowly took over, swallowing roads, walls, and entire neighborhoods. Angkor Wat itself was never fully abandoned, remaining a working religious site, but much of the surrounding city faded from view. It was only in the nineteenth century, when European travelers and explorers encountered the ruins again, that Angkor reentered the global imagination, astonishing the outside world with its scale and sophistication.

We eventually made our way inside Angkor Wat, and the scale immediately overwhelmed me. The other temples of Angkor felt small by comparison. This is, after all, the largest religious structure in the world. Room after room opened up, each lined with intricate carvings and vast stone chambers. The carvings here were the most detailed and best preserved we had seen anywhere in the complex, and there were inscriptions in the ancient Khmer script that reminded me of Elvish from The Lord of the Rings. It might be the most beautiful written language I have ever seen, delicate and impossibly graceful.

We slowly made our way to the top of the temple, breathless from the exertion. Even early in the morning, I was dripping with sweat. It was worth it for the views over the jungle and the surrounding complex, especially in the soft morning light.

We explored the smaller temples of Ta Som and Preah Khan, each just as impressive as the others. I can’t quite articulate how, but every temple here feels unique in its own way, each beautiful, even as I started to run out of adjectives to describe them. By 9:15, what felt like a full day had already passed, and we were back at the hotel eating breakfast. Outside, as the heat settled in and tourists retreated indoors, the taxi drivers gathered at a nearby compound, setting up a game of volleyball.

We set out once more for sunset, passing locals stretched out in hammocks at the edge of the jungle, street dogs darting across the road, and scooters carrying entire families, infants balanced carefully in their mothers’ arms. We climbed the hill at Phnom Bakheng, following a winding trail up the hillside to a late ninth-century Hindu temple built nearly two centuries before Angkor Wat. From the top, Angkor Wat appeared in the distance, its towers rising from the jungle against a hazy sky.

Nearby, the smell of incense drifted through the air. I turned, lit a stick, and left a small donation. I wasn’t praying for anything. I was saying thank you to whatever higher power had allowed me to see the world and live out dreams I once only imagined.

Even after a fifteen-and-a-half-hour flight from New York, I was awake and ready to explore. Hong Kong International Airport moved with quiet efficiency, immigration was quick, and my bag was already circling the belt when I arrived. Within minutes, I had cash in hand, an Octopus Card loaded, and was on the Airport Express, the city beginning to reveal itself as the train pulled toward Kowloon Station.

The train was spotless, quiet, and precisely on time. As it moved toward Kowloon, it occasionally rose above ground, and through brief flashes I caught my first real glimpses of Hong Kong. High-rise buildings packed together like fistfuls of pencils rose straight into the sky.

Kowloon Station was big and disorienting, and after a few failed attempts to find a ride pickup to our hotel, we gave up on Uber altogether. After a transcontinental flight, I didn’t have the brain capacity to solve that puzzle anyway. Instead, we flagged down a classic red Hong Kong taxi, which felt like the proper way to enter the city. Like New York’s yellow cabs, they’re unmistakable and an instantly recognizable symbol of the city itself.

I was staying at the Rosewood Hotel, freshly crowned the best hotel in the world. I don’t know if my backpacker self that traveled here in 2017 would be proud or disappointed. Rising right on Victoria Harbour and overlooking the panorama of Hong Kong Island, there are not many vantage points like this in the world.

After breakfast, we walked along the Avenue of Stars. The skyline of Hong Kong almost felt like an apparition, like a hologram hovering in the background of some virtual reality video game. Green mountains dropped into the harbor as a dizzying number of buildings with glowing signs rose, competing with each other for who would be the tallest. The water below was just as busy, one of the world’s most active harbors, crowded with boats and barges moving in every direction. As much as I love the view back home of the New York City skyline from Hoboken or Jersey City, I have to say Hong Kong has the best skyline in the world.

In the afternoon, we walked along the harbor to the Ferry Pier and boarded the iconic Star Ferry, which has been shuttling passengers across Victoria Harbour between Tsim Sha Tsui in Kowloon and Central on Hong Kong Island for over a century. It’s a short ride, less than ten minutes, but for less than a dollar you’re gliding across the water with Hong Kong rising on both sides. It’s easy to see why Nat Geo Travel has ranked this as one of the fifty experiences to have in a lifetime.

From Central, we made our way up to Victoria Peak, climbing higher and higher as the road hugged the mountain’s curves until the skyscrapers fell away beneath us. Visiting the Peak had been one of my fondest memories from my last trip to Hong Kong, and it felt almost unreal to be back again, older, perhaps a little more tired, but no less spellbound by places like this. From above, hundreds, if not thousands, of skyscrapers filled the entire panorama, the city stretching endlessly in every direction. It was the perfect day to be there. Clear skies gave way to soft orange light as the sun dipped, and soon the air turned cold enough that we hurried down to the Peak Tram.

I had taken the tram before, but not at night. As it dropped steeply downhill, the city tilted at impossible angles, buildings seeming to fall toward us as the world flipped upside down. Hong Kong is a mind-altering dream. Legs and backs aching, we eventually found our way back to the ferry, where lights shimmered across the water and red-sailed junk boats glided past in the dark. Between the Peak, the Star Ferry, and the harbor walk, it felt like the perfect first day in Hong Kong.

Mercifully, I slept through most of the night. Jet lag usually defeats me, but this time my body seemed to cooperate. Just as the sun was rising, we went downstairs and walked along Victoria Harbour. It was cloudier than the day before, but no less beautiful.

We walked to the statue of Bruce Lee, Hong Kong’s most famous son, who introduced the world to a new style of martial arts on screen. I remembered sitting on the couch with my dad as a kid, completely absorbed in his films, Enter the Dragon and Game of Death.

It was afternoon by the time we hailed a taxi to the so-called Monster Building, a massive cluster of tightly packed residential apartment blocks. It has become popular for photography after a fight scene from Transformers was shot there. The building sits in a much more residential part of Hong Kong, far removed from the tourist-heavy areas of Kowloon or the business districts of Central. There were small shops at the base of the building, a woman feeding her parrot, immigrants from India and Pakistan sitting outside their stores, but the most notable thing was the apartment building itself.

Stories upon stories of weathered balconies, laundry hanging from almost all of them, a scene that contrasted sharply with the wealth of the city. It reminded me of things I’d noticed earlier that morning, a man fishing right in front of the Chanel store at the K11 luxury mall, or a rundown fishing boat drifting in the harbor with the financial towers of Hong Kong Island rising behind it.

As a tourist, it’s these contrasts, these clashes of worlds, that make places like this so interesting. Standing there, though, it was hard not to think about the two parallel lives the city sustains. Just as I was staying in the number one hotel in the world, someone was sleeping in a shoebox apartment, living in conditions I couldn’t begin to imagine.

From here, we walked down the block and hopped on a ding ding, Hong Kong’s double-decker trams, named for the sound of their bell. We entered from the back and squeezed up a narrow spiral staircase to the second floor. We had no idea what line we were on, where we were headed, or where we’d get off, but for a few cents we took a tour through the heart of the city.

The trams date back to the early 1900s, introduced during Hong Kong’s time as a British colony. After more than 150 years under British rule, the city was handed back to China in 1997 under the “one country, two systems” framework, which was meant to preserve its autonomy, legal system, and way of life. In recent years, that arrangement has been steadily tightened, with Beijing asserting more control and cracking down on protests and dissent. Even in my short time there, Hong Kong felt different from mainland China, shaped by a history and culture that had evolved along its own path.

The windows were open, cool air rushing in as the world slid by. Street food smells drifted through the car. Construction noise, traffic, and voices blended together. We passed cemeteries pressed right up against the road, then massive buildings rising overhead. Cyclists glided along the tram’s car-free lanes. Crowds surged through pedestrian crossings, while luxury cars, Mercedes, BMWs, Teslas, raced past.

Bamboo scaffolding wrapped buildings under repair. Storefronts flickered past, some instantly recognizable, McDonald’s, Five Guys, Uniqlo, others a complete mystery, their signs written in Chinese characters. I kept noticing the color red. Maybe it had been ingrained in me from the moment I first saw those iconic taxis, but it was everywhere, red banking signs, a red Benz, the red tram itself. Earlier I’d noticed it again on the Ferris wheel by the harbor, on the sails of junk boats, on double-decker buses, even on the city’s flag.

The world rolled by this way until we reached a place called Happy Valley, where we switched trams and headed west toward Central.

In Central, we planned to take the outdoor escalators, but first we needed a break, so we ducked into a restaurant and tried pineapple buns. Despite the name, they don’t taste like pineapple at all, they’re only vaguely shaped like one, and they come sliced open with a thick slab of cold butter. The place was packed with locals. The waitresses’ efficiency bordered on rudeness, yelling directions and pointing people to open seats, while servers squeezed past with trays of noodles and soup.

Back outside, I’d never seen anything like the Central–Mid-Levels escalator system, a series of outdoor escalators that connect the lower streets of Central with the steep residential neighborhoods climbing the hillside above. It just kept going, rising higher and steeper as the city slid past. Massage parlors, Korean restaurants, people walking their dogs, all unfolding as you ascended. Between taxis, ferries, trams, buses, and now escalators, I felt like I was setting some kind of personal record for ways to get around a city. But this is part of the charm of Hong Kong’s infrastructure, you are never really more than an hour away from anywhere.

The next morning was slow. We took our time getting ready, lingering a little longer than necessary, savoring the comfort of the Rosewood before stepping back out into the city one last time.

The ride to the airport was quick, barely half an hour, and soon the city slipped away. We hadn’t been there long, but I fell back in love with Hong Kong the same way I had years ago. In its density, its contradictions, its momentum, it leaves an impression that lingers well beyond your stay.

So here I was, only four hours after leaving home, descending into one of the most dramatic landings I had ever experienced. Sharp ridges and deep fjords cut through the coast below, the water scattered with ice. The plane wobbled in the wind as we touched down, a hint of the weather that would define my time in Greenland.

On the way to the hotel we passed rows of multicolored houses typical of Scandinavian countries, though these seemed more subdued, maybe the overcast sky was dulling their tones. The ten-minute taxi ride cost over twenty dollars, a quick reminder that Greenland would not be cheap. After dinner at a small cafe that radiated Danish hygge, we walked it off through backroads lined with Danish-red houses, ending at Nuuk Cathedral, whose gabled roof stands out across the tiny capital. Above it, on a small hill, stands the statue of Hans Egede, the “Apostle of Greenland.” From there we continued upward through the backstreets to the Myggedalen Viewpoint, the best overlook in Nuuk, with colorful houses scattered along the fjord and mountains stretching beyond.

I woke before dawn for my flight to Ilulissat, the place I had planned to spend most of my trip. Nuuk was only an entry point, a stop before the real adventure began. We checked out, caught a taxi to the airport, and I felt the familiar nerves set in. For all the traveling I’ve done, I still can’t get used to the act of travel itself.

There was a long line at the airport but no one behind the check-in counter. That should have been the first sign. We waited, printed our baggage tags at the self-service kiosk, and stood there half awake. About thirty minutes later, a woman’s voice came over the intercom, calm and casual, announcing that all flights from Nuuk were canceled for the day. She said it so softly that most people didn’t even react.

Nuuk had left me underwhelmed, and the thought of being stuck here instead of among the icebergs of Ilulissat felt like punishment. I had come to Greenland to see its wild heart, not to be stranded in its capital. When I learned that flights were canceled not just for today but for tomorrow as well due to dangerously high winds, the disappointment hit harder.

I tried to stay positive. I’ve been lucky to travel so much with almost no real setbacks, or at least none memorable enough to matter, so I reminded myself to practice gratitude. Life is good, I told myself, and whatever extra I get is just icing on the cake.

After some rest we visited the Nuuk Museum, one of the few places in town I had wanted to see but hadn’t originally had time for. Maybe there was a silver lining in the delay. Inside we learned about Greenland’s colonization by the Danes and the loss of Inuit culture and religion. What struck me most were the boats, the patterned sweaters, and the five-hundred-year-old mummies preserved by the cold. The dark room that held their bodies felt eerie and intimate, as if time had forgotten them.

Nuuk itself felt bleak. Aside from small groups of vagabond boys, the streets were empty even in July, the warmest month at barely fifty degrees. Shipping containers and dumpsters were scattered around town, graffiti marked the walls, and nothing seemed to follow any plan. It had none of the charm of Tórshavn in the Faroes, let alone the larger Nordic capitals of Reykjavik or Copenhagen. By evening the optimism I had started the day with was gone.

The next morning I woke suddenly after a good night’s sleep, the room warm from the heater and a stream of cold air slipping in through a cracked window. The weather was miserable, a day best spent indoors.

The most memorable part of the day was a visit to a small souvenir shop where a man invited us into his workshop. He was fascinating. He spoke about his travels through Europe and New Zealand, his work in Parliament, carving, dog racing, and even hunting polar bears. He proudly mentioned gifting one of his carvings to French President Macron. Then he showed me a piece made from a bear claw, which both awed and saddened me. Bears are such majestic creatures, and it broke my heart when he showed me a selfie with one of the two polar bears he had hunted. Around the room were antlers, narwhal tusks, and bones. Instinctively I felt uneasy about the hunting, especially of animals so rare, yet I also understood it as a deep tradition among the indigenous people, something primal and tied to survival even if I couldn’t fully agree with it.

Later I followed Nuuk’s small waterfront, a so-called boardwalk lined with Soviet-looking apartment blocks that seemed almost empty. I had read about a Danish project that once forced Inuit families from remote villages into these “modern” buildings. The only sound was the wind rattling loose objects on the balconies. Occasionally a few kids wandered by. One unwrapped a candy bar, tossed the wrapper to the ground, and blew his nose onto the street. As the rain tapped against my jacket, I drifted back into thoughts of Ilulissat and the icebergs waiting there. I could only hope that tomorrow would finally bring me north.

Today was do or die. My flight to Ilulissat had already been delayed for days, and I was running out of time to reach the place I had dreamed most of seeing. A glacier cruise was waiting, one I couldn’t afford to miss. All morning I watched the weather, tracking wind speeds, studying the aircraft, and refreshing the departure board. Then, finally, a change. Planes began landing in Nuuk, and soon a few departed, even those bound for Ilulissat. A quiet sense of hope returned, though I tried not to let it grow too much.

We boarded the bus to the airport, and it finally felt like the dream of reaching Ilulissat was within reach. We checked in our luggage, got our boarding passes, and waited with a few other travelers. After a short delay, security opened and we were cleared to board. The winds were still strong, and I grew uneasy thinking about how this small propeller plane would handle the gusts and clouds. When the engines started, my whole body tensed, but once we lifted off it was smoother than I expected. I had never been so relieved to leave a place. Sorry, Nuuk, but you were just not for me.

As we descended into Ilulissat, I knew I was in love. Icebergs drifted across the sea, and a sailboat with bright red sails cut through the water. The landing was smooth, and I had arrived in the place that had called me to Greenland. Baggage claim took minutes, followed by a short taxi ride to the Best Western, a welcome upgrade after the cramped hotel in Nuuk. The weather was brighter here, and I realized this was the farthest north I had ever been, my first time inside the Arctic Circle. From our room the view was magnificent. Beyond the town and its black church stretched a horizon filled with icebergs as far as the eye could see.

I wanted to explore right away, but hunger won. The only place open was a grocery store, where I grabbed instant pasta and chips for dinner. After eating, I set out for a walk. About twenty minutes from the hotel, the sound of huskies filled the air. At first there were only a few, then what felt like hundreds, yelping more than howling. Many were off leash, and one curious puppy followed me for a while. These were not pets but working dogs, and I had heard that pets are not even allowed above the Arctic Circle.

The trail began as a wooden boardwalk cutting through flat, marshy land. Then I saw it, ice rising higher than the surrounding hills, the tops of icebergs visible even from inland. Under the soft evening light, it was breathtaking. At the turnaround point a few benches faced the ice, and I sat there for a while taking it all in. I am a lucky man.

When I returned to the hotel, the sun still hung low in the sky. I asked Siri when sunset would be. It turns out the sun does not set in Ilulissat this time of year. It is a strange feeling to never see the day end, only an endless pale light that never fades.

I woke up a little before six, shivering near the window where the Arctic air had crept in overnight. Today we were heading out by boat to the Eqi Glacier, a tongue of the mighty Greenlandic ice sheet. As soon as we stepped aboard, the boat pulled away, weaving past icebergs the size of buildings. In the distance, some were so vast they formed a skyline, like glimpsing the silhouette of Manhattan from my hometown in New Jersey. The vessel could hold sixty passengers but was only half full. There was coffee, tea, and open decks at both ends for viewing the ice. The journey to Eqi was about eighty kilometers and would take three and a half hours.

Before long came the first shouts of “whale.” We spotted a fin whale, the second largest in the world, and several humpbacks, their tails flicking the surface as plumes of water rose from their blows. Soon the water cleared of ice and the boat picked up speed. We passed waterfalls and cliffs, and then the ice returned, growing thicker and denser until the water turned to slush. A kilometer from the glacier, the engines stopped.

I stood in silence, surrounded by a world of white and blue. The glacier rose nearly two hundred meters high, its upper edge blurred by fog. The water was still as glass. Then came a deep rumble, and a section of ice collapsed into the sea, sending a slow wave rolling toward us. A few birds skimmed the surface. Even after visiting sixty countries, I had never seen anything like it. The colors, the stillness, the sound. It felt otherworldly.

After an hour and a half at the glacier, including a canteen lunch, we continued to the lodge where we would stay overnight. The boat nudged against a small cliff, and we climbed a short path to the main building for a briefing. We were told not to go down to the beach or wander too close to the edge because calving ice can send huge waves across the fjord. Then we were shown to our cabin. Inside was a warm bed, a sofa, binoculars, and heat. From the porch, about seven kilometers away, the glacier loomed in full view, groaning and cracking.

This place blended the hygge of Danish design with the raw beauty of Greenland. I napped on the couch, woke just in time for dinner, and walked ten minutes back to the cafe. They had asked for dietary preferences in advance and prepared a thoughtful three-course vegetarian meal with bread and herbed butter, a cabbage and pickled onion salad, roasted potatoes and vegetables with butternut squash purée, and marble cake with raspberry and almond butter. I had never eaten so well in Greenland, and watching the glacier in the distance, I knew I would miss this little camp when I left.

I slept surprisingly well at the Eqi Lodge but barely managed to wake up and missed breakfast. The fog rolled in and out all morning, painting the landscape in shades of blue and white unlike anything I had ever seen. I have never really traveled in winter or deep Arctic conditions, so I had no idea these colors even existed. Every few minutes the view changed with the fog and light. Sometimes the glacier’s reflection shimmered on the water, and other times it was completely hidden.

Four hours at the cafe, waiting for the boat back, passed quickly. Between staring at the glacier, talking, and listening to downloaded podcasts, I didn’t once miss having Wi-Fi or cell service. Eventually we lined up for the trek down to the harbor. The red boat appeared, cutting through the still gray water and leaving a ripple behind. The path down was steep, and with the weight of my camera bag I slipped and banged my knee. The boat back was fuller this time. The staff waved goodbye, warm and gracious as always. I will miss this place and its quiet kindness.

The return trip mirrored the first, with coffee, a muffin, more whales, and icebergs of impossible scale. Back in Ilulissat, we checked into our hotel and rested for a while.

I was tired, but I couldn’t waste such clear weather. I set out alone on the trails, determined to see the Icefjord again. Leaving town, I passed huskies glowing in the low sun. Soon I reached the trailhead, walking counterclockwise to keep the ice in sight. The light was unreal, with the blue of the ice, the soft gold of the sun, the green patches of grass, and the brown of the rocks. The trail was easy, but I stopped constantly to take photos. For an hour and a half I followed the fjord back to the Icefjord Center, passing an old cemetery and the huskies again before returning to the hotel. I think that midnight hike will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Greenland is a country that teaches patience. The next day returned to gray skies and rain, and tomorrow I was due to fly back to Nuuk before heading home. The same unease crept in about the weather and flights, and I boarded an Icefjord “sunset” cruise in a subdued mood. After such a perfect day at the glacier, I worried this one might feel repetitive.

But the clouds began to clear, and as we passed the first icebergs, my mood lifted. You cannot grow tired of this beauty. Each moment here feels like a gift, and the only right response is gratitude.

On the boat I met a few travelers whose stories matched the landscape in their uniqueness. There was a South African woman and a Norwegian man who met playing Starcraft, and a Danish woman visiting Ilulissat while her sister and nephews stayed in Nuuk. Most unforgettable was our guide, a rugged Dane with a long beard straight out of the show ‘Vikings’. He told stories of snowmobiling alone through the backcountry for a week, steering a boat through winter ice for fifteen hours with his grandmother because she refused to fly, and joining a whale hunt. The people here are built differently.

As we cruised along, the guide shared stories about the Icefjord and the nearby glacier. Climate change is reshaping this place, the glacier retreating steadily, once stretching to where our boat now floated miles from its face. The melting ice affects fish, whales, and everything that depends on them. It was also believed that the iceberg which sank the Titanic came from this very glacier, drifting through these same waters more than a century ago.

Massive icebergs floated by, their scale beyond comprehension, knowing that only a fraction of their mass was visible above the water. The guide made drinks using ice from the sea and a local herb called Labrador tea. We returned to the harbor after eleven, the sky still pale and endless.

It had become hard to wake up in Greenland, mostly because I could barely sleep. The constant daylight made it impossible to rest properly, with full brightness even at midnight. I was averaging five hours a night at best.

After checking out of the hotel at ten, I spent most of the day in the lobby waiting for the 6:15 p.m. shuttle to the airport. The bus was packed with a Romanian tour group, luggage spilling into the aisle. At the airport I felt cautiously optimistic, but soon the familiar pattern began with a small delay, then a bigger one, and finally a full cancellation.

By eight that evening Air Greenland announced there were no hotel rooms available and that passengers would be taken to a school to sleep in dorm bunk beds. No, thank you. I quickly booked one of the last rooms on Hotels.com and caught the shuttle there. Still, the reality hit hard. We would miss our connection in Nuuk and be stranded in Greenland for several more days.

After the initial shock, I accepted our fate and went down to dinner. The restaurant served sourdough with creamy butter, beetroot soup, mushroom risotto, and a mocktail made from Labrador tea. Then my phone buzzed. A friend texted that the United flight from Newark to Nuuk had been diverted to Iceland because of the same winds that had grounded us. I was sent a video of the plane aborting its landing, engines roaring as it climbed sharply back into the sky. Suddenly, there was a chance. If I could reach Nuuk in the morning, I might just make the rescheduled flight home at 4:30 p.m.

The saga continued the next morning. I woke to yet another message about a delay, the same story I had seen play out all week. First twenty minutes, then an hour and fifteen. The weather in Nuuk was still bad, and departures were on hold. At that point, there was nothing to do but wait and hope this time would be different.

Around midmorning we finally lined up to board. There was a short stop in the tiny town of Aasiaat to refuel after barely twenty minutes in the air, but I didn’t mind. At that point, I was simply grateful to be moving in the right direction. As I climbed back aboard the small red Dash-8, I looked out at the massive icebergs floating beyond the runway, still a little dazed at how I had ended up here. The pilot smiled and gave a thumbs-up as if to say, “This is Greenland.”

Eventually we landed in Nuuk, where the airport buzzed with travelers who had been stranded somewhere in the country at one point or another due to the high winds. The Nuuk airport is especially unforgiving, fully exposed to the elements, and landings here are never easy. I am not sure if United will keep this route going. It seems almost impossible to sustain with this many delays and cancellations, even in the best weather month of the year.

Past security, the waiting area buzzed with travelers exchanging stories. Two friends had visited 112 and 100 countries. A woman was just eight short of seeing every nation on Earth, even North Korea back in 2014. A soldier spoke about his time in Iraq and Syria. Everywhere I turned, people traded tales of journeys, upcoming plans, and adventures across Greenland. These were my people. I often feel alone in that restless urge to leave everything behind and disappear into some far-flung corner of the world, but not here. Greenland is wild and raw, and those drawn to it are kindred spirits.

All was well that ended well. As I write this from the plane bound for home, I know that in a few days, maybe even a few hours, the frustrations of weather and delays will fade. What will remain are the blue icebergs, the white glacier, the whales, and the feeling of standing at the edge of the world, already wondering what’s next?

As I left the city and reached the heights outside Funchal, the full moon shimmered across the ocean. I rolled the windows down and breathed in mountain air mingling with the scent of the forest and sea. The road twisted sharply, sometimes without warning, until I rose above the treeline. Ahead, I saw the red glow of other cars scattered along the mountain. Pico do Arieiro had become very popular recently through social media, and we were all on our way to see it.

I had arrived in Madeira yesterday with a dramatic landing into Funchal airport, the ocean spread out to my left and jagged green cliffs rising to my right. I tried to forget that this was ranked among the world’s most dangerous approaches as the plane touched down in the “Hawaii of Europe,” an island off the coast of Africa that is part of Portugal. I left the airport with the childlike joy that comes from exploring a new place, following winding roads toward central Funchal where orange-roofed houses clung to the cliffs. The Atlantic stretched wide beside me, and I knew instantly it had been the right decision to come here.

Madeira is a volcanic island known for its dramatic mountains, jagged coastline, and lush forests. I was staying in Funchal, the island’s capital, for four nights and using it as my base to explore the rest of the island.

I had spent the first day in the old town, walking through the market where stalls overflowed with flowers and dried fruit beneath walls decorated with blue tiles like the ones I had seen in mainland Portugal, before stepping into the Cathedral of Funchal, a 15th-century church that offered refuge from the sharp sun that felt stronger than its mild temperature suggested. Later, I met my Airbnb host, who shared stories about Madeira, telling me he used to ride the bus with Cristiano Ronaldo when they were children.

Back on the mountain, traffic had slowed to a crawl and the top parking lot near the summit was already full, so I looped back down to the overflow lot. The sky was beginning to pale above the clouds, and I hurried up the one-kilometer climb to the viewpoint. I arrived just in time to watch the sun rise, pink and orange over the horizon, and realized how few sunrises I had truly seen, especially ones where I watched the sun break above the edge of the world. Dense clouds drifted over the water, giving the whole scene a theatrical glow. It was one of those rare, perfect travel mornings.

As the sun rose higher, I left the viewpoint to find the start of the famous “Pico to Pico” trail, often called one of the best day hikes in the world. Part of the trail was closed because of landslides, but the most spectacular sections were still open. The path wound like a serpent along the ridge, the soft morning light casting a golden glow over the green mountains. I could see why Madeira was called the Hawaii of Europe.

I quickly learned I was out of hiking shape, my legs trembling on the ascents, but I kept going and soon reached the first viewpoint, Ninho da Manta, where the panorama stretched from the ocean to the mountains. The only drawback was the crowds. At times it felt more like waiting in line for an amusement park, with bodies packed tightly along the narrowest sections of the trail. Still, I pushed into the valley and descended the famous “Stairway to Heaven,” a steep staircase with sheer drops on both sides that led to the last open stretch of the hike.

I made it back to the car with minutes to spare on the parking meter. It had been one of the best mornings I’d had in a long time. The drive back to my apartment was a joy, with views I had missed in the dark and even a small herd of sheep crossing in front of the car. By the time I reached the apartment, I felt content as the rollercoaster drive came to an end.

After resting for a few hours, I headed out to take the cable car up to the higher part of Funchal known as Monte. The cable car lifted me slowly toward the clouds, gliding over the orange rooftops of the city and climbing higher and higher. After about fifteen minutes, I reached the top station and walked into the tropical gardens. It was an easy way to spend an hour, wandering along different paths trying not to strain myself as I had another hike tomorrow.

Eventually, I made my way back down to Funchal, getting a cable car all to myself on the return. The ocean spread out in every direction, and it felt like a private ride back into the city. I picked up Madeira’s famous Bolo do Caco, a round flatbread served warm with garlic butter, along with a coffee and carried it back to the apartment.

I left the house a little before 8 to drive east to the Ponta de São Lourenço trail. This out-and-back route runs along Madeira’s easternmost peninsula, a rugged strip of volcanic cliffs surrounded by the sea. The drive itself was unbelievable, with smooth roads, dramatic curves, and ocean views around every bend. The trail began with a descent down wooden stairs. I wore a t-shirt and enjoyed the cooling breeze and cloud cover. The landscape felt more like the Faroe Islands or even Iceland than tropical Madeira, with tan-colored cliffs dropping steeply into the water. Along the way, viewpoints opened to foaming waves crashing against the rocks.

About halfway to the turnaround point, the sun broke through and the trail turned harsh without any shade. I rationed my liter of water carefully, already feeling the heat wear me down. Even so, the scenery kept me going, with cliffs rising on one side and the Atlantic stretching endlessly on the other. There were tourists along the path, though far fewer than on the Pico hike, and the trail felt more open.

At the far end of the hike, a one-mile loop led to a small café where I stopped for a soda and rested for fifteen minutes before turning back. The return offered fresh perspectives on the cliffs and sea, and a little under three hours after setting out I had completed the 4.5-mile trail. By then the carpark had overflowed, with cars crammed into every available space along the road. The infrastructure had not kept pace with the surge of visitors coming here.

I left with the satisfaction of having done two of Madeira’s best hikes in as many days. On the way back I pulled over at the Ponta do Rosto viewpoint, where a distant island came into view, once home to Columbus. Back in Funchal I showered and returned to the bakery for another Bolo do Caco. Hiking in the morning and eating bread in the afternoon was seemingly becoming my Madeira routine.

It was hard to wake up the next morning, as if all the tiredness from the last two days of hiking had caught up with me at once. Even at 9:30 I had to force myself out of bed. I planned a small loop around a few sights on the island, no more big hikes.

An hour’s drive brought me to Fanal Forest. Madeira’s weather shifted constantly: some parts sunny, others overcast and foggy. When I arrived, the forest was completely cloaked in a gray haze that made me feel alone, even though I could hear voices echoing faintly through the trees. As the clouds moved, twisted branches appeared and vanished again like illusions. It felt straight out of a fantasy book, and the best part was that it was real. These places exist in our world, and we can walk among them. Some of the trees were between 500 and 800 years old, standing long before the first people ever settled on the island. My favorite was the one they call the “Witch’s Tree,” its gnarled branches bent like the figure of a sorceress.

After filling my camera with photos of Fanal’s twisted trees, I carried on to a few last stops, a sea stack that had appeared in Star Wars, a waterfall spilling into the Atlantic, and a hilltop church overlooking a quiet village. In just a few days I had seen mountains, cliffs, and forests, a landscape more varied and beautiful than I ever expected. On the quiet drive back I stayed in the right lane and cruised toward my apartment. It had been months since my last trip, and for the first time in a while my wanderlust felt content. Madeira had given me exactly what I needed.

I was the only one up on the city walls, feeling like a sentry watching for dragons about to set the city ablaze. But this was not really King’s Landing, capital of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. It was Dubrovnik, the Adriatic city whose walls and towers hardly need CGI to pass for high fantasy. I had come from Vienna with a layover in Zagreb on a tiny twin-engine prop plane. The weather was unusually warm for early March, and the fifty-minute walk from my apartment passed quickly, carried by the excitement of finally reaching the “Pearl of the Adriatic.” I followed the tumble of tiled rooftops down the hillside until I reached the gates of the Old Town, passing groves of orange trees and indifferent street cats, a telltale sign of the Balkans.

I walked the length of the walls, with the shimmering Adriatic on one side and a jumble of alleys, church towers, and rooftops on the other. Small windows in the stone framed scenes that looked like ready-made postcards. Today Dubrovnik is best known as a Game of Thrones filming location, but its story stretches much further back. Once called the Republic of Ragusa, the city was a maritime rival to Venice, growing rich on Mediterranean trade. Its walls were built for survival, holding off Ottoman armies and pirates for centuries.

For two days I studied Dubrovnik from every angle: from the walls themselves, from a fort across the water, and from a cable car high above. But soon the urge to see beyond its defenses pulled me deeper into the Balkans. My next journey was across the border into Bosnia and Herzegovina, to the storybook town of Mostar.

Crossing into Bosnia, I was reminded that the Balkans were once bound together as Yugoslavia, a federation that emerged after World War II and then collapsed in the wars of the 1990s. Bosnia was at the heart of that conflict, its cities scarred by sieges and divisions that remain visible today.

On the way to Mostar, we stopped at Počitelj, a hillside Ottoman settlement where women sat by the roadside selling fruit to the few tourists who passed through. Pencil-thin minarets rose above the dry hills, and domed mosques anchored the village below. I had never seen anything like it, and it made me want to see more of this world that felt so foreign to my mind.

Past the rugged hills of the Bosnian countryside, I arrived in Mostar. The first thing my guide pointed out were the bullet holes near where our bus was parked. I had never seen such tangible evidence of war before. A twinge of shame came with it. I vaguely remembered hearing about the conflicts of the Balkans, but I had never truly understood what had happened. The sight left me wanting to learn more, and to wonder what other histories I had overlooked.

I wound my way through the bazaar, past stalls of copper wares, coffee and tea sets, and decorated plates, before arriving at the town’s famous single-pointed arch bridge. This was the Stari Most, a legacy of the Ottoman Empire that shaped Bosnia for centuries and left behind its Islamic heritage. The bridge was destroyed in the 1990s war, but in 2004 it was rebuilt from its original stones, a powerful symbol of resilience. Today young men collect money from tourists before diving seventy-five feet into the Neretva River below.

At lunch I made the mistake of assuming that since I was in a majority Muslim country, falafel would be served everywhere. The owners looked at me quizzically, and I settled for pizza. Only later did I learn that falafel belongs to the Levant (Lebanon, Syria, Palestine, Israel), not Turkey or the Balkans. Looking back, Mark Twain could have been speaking directly to me when he wrote, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

The following day I set out for Montenegro, a country roughly the size of Connecticut, with dramatic mountains and historic towns tucked into valleys and along the coast.

I usually prefer to explore on my own, but without a rental car I again booked a day trip from Dubrovnik. To my surprise, when I stepped onto the bus I realized I was the only English speaker. A closer look at my ticket revealed why: it was a combined English and Spanish tour. My companions turned out to be several older ladies from Spain who spoke little to no English.

Our journey began in the medieval town of Perast. Though home to only about two hundred people, it felt unforgettable with stone towers leaning over the bay, and two island churches rising from the water. One of them, Our Lady of the Rocks, came with a legend. Fishermen had once found an icon of the Virgin Mary on a reef and began piling stones there. In time an island rose from the sea, and on it they built the church that still stands today.

Continuing along the waters of Kotor Bay, I spoke with our guide, Marija. Between her narrations, first in Spanish for the group and then in English just for me, she shared her story. She was originally from Venezuela, but life had brought her to Croatia, where she worked as a tour operator to help pay for her daughter’s education. One day, she told me, she hoped to return to her quiet life on little Margarita Island.

Surrounded by the Adriatic and tucked between steep rocky peaks lay Kotor, a UNESCO World Heritage town and the highlight of the trip. Here Marija gave us time to explore on our own. Knowing I was interested in photography, she suggested I climb the city walls for the best views of the bay. As I walked deeper into the town, the passageways narrowed until I came upon the entrance.

The fortifications were built into the cliffs over centuries to keep invaders away, and despite wars and even a recent earthquake, the walls remain remarkably intact. I climbed the 1,300 cobblestone steps to the fortress, my Nike sweatshirt soaked by the time I reached the top. The view over the bay and the red roofs below made it worth every step.

Back with the group, we drove on to Budva. It was there I learned a curious fact - in the 2006 James Bond film Casino Royale, many of the scenes were supposedly set in Montenegro. The blockbuster brought a boom in tourism, though none of the movie was actually filmed there.

Feeling spent from the long day, I slipped into a quiet restaurant for a cappuccino and a plate of pasta. Afterwards I wandered the streets, joined only by the dozens of cats that seemed to have claimed the town as their own.

As 3:30 approached, the time our guide had told us to return, I headed toward the bus. Passing the marina, I saw the ladies from Spain enjoying a waterside meal. Worried they had lost track of time, I pointed to my watch. Instead of hurrying, they laughed and told me to join them. When I explained I had already eaten, they insisted on buying me dessert.

The contrast between us was striking. I was anxious about getting back to the bus a few minutes early, while they were still ordering dessert at the very time we were supposed to return. With a shrug and a smile, they reassured me the bus would never leave without us.

I chose to set aside my nerves and enjoy the moment. Soon we were laughing, joking, and learning about each other, even through language barriers. Just as we were settling in, Marija arrived, clearly anxious that none of us had returned on time, but started laughing when she saw the scene. She said she expected the ladies from Spain to be late, but got nervous when I hadn’t shown up.

I will always remember the kindness of those women, who made sure I felt included, and the reminder they gave me to slow down and savor the moment on that sunny day in Montenegro.

From Dubrovnik I flew to Amsterdam, and that ended my backpacking trip to Europe. Something inside me shifted on that journey. I cannot quite describe it, but I felt as though I had been let out of a cage, or at least as much of a cage as middle-class New Jersey could be. I had glimpsed a world that once felt impossibly far away. I realized that no matter what else happened in my life, seeking out that world and pushing the boundaries of what I knew and was comfortable with would always be one of my greatest priorities.

Tucked away in Central Europe, Prague is the capital of the Czech Republic and one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen. With its buzzing squares, cobblestone streets, and medieval charm, it feels like a fairytale brought to life. Having survived much of the destruction that ravaged the rest of Europe during World War II, it remains one of the best-preserved cities on the continent. And there’s no better way to take it all in than by walking its winding streets.

Continuing my backpacking adventures through Europe, I landed in Prague in the afternoon, checked into an absurdly large apartment, and headed straight for the Old Town. I followed the crowds until I reached the city’s astronomical clock, over 600 years old and still running. It’s the oldest working clock of its kind in the world. Every hour, a mechanical show plays out on its Gothic face, with figures of the Apostles parading past Death and Vanity. It’s an odd ritual that has been repeating for centuries.

Every fairytale has a castle, and Prague is no different. From the Old Town, I crossed the Vltava River and climbed the hill to Prague Castle. It’s less of a classic castle with ramparts and towers and more of a sprawling complex, layered with Gothic cathedrals, Romanesque chapels, and royal halls. Built in the 9th century and perched above the city, it has watched over Prague for more than a thousand years, once home to Bohemian kings and Holy Roman Emperors.

In the evening, I found a spot along the bank of the Vltava River and watched the sky fade behind Prague Castle. The last light of day bathed the city in soft gold, casting long reflections across the water. The arches of Charles Bridge stretched across the river, lined with statues of saints and anchored by a Gothic tower - the same bridge that once carried Bohemian kings on their coronation processions. There it stood, weathered but still regal.

I spent the next day walking the Old Town, taking in the mix of architectural styles - the light, airy, candy-colored Baroque houses set against the dark, foreboding spires of older Gothic buildings standing watch. I couldn’t help grabbing one of the street foods sold on every corner: trdelník, a chimney cake pastry filled with vanilla soft serve and drizzled in chocolate. It was a dessert I would remember for years to come.

I love nothing more than climbing towers in old cities, so I made my way to the top of the Old Town Bridge Tower. After 138 steps, I reached a platform with panoramic views of the city. I got lucky and arrived just at sunset. Behind Prague Castle, the sky lit up in soft hues of purple, pink, and blue. Looking the other way toward the Old Town was a bird’s-eye view of red-tiled roofs, green domes, and the many spires that give Prague its nickname - the Golden City of a Hundred Spires.

The next morning, I took one last walk across Charles Bridge in the predawn quiet, the statues standing over me like silent sentinels. Soon after, my taxi arrived to take me to the station for my train to Budapest. I had underestimated the size of the station and overestimated my ability to navigate it, so I ended up sprinting to catch the 5:51 AM departure. Breathless and barely on time, I made it aboard. A few hours later, I’d be pulling into Budapest just after noon.

I hadn’t realized how big Budapest really is. Unlike most European cities, its landmarks aren’t clustered around a single historic center. My apartment only cost thirty dollars a night, but it was nearly a forty-minute walk from the Danube, where most of the sights are. Still, wide-eyed with the excitement of being in a new country, I made my way toward the river, crossed the Chain Bridge, and stepped onto the Buda side. From there, I had a sweeping view of the Parliament Building and the sprawling Pest skyline across the water. I stayed on this side, wandering through Fisherman’s Bastion and photographing the Parliament glowing gold against the night sky.

The next morning, I visited St. Stephen’s Basilica, a grand cathedral dedicated to Hungary’s first king. Its dome rises 96 meters high - the exact height of the Parliament Building - a deliberate symbol of balance between church and state. Afterward, I toured the Parliament itself, which is just as impressive inside as it is from across the river. Grand staircases lined with red carpets, gilded ceilings, and stained glass windows led through ornate chambers to the central dome hall, where the Hungarian Crown Jewels are displayed under guard.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have long in Budapest, but the city left its mark. I knew I’d be back one day, but for now, it was time to head west to Austria and explore the cities of Salzburg and Vienna.

Arriving in Salzburg, I walked to the hilltop fortress of Hohensalzburg, from which I had a view of the Altstadt, or old town, below - but my eyes were drawn to the powder-coated mountaintops of the Alps in the distance. Something about seeing mountains hits me deep. It had been a couple of years since I first saw the Alps in Switzerland, and I suddenly realized how much I had missed that mighty mountain range.

Down in the center, I wandered beneath the delicate wrought-iron signs hanging above each shopfront, a signature of Salzburg’s Old Town. I stopped by the Baroque-style Salzburg Cathedral, watched the white-haired carriage horses blink through their shaggy manes, and walked through the carefully trimmed flowerbeds of Mirabell Gardens.

And lastly, I visited the birthplace of Salzburg’s most famous son - Mozart. The yellow townhouse has been turned into a small museum, with letters, portraits, and one of his early violins on display. In this modest place, one of history’s greatest composers was born.

I ended my Central Europe adventure in Vienna, where - despite the cold - I tried to take in the grand opulence of the city: the gardens, the glittering statues, and the flamboyant architecture of the old Habsburg capital. Here, I would leave behind the elegance of Central Europe for the grittiness of the Balkans.

I arrived in Florence just as the city was waking up. Shops and restaurants were still closed, and the streets were nearly empty as I wandered the old alleyways. It gave me a quiet moment to reflect on all the Renaissance greats who must have walked these same streets hundreds of years ago. This was where the Renaissance began. Fifteenth-century Florence, a booming hub of trade and culture, where wealthy families like the Medici became patrons of the arts and helped turn the city into the cultural capital of Europe.

My first stop was the Uffizi Gallery, often called one of the greatest museums in Europe. Even before entering, I passed through a long outdoor hallway lined with statues of Florence’s legends: painters, architects, sculptors, all standing tall, their stone faces exuding a sense of timelessness - a fitting gateway to the masterpieces inside.

Wandering the long halls of the Uffizi, filled with works by the giants of the Renaissance, I passed paintings by Michelangelo, Giotto, and even Leonardo. But the piece I was most excited to see was The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli. Instantly recognizable, it’s not just one of the most famous paintings in the world - it’s an icon of the Italian Renaissance. With Venus rising from a giant seashell, it perfectly captures the era’s fascination with mythology, beauty, and classical ideals.

It was hard not to spend the whole day marveling at the seemingly endless collection of sculptures and paintings, but I knew I had to save some time for Florence’s other world-renowned museum, the Accademia Gallery. There are other pieces in the museum, but the real reason to visit is the greatest statue in the world. Looking across the hall of the museum and seeing Michelangelo’s David under a gleaming skylight for the first time, I was shocked by the sheer size of the statue. An imposing 17 feet tall, this marble figure captures a moment of calm before action, carved with incredible precision and detail. Though created over 500 years ago for the Cathedral of Florence, it has remained one of mankind’s greatest masterpieces.

After getting my fill of Renaissance art, I took a quick break for lunch - a panini in a medieval city, right in front of the Florence Cathedral. I looked up from my sandwich, just taking it all in.

The Duomo, Florence’s cathedral, with its massive red-tiled dome, towers over the city. It was one of those places I always knew I had to see. Designed by Filippo Brunelleschi, the dome is still the largest ever built in brick and mortar. Climbing the 463 steep and narrow steps to reach the top was more than worth it. The view stretched across the city - terracotta rooftops in every direction, surrounded by the distant, rolling hills.

Right next to the cathedral, the Baptistery of San Giovanni had a stunning mosaic ceiling dating back to the 12th century. And inside the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo, which houses original artwork from the cathedral, I saw Lorenzo Ghiberti’s original bronze doors for the Baptistery - what Michelangelo famously called the “Gates of Paradise.”

After a short gelato break, I was ready to explore more. As I wandered through the old city, I made my way to the Ponte Vecchio - the ‘Old Bridge.’ This medieval bridge crosses the Arno River and is lined with tiny shops on both sides. According to legend, the bridge was spared from destruction during World War II because Hitler had taken a liking to it.

Following a steep climb, I reached my final stop in Florence just before sunset. The view looked like something off a postcard. Below me was the city that once sparked a cultural, political, and artistic rebirth across Europe. As the sky shifted from blue to purple to pink behind the Florence skyline, I felt a sense of hope - the same energy that must have filled these streets 500 years ago.

Having just received a job offer, I knew it would be the perfect opportunity to take time off and squeeze in some travel before beginning the next step in my career. I immediately booked a one-way ticket to Rome with an audacious itinerary planned for the next month. Over the upcoming weeks, I had mapped out a whirlwind trip through Europe and South America—an itinerary that might seem fast-paced and haphazard to some, but to my younger self, who hadn’t yet discovered the joy of slow travel, it felt like the perfect adventure.

As I sat at the terminal in Newark Liberty International Airport with my dark red Osprey backpack, I was nervous and very excited. This was my first time ever traveling abroad on my own. After a largely empty, unexpectedly pleasant flight (especially considering it had only cost me $159.90—nonstop!), I arrived in the Eternal City.

When I first walked from my apartment into the city, I remember being stunned by how the Colosseum just stood there—right in the middle of everything. For some reason, I always imagined ruins like that would be somewhere off to the side, but here it was, sitting along a main street. There’s no better feeling than walking through a new city, and so that’s what I did—I had no plan, I just wanted to wander until my legs hurt.

Miles later, as the sun was setting on my first day in Rome, I found myself on the Ponte Umberto I, one of the bridges crossing the Tiber River. From the bridge, I saw the sky turn brilliant orange as the last rays of sunshine peeked through the trees on the horizon. Birds flying over the river disappeared into the sky as blue hour fell over the city. Beyond the Tiber and the Ponte Sant’Angelo, I could clearly see the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica—the largest church in the world.

I kept walking toward the Vatican, admiring the architecture and noticing the heavy police presence. I knew I’d explore everything in more detail over the next few days, but I couldn’t help getting a glimpse now—these were places I had only dreamed of before.

Early the next morning, I visited the Colosseum. I think I would have been content just seeing the amphitheater from the outside—marveling at the arches and columns of this megastructure—but I also walked through the interior. In the small museum, I was amazed to read that species now extinct had been excavated here—animals once used in the gladiator fights. The weight of history is heavy here.

Right next to the Colosseum is the Roman Forum, and from there I continued my walk through time. For hundreds of years, this plaza was the center of one of the greatest empires in the world. Buzzing markets, government buildings, and holy temples once made it the heartbeat of ancient Rome. Now it's a sprawl of ruins—but a beautiful one. I wandered along crumbling paths, passed under triumphal arches built to celebrate military victories, and ducked into old churches with fading frescoes.

The following morning, again early, I took a taxi to the Vatican—ready to visit the smallest country in the world. I was dropped off outside the city walls, and I couldn’t help but wonder about the secret world inside. I started my visit by wandering through the rooms of the Vatican Museums, which house centuries of art and artifacts collected by the Catholic Church. Room after room unfolded with sculptures, tapestries, and painted ceilings. I had taken art history in high school, so I was particularly excited to see The School of Athens by Raphael, one of the great masterpieces of the Renaissance. There they were—Plato and Aristotle—painted in the center of this imagined gathering of great thinkers, an idealized vision of classical knowledge.

Exiting the museums, I entered the Sistine Chapel, where I sat on a bench and stared up at the ceiling painted by Michelangelo. Above me was The Creation of Adam—perhaps one of the most recognizable images in art history—with God’s outstretched hand reaching toward Adam’s. Photography was strictly prohibited, but of course, I couldn’t help but take a few for memory—promptly noticed by the security guards, who told me to stop.

From the chapel, I stepped into St. Peter’s Basilica, stunned by the vastness of the interior. On one side was Michelangelo’s Pietà—sculpted when he was just 24. I admired the soaring dome and the dramatic four-column structure of the Baldachin, the focal point of the entire church. From the basilica floor, I climbed—step after step—until all of Rome lay beneath me. Past the colonnades, shaped like the maternal arms of Mother Church, I could see the historic landmarks, churches, and ancient plazas that make Rome such a magical city.

This was the beginning of something special. For the first time in my life, the world felt wide open.

As we neared Mount Titano, where Marinus once took shelter, I could see why he chose this place. The mountain rises like a fortress into the clouds—jagged, defiant, and seemingly unapproachable. Even from the car, the ascent felt dramatic.

We drove up the winding road that climbs to the heart of the ancient republic. If you’ve ever driven in a medieval city, you’ll know the streets were built for pedestrians—or at most, horse-drawn carts—but certainly not for modern vehicles. Cars are actually banned inside the old quarter. But in my over-exuberance to find parking near our hotel, I somehow ended up driving straight through the historic center, fully embodying the caricature of a ‘dumb American.’ Thankfully, no one seemed overly alarmed, and I sheepishly made my way back down to the designated parking areas outside the city walls.

I was lucky enough to be invited to San Marino by the country’s tourism board to photograph the historic center. They generously arranged a guided tour of the old quarter, along with entrance tickets to the city’s museums and monuments. We began at the tourism office, where we stamped our passports with a San Marino 'tourist visa.' There are no border checks when entering the country, but that little stamp made for a memorable and unique souvenir.

We began our walking tour at the Palazzo Pubblico—the city hall and seat of government for San Marino. Just outside, one of the official cars of the country’s leaders sat parked. San Marino has not one, but two heads of state, known as the Capitani Reggenti. This unusual dual leadership dates back to 1243 and was inspired by the Roman Republic. Every six months, two citizens are elected to jointly serve as ceremonial and executive heads of state, ensuring a balance of power. Above us, the white and blue flag of San Marino flew in the breeze—white for peace, blue for freedom.

So how did San Marino remain free for so long? At one point, Europe’s map was dotted with hundreds of small principalities, duchies, and republics. Today, most have vanished—annexed, absorbed, or erased. Yet San Marino endured. As my guide explained, there were four main reasons: first, wise and diplomatic governance; second, the country offered little in the way of resources or strategic value—so there wasn’t much to conquer; third, a fierce, generational pride in being Sammarinese; and finally, luck.

Inside, a staircase leads up to the Council Hall, where the Republic’s legislative body still meets. The chamber is richly decorated, with a grand fresco of Saint Marinus presiding over the room. Today, one of the most debated topics within these walls is whether San Marino should pursue full European Union membership. But what caught my attention even more was a bronze bust tucked into the hallway—a likeness of Abraham Lincoln.

In 1861, during the height of the American Civil War, San Marino sent a letter of friendship and solidarity to President Lincoln, praising his commitment to liberty and offering him honorary citizenship. Lincoln replied graciously, writing: “Although your dominion is small, your State is nevertheless one of the most honored in all history.” The quote is now engraved on the base of his bust—a powerful reminder that even the world’s smallest republics can inspire giants.

San Marino has long been a nation of quiet dignity. During World War II, this tiny republic—then home to just 15,000 residents—offered refuge to more than 100,000 people fleeing the horrors of war.

After we finished the tour, we wandered deeper into the medieval streets, some dating back over five centuries. As the sun dipped behind the ridgelines and a chill crept into the air, the hilltop republic slowly emptied. Day-trippers descended the mountain, and the cobbled alleys fell silent once more.

The most famous sites in San Marino are its three towers—Guaita, Cesta, and Montale—perched like sentinels along the ridgeline of Monte Titano. They’re connected by a stone footpath called the Passo delle Streghe, or Witches’ Path, named for legends that witches once gathered here under moonlight, casting spells above the clouds. Of the three, only Guaita—the oldest—was open during my visit.

As I do almost everywhere I go, I tried to be the first one there when the site opened, hoping to have it to myself. Up and up I climbed—through narrow staircases, past old prison cells, and up precarious wooden ladders—until I reached the top of the ancient tower. The views were spectacular. The rolling hills of Italy stretched in every direction, covered in autumn foliage. Below me lay all of San Marino—this improbable little republic clinging to the mountaintop, proud and unchanged.

I probably had the same view that crossbowmen of centuries past once held—standing guard over a republic that refused to fall. As the wind moved through the hills and the flags of San Marino fluttered, I thought about how this tiny nation, perched on a rocky precipice, had endured for over 1,700 years. Kingdoms rose and fell, borders shifted, empires vanished—but San Marino remained.

That was how the infamous slave city of Central Asia was once described—a name that struck fear across the steppe. For centuries, this walled oasis in the Khorezm desert was the last outpost on the Silk Road and one of the busiest slave markets in the Islamic world. Persian merchants, Russian soldiers, Kazakh nomads—all were dragged here in chains. Prisoners were sold in the main square beneath its minaret.

And this was where I had chosen to end my vacation.

You know it’s going to be a long day when your alarm goes off at 3:15 a.m. We packed up and made our way to the Bukhara train station in the cold morning air. We had tickets for a 5:30 Soviet sleeper train to Khiva. Thankfully, I had paid the extra few dollars to get first-class tickets—the private compartment had beds and blankets that were fairly clean.

When we boarded, it was still pitch black. Around 7 a.m., the sky began to lighten, revealing the landscape we were cutting through—a pale desert, cracked and sandy, with stubborn patches of snow and low shrubs clinging to the dust. The dunes were wind-carved and smooth, some rising higher than the train. There was nothing else—just endless flatness, quiet and bleak, as if the world itself had thinned out to nothing but sky and sand.

The bed was comfortable enough that I managed to get some sleep. The six-and-a-half hours passed quickly, all things considered. Toward the end of the ride, after the attendant came by to collect our blankets, a man suddenly entered our sleeper cabin, shook our hands, and began speaking to us in Uzbek. He seemed friendly—smiling, gesturing, trying to carry on a conversation despite the language barrier. He stayed with us until we pulled into Khiva. What a strange thing this would seem in America—a random man inviting himself into your private cabin and speaking to you in a different language for over half an hour. But somehow, here, it felt perfectly normal.

Eventually, we made it to Khiva. As the taxi pulled into town, I caught my first glimpse of the minarets rising above the old town—Itchan Kala, which roughly translates to “inner fortress.” This walled core of the city is where nearly all of Khiva’s historic sites are located, compactly arranged within the sand-colored walls that have stood for centuries.

The first site I wanted to see was the Juma Mosque. We entered a dimly lit interior where a woman was acting as the ticketmaster. She didn’t look ethnically Uzbek, so I asked her where she was from. “Korean,” she replied. It was a reminder of Uzbekistan’s layered history—under Stalin, entire minority communities were forcibly relocated across the Soviet Union. In the late 1930s, tens of thousands of ethnic Koreans were deported from the Russian Far East to Central Asia, accused of being a potential fifth column for Japan. Many ended up here, in places like Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan.

The mosque itself was a vast hypostyle hall supported by hundreds of wooden columns, cool and shadowed inside. Two of the columns dated back to the 10th and 11th centuries. They looked almost like tree trunks—ancient and worn, carved with time-softened patterns.

From the mosque, we walked toward the North Gate, where we’d be able to access the old city walls. I noticed the sign for the gate read “Darvoza”—Uzbek for gate—and was struck by how close it was to the Hindi word “Darwaza.” Another small reminder of the cultural exchange that took place along the Silk Road. It wasn’t just goods that flowed through these ancient routes, but religion, language, ideas, and technology.

Through a tight, narrow staircase, we hoisted ourselves onto the walls. From this vantage point, I could glimpse scenes of daily life: women cooking in courtyards, laundry drying on lines, the clatter of construction as workers readied the city for spring tourists. All of it played out beneath the minarets that punctuated Khiva’s skyline.

Afterwards, we climbed the Islam Khoja Minaret. Someone I’d met earlier had warned me it would be pitch dark inside, but it wasn’t so bad—just a narrow spiral of stone steps winding upward. At the top, the city opened up beneath us. Khiva’s old town stretched in every direction—domes, courtyards, and minarets all enclosed within the ancient walls. The sky was gray, but the view was no less striking. It felt like standing above a city frozen in time.

The next morning, I left Khiva behind for a day trip into the desert. The road out was horrendous—rutted and pockmarked like it had taken machine-gun fire. Every bump sent a jolt through my spine; my stomach churned with each jarring hit. I put on music just to calm myself down.

To explain what I was seeking in the desert, I have to tell a short story about Genghis Khan—and how the wrath of a single man changed the fate of Central Asia and the world forever.

In 1218, the Mongol Empire—still a rising power—sent a caravan of merchants to the Khorezm Empire, whose territory stretched across modern-day Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and beyond. The caravan was meant as a gesture of diplomacy and trade. But the local governor, suspicious and paranoid, accused the travelers of being spies. He seized their goods and executed them. Genghis Khan demanded justice. Instead, the Khorezm Shah escalated the insult—he had the Mongol envoys’ beards shaved and sent them back humiliated. That was a mistake.

What followed wasn’t just retribution—it was urbicide: the deliberate, brutal erasure of cities. Between 1219 and 1221, the Mongols unleashed one of the most devastating military campaigns in history. Some of the greatest cities in the world were burned, looted, and left in ruin. Hundreds of thousands were slaughtered. Some estimates place the death toll in the millions. Entire libraries were torched. Irrigation systems were destroyed. Civilizations that had taken centuries to build were wiped out in weeks. The destruction was so vast that some scientists believe the resulting depopulation and reforestation may have lowered global carbon levels by as much as 700 million tons—the Mongols’ destruction actually cooled the planet.

The Khorezm Empire ceased to exist. And it was the ruins of that lost world—the skeletal remains of its desert fortresses—that I had come to see.

After about two hours of driving, I reached Ayaz Kala—a ruined fortress perched high in the sands of Karakalpakstan. It was a steep climb up the hill, my feet sinking into the loose sand with each step. Eventually, the ground turned firmer, scattered with pale rocks. Built between the 4th century BCE and 7th century CE, Ayaz Kala was once part of a network of desert citadels that protected the borders of ancient Khorezm. These forts served as defensive outposts, guarding against nomadic raids and rival kingdoms—long before the Mongols ever arrived.

All that remains now are its walls—roughly oval in shape, encircling a flat, open interior like a broken bowl set atop a hill. Some sections are impressively intact; others have disintegrated into brittle ridges. As I scrambled along the edge, parts of the wall crumbled beneath my fingers. It’s a wonder any of it is still standing. When I arrived, there was a lone elderly Japanese tourist wandering quietly. But after he left, I had the entire fortress to myself.

The area was vast, and I spent time walking the full perimeter. At times, I stopped to peer beyond the crumbling ramparts into the open desert. Standing there, I couldn’t help but imagine the soldiers who once stood guard on these very walls—watching the horizon, knowing what was coming. They must have heard the stories: of Samarkand burned, Bukhara fallen, entire cities erased. I cannot imagine the fear they must have felt as the dust rose in the distance, carrying with it the anger of Genghis Khan.

After Ayaz Kala, my driver took me to two more fortresses—Toprak Kala and Kyzyl Kala. They were less striking, in part because, like many monuments in Uzbekistan, they’d been subjected to heavy-handed restoration. Still, they offered a glimpse into what this ancient civilization might have looked like. Before long, it was time to begin the long, bumpy ride back to Khiva.

It was the evening of my last day on the Silk Road, and I wanted to find a small souvenir to bring home. I had looked up a silk workshop, but it was tucked away, hard to locate among the maze of old buildings. I opened a creaky wooden door that led into an empty courtyard. No one was around, but I spotted another door and gave it a gentle knock. A voice called out, inviting me in.

Inside were three women, busy at their looms. They followed hand-drawn patterns, working threads into intricate designs with quiet focus. They didn’t speak English, but with the help of a translation app, I asked if they had anything for sale. One of them nodded, disappeared for a moment, then returned with a key. She opened a small side room—part shop, part storeroom—lined with colorful rugs and textiles. She pointed to jars of natural dye made from indigo and walnut.

I bought two suzanis—traditional Uzbek hand-embroidered pieces full of floral motifs and winding vines. As we said goodbye, the woman in the headscarf gave me a smile, her golden tooth glinting. And with that, I had my own little piece of the Silk Road—a small remembrance from the spine of civilization, whose legacy still endures.

In this high-stakes contest, Britain and Russia jockeyed for control of Central Asia’s vast interior, each fearing the other’s advance toward India or the Caspian. And at the center of this chessboard sat Bukhara—remote, powerful, and fiercely closed to outsiders. British officers risked their lives to enter the city in disguise. Some never returned.

For me, it was those stories—of maps smuggled in boots, of double agents in desert robes, of doomed Victorian adventurers—that first pulled me toward Bukhara, which still whispers like the pages of an old spy novel. The Bukhara they chased—mysterious, magnificent, and just out of reach—is the kind of place I’ve always wanted to see for myself.

We left Samarkand early the next day, the taxi driver who was taking us to the train station handing us candy and a handful of sunflower seeds. I placed them in my bag as he tried to say goodbye using the little English he knew. The Uzbek people have been so kind—these small gestures will not be soon forgotten.

A little after noon, we had made it to Bukhara, dropped our bags, and made our way to the city center. There was work underway everywhere—as the city prepared for tourism to ramp up in the spring. We navigated around dirt, deep holes, and a bevy of construction vehicles as we searched for food.

We found a restaurant set in a beautiful interior that had once been a caravanserai—a type of medieval inn used by traders moving along the old Silk Road. These caravanserais were essential waypoints, offering rest, security, and commerce for merchants crossing vast distances between China, Persia, and the Mediterranean. Sitting beneath its vaulted brick ceiling, I was struck by how tangible the past felt here. I was sitting in the same place some trader must have, centuries ago—after untethering his camels, emptying his wagon, and locking away his wares after a long, dust-choked journey across the desert.

After eating, we took a walk through the old town of Bukhara. The streets were lined with beige-colored buildings against a dusty backdrop, making you feel as though you had been dropped into Tatooine. There were beautiful shops everywhere, some tucked inside the old trading domes that once housed the original merchants who sold their goods here.

Eventually, we came to the Kalyan Minaret—and it stopped me in my tracks. Towering over a hundred feet high, it rises like a sandstone sentinel above the old city, its base tapering upward like the rook of a chessboard left behind by giants. The craftsmanship is hypnotic—rows of patterned brickwork wrap around the tower in subtle variations, creating textures that shift with the light.

Legend has it that Genghis Khan destroyed all of Bukhara except for this minaret, sparing it because he found it too beautiful to tear down. One version of the story claims he used it as a guide—its height so great, it could be seen from far across the plains, serving as a fixed point on the horizon for his army as they moved through Central Asia. A myth, no doubt—but standing beneath it, looking up at the intricate bands of brick spiraling into the sky, it didn’t feel so far-fetched.

At the far end of the old town, we came to the Ark of Bukhara. Its fortress walls were the most imposing I’d ever seen, standing guard here since the 6th century. In the 19th century, this citadel became infamous during the Great Game—the imperial rivalry between Britain and Russia over Central Asia. Two British officers, Colonel Charles Stoddart and Captain Arthur Conolly, were sent to Bukhara on separate diplomatic missions. The emir, suspecting espionage and resenting foreign interference, imprisoned them both. After years of captivity and humiliation, they were executed by beheading right outside the Ark’s gate in 1842—a grim symbol of the empire’s limits and the cost of imperial ambition. Their deaths caused a scandal back in Britain and gave Bukhara a permanent place in the history of the British Empire.

We paid the 120,000 som fee to enter the fortress. The interior was, to put it kindly, not charming. A haphazard arrangement of displays without any coherent timeline, alongside souvenir stalls selling cheap trinkets. But the real gem was at the top of the citadel. From there, Bukhara opened up—turquoise domes, the Kalyan Minaret, and the old city glowing in the low golden light of sunset.

We wandered through the ruins at the top—exposed remains of what was once a stronghold of kings. This destruction dates back to the Soviet invasion in 1920, when the Red Army bombarded the Ark to force the emir’s surrender. Not long after, Bukhara was absorbed into the USSR.

From Bratislava to Bukhara, I’ve seen the destruction the Soviets left behind. It makes me deeply sad, so many irreplaceable historical sites wiped away by the communist regime: entire neighborhoods in old Czechoslovakia, the historic center of Riga, the merchant houses of Gdańsk, and countless others erased in the name of this ideology.

I woke up early the next morning to take a walk around the old town and maybe take a few photographs as the city stirred to life. Even before 7, the streets were already buzzing—cyclists passed by, children walked to school, and vendors set up small stalls with fruits, vegetables, and old soda bottles filled with a white liquid—horse milk, perhaps?

There’s a kind of beauty in the morning that makes travel feel so worthwhile. I felt reinvigorated by the quiet energy of the day beginning. I passed the Kalyan Minaret again—the same one I had visited yesterday—and this time, I had it all to myself. I spent some time photographing it in the morning light, admiring the faded blue tiles, the delicate inscriptions, the intricate brickwork. A jewel, even more so in silence.

It’s hard to imagine now, but for centuries the minaret served a more brutal purpose. Condemned prisoners were thrown from its upper gallery—a practice that reportedly continued until the early 20th century, even during the chaotic final days before Soviet control. A place of worship, a symbol of beauty, and once, an instrument of death—all in one.

Curious, I stepped into the adjoining mosque, which was already open, even though the posted hours said it would open later. The guardian accepted U.S. dollars for the small entrance fee. Inside, the space was quiet and rather plain—worth a short wander, but nothing more.

Later that morning, I walked to the Samanid Mausoleum, one of just three buildings in Bukhara that survived the Mongol conquest. It was about a 20-minute walk from the old town, taking me through the quieter suburbs of the city. As a tourist, I usually don’t venture beyond the historic core, so it felt refreshing to catch a look of everyday life.

The mausoleum was small but beautiful, its exterior covered in delicate lattice brickwork. It sat quietly in the middle of a shaded park dotted with benches and trees. When archaeologists first discovered it, the entire structure had been buried in silt—perhaps the very reason it escaped destruction when the Mongols sacked the city.

That evening, we dined at one of the more popular restaurants in Bukhara. The food was fine, but it was the interior that caught my eye—arched niches, colorful patterns on the walls, and in some spots, fragments of old Hebrew script.

This was something I’d been looking for—a trace of the Bukharan Jews, one of the oldest Jewish communities in the world. According to tradition, their ancestors arrived here after the Babylonian exile, over two thousand years ago. Cut off from the wider Jewish world, they developed their own language, customs, and identity, nestled deep in the heart of Central Asia. For centuries, they lived under emirs and khans, speaking a dialect of Persian written in Hebrew script, trading silk and spices along the same roads as Arabs, Turks, and Mongols. Today, most have left—fled or emigrated during the Soviet years—but every now and then, if you look closely, you’ll find traces of their history in Bukhara.

Back in Samarkand, I had felt that parts of the past had been dressed up for visitors—sometimes restored to the point of fiction. But Bukhara feels different. If you look closely—inside an old caravanserai or at the faded script in a Jewish merchant’s home—you catch real, unscripted glimpses of the city’s deep-layered history.

Tomorrow, I continue my journey—to the very edge of Uzbekistan, to the walled city of Khiva, once the most notorious slave market in Central Asia.

So why was I in Uzbekistan?

Because I’ve always been drawn eastward—toward that glittering spine of trade, conquest, and culture known as the Silk Road. The name alone feels legendary. For centuries, this network of caravan routes and desert oases was the crossroads of empires—where Persian kings, Mongol warlords, Chinese monks, and Venetian merchants passed through in pursuit of power, faith, spices, and silk. And at the heart of it stood Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva—cities that sound less like real places and more like spells from some ancient book.

I wanted to see what was left. To stand in the ruins of what was once the center of the world—and follow in the footsteps of Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Marco Polo.

Just a century ago, reaching these cities would have meant weeks on camelback, bribing guards and praying you weren’t mistaken for a spy. Today? A sleek, high-speed train called the Afrosiyob carries travelers from Tashkent to Samarkand in just over two hours. It was on that train, at exactly 8:29 AM, that we pulled out of the capital. The landscape blurred past—ghosts of Soviet ambition giving way to open flatlands—as I began my own Silk Road journey.

We arrived in Samarkand right on time. So far, Uzbekistan’s infrastructure had left me impressed—clean, on-time trains, smooth rides, functional taxi apps. We hailed a cab using the local version of Uber, Yandex Go, for the 15-minute ride to our hotel. My knees were pressed against the glove compartment, but I didn’t mind—I was in Samarkand, the Jewel of the Silk Road.

As we neared the hotel, I caught my first distant glimpse of the Registan. Even through the car window, its turquoise domes and intricate facades stood out like something from a dream. Our hotel was nearly empty—tourism dips this time of year, which was good news for us. We were able to check in early, drop our bags, and head straight for the heart of the city.

Samarkand has worn many faces through the ages. It was once known as Maracanda, a thriving city that stunned even Alexander the Great when he arrived in the 4th century BCE. At the time, it was already ancient—a key stop along the trade routes connecting Persia and India. But that version of the city wouldn’t last. In the early 13th century, Genghis Khan swept through Central Asia with his Mongol armies and razed Samarkand almost completely. What stands today rose from those ashes. It was the 14th-century warlord Amir Timur—known in the West as Tamerlane—who rebuilt Samarkand as the capital of his empire. He envisioned it as a new cultural and political center of the Islamic world, commissioning madrasas, mosques, mausoleums, and gardens that drew the best artisans and scholars from as far as India and Anatolia.

Today, the grandest reminder of Timur’s ambition still stands at the city’s core. We walked just a few minutes and reached the entrance of the Registan—perhaps the most iconic landmark in all of Central Asia. Once the intellectual and spiritual heart of the Timurid Empire, this square was flanked by three monumental madrassas: Ulugh Beg, Sher-Dor, and Tilya-Kori. These Islamic schools of learning once drew scholars from across the Muslim world.

Each structure was massive and adorned in the famous blue and green tiles of the region, forming dizzying geometric patterns meant to mirror the heavens. Inside, the madrassas had serene courtyards surrounded by two stories of small chambers, many of which now functioned as souvenir shops or galleries.

I’d read an old travel blog that mentioned it was possible to climb one of the minarets—for a price. This wasn’t advertised, but with a little asking around, we were pointed to a small, unmarked door. A guard stood by, and after a bit of negotiation (80,000 som, about six dollars), we ducked through and began the climb.

The staircase wound tightly in near darkness—this was the old path the imam once took to issue the call to prayer. From the top of the minaret, Samarkand stretched out before us, the Registan square below and domes and arches piercing the horizon. This was the city that had once been the envy of the known world.

From the Registan, we walked through a quiet, tree-lined part of town, where although the air was still crisp, the sun slowly warmed my skin. We had come to Shah-i-Zinda—meaning Tomb of the Living King—a necropolis built into a narrow street lined with some of the most intricately tiled mausoleums in the Islamic world. The complex began in the 9th century and expanded over the next 800 years. We passed from one blue-domed building to the next, drawn in by the color, the calligraphy, and the veneration of those entombed.

Some critics call the restoration here too aggressive—“Disneyfied,” they say—and I understood the sentiment. In recent decades, the Uzbek government has undertaken ambitious restoration efforts to revive many of its Silk Road monuments, sometimes rebuilding entire facades with modern materials to match their imagined original form. While the intention may be to preserve national pride and boost tourism, it raises questions about authenticity—what is preserved, and what is recreated?

At the far end lay the tomb of Qutham ibn Abbas, said to be a cousin of the Prophet Muhammad. Inside, a little girl sang prayers as families sat on benches, lost in thought. We sat with them for a few minutes—something about the room demanded reverence.

On our way back, we stopped by the Siyob Bazaar, hoping to find something to eat. The stalls were piled high with colorful fruits and vegetables, a living link to the Silk Road’s mercantile past. Caravans once passed through Samarkand loaded with everything from Chinese silk to Persian saffron, and that legacy still pulses through its markets.

The next day, we began our exploration with the tomb of Amir Timur—widely revered in Uzbekistan as the father of the nation. It was a short walk from our hotel. Samarkand is a walkable city, even if its monuments aren’t grouped in a traditional “old town” layout.

Inside the mausoleum, we entered the main tomb chamber—an explosion of blue and gold. The walls were covered in ornate tiles, and the ceiling glowed with careful lighting that made the whole space feel almost weightless. In the center lay a polished black tombstone: Timur’s.

Timur—or Tamerlane—was one of history’s most ruthless conquerors. He led campaigns that killed millions, building towers of skulls and wiping cities off the map. While some conquerors destroyed to control, Timur seemed to revel in destruction for its own sake.

And yet here in Uzbekistan, he is celebrated. His statues loom over city squares. His face appears on currency. In a country still shaping its post-Soviet identity, Timur stands as a symbol of strength, sovereignty, and cultural pride. He may have been a butcher abroad, but in Samarkand, he’s remembered as a builder.

Local legend claims that Timur’s tomb bore a chilling warning: “Whoever disturbs my grave will unleash an invader more terrible than I.” In June 1941, Soviet archaeologists opened the crypt under Stalin’s orders. Just three days later, Hitler launched Operation Barbarossa—the largest invasion in the history of warfare.

The coincidence was too haunting to ignore. Stalin, reportedly spooked by the backlash and timing, ordered Timur’s remains returned to Samarkand. After a formal Islamic reburial, the tide of the war began to turn, culminating in the Soviet victory at Stalingrad.

From the tomb, we continued on to the Bibi-Khanym Mosque. This imposing structure can be seen from nearly every corner of Samarkand—its massive dome and entrance arch dominate the skyline. As we walked, the weather shifted. It was colder and windier than the day before, and I pulled my jacket tighter to try and keep warm.

We reached the entrance, and the scale of the mosque hit me all at once. It was staggering—probably the most impressive structure in all of Samarkand. The entrance portal alone towers nearly 40 meters high, and the main dome reaches 41 meters, supported by massive marble columns brought from India. Commissioned by Timur in the late 14th century after his campaign there, Bibi-Khanym was meant to be a statement: a mosque so grand it would rival anything in the world.

We wandered through the courtyard and into the few rooms that were open to visitors. Inside, there were photo displays showing what the mosque looked like before restoration—crumbling walls, faded tilework, missing domes. These images appear in several of Samarkand’s monuments, and they make you pause.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the restorations—though understandable—have gone too far. Many of these sites don’t look preserved; they look rebuilt. Instead of reinforcing the original structures and conserving the past, it feels like they’ve been reimagined into something shiny and new. And it doesn’t feel right.

Still, each place tells a story. At Bibi-Khanym, the legend is one of obsession and betrayal. As the tale goes, Timur commissioned the mosque while away on campaign, leaving his chief architect in charge. The architect, enchanted by Timur’s wife—or perhaps it was a favorite concubine or princess, depending on who tells it—fell in love with her. He refused to complete the mosque unless she allowed him a kiss. Desperate to see it finished before Timur’s return, she relented.

But when Timur arrived and learned what had happened, he was furious, and he ordered the architect executed. In Samarkand, tombs come with curses, mosques come with heartbreak, and necropolises come with a living king.

Overnight, a soft white layer blanketed the city, transforming Samarkand into something dreamlike. The temperature had dropped to twenty degrees, and even the drains from the gutters were frozen solid. Jet lag was still winning—I was now sleeping in two four-hour shifts—but I forced myself up for breakfast at 7 a.m. The kind woman who ran the small dining room already had our table set, just as she had every morning.

After eating, I bundled up and walked to the Registan one last time. No one was at the entrance yet—opening hours in Uzbekistan seem to be more of a suggestion than a rule—so I slipped through quietly. The square was empty. The domes and arches I had dreamed about for years now stood dusted with snow, their turquoise and gold softened under a pale morning sky.

Maintenance workers moved slowly across the courtyard, clearing the snow with small brooms and shovels. I walked gingerly across the icy stone, not wanting to slip, not wanting to disturb the stillness. The silence made everything feel more magical—like I had stepped into a forgotten moment in time.

Tomorrow, I follow the Silk Road a little farther west—to Bukhara, a city as old as time.

At the car rental return, an employee methodically inspected the vehicle. I did my best to appear calm, as if the last few days hadn’t involved dodging reckless drivers, unmarked speed bumps, and floods of mud. Finally, he nodded. All good. I felt triumphant—I had successfully driven over 600 miles in Tunisia and returned the car in more or less the same condition as when I had picked it up!

With my rental car gone, I was now at the mercy of taxis—the next challenge would be making sure I didn’t get ripped off. Fortunately, my first driver was honest, driving me to my hotel without issue. He spoke almost no English but was eager to chat, switching between French, hand gestures, and plenty of enthusiasm to tell me about his city.

I was dropped off at Bab el Bhar, the gate dividing old Tunis from the modern city. From there, I hurried into the labyrinth of the souk, my bag in hand—rolling it was impossible on the uneven cobblestones. Rainwater had pooled at the edges of the stone paths, forming narrow streams that ran through the alleys like miniature canals. Despite the hassle, nothing could dampen my mood—I had made it back to Tunis in one piece.

Eventually, I reached my hotel and dropped off my bags. My room wasn’t ready yet, so I set off to explore the surrounding streets. I was immediately struck by the quiet—some alleys were completely empty, an eerie contrast to the usual bustle of markets like these. And then, the beauty of the medina took me by surprise. I had expected charm, but this was something else. I had been to Istanbul, Jerusalem, Marrakech, and Cairo, but Tunis’s old city could hold its own against any of them. The arches, the hanging lanterns, and the doors—my god, the doors. Vivid blues and yellows, each one seemingly a portal to another world, painted with intricate geometric designs that stood out against the whitewashed walls.

The next day started off with a relaxed morning —there was no urgency to leave the hotel at the crack of dawn. A little after 9:30, I stepped out to find a taxi. The hotel offered a fixed rate of 20 dinars to the Bardo Museum, but I figured I could do better. Wandering a bit, I eventually flagged down a taxi. The driver was a big-bellied but kind man who once again spoke to me in a rapid mixture of French, Arabic, and enthusiastic miming—and to be honest, I wasn’t sure which one I understood the least. After a while, he gave up trying to talk and we sat in companionable silence. He reached into the depths of his enormous overcoat, pulled out a mint, unwrapped it, and tossed the wrapper on the floor without a second thought. Moments later, he produced another and, without a word, handed it to me. So far, every taxi driver I’d encountered had good-natured.

After just a few minutes, we arrived at the Bardo Museum. The driver attempted to pull into the entrance parking lot, which was blocked, hoping to drop me off right at the entrance. To convince the guards, he mentioned that I was American, perhaps thinking it would grant me special access. They barely glanced up, unimpressed—and why wouldn’t they be? It was no bother, though—I walked the length of the big, empty parking lot and made my way into the museum.

The Bardo Museum is Tunisia’s most prestigious museum and one of the most important in North Africa. Housed in a former palace, it holds one of the largest collections of Roman mosaics in the world, along with artifacts from Carthaginian, Punic, and Islamic periods. Walking through its halls is like tracing the country’s complex history—layer by layer, empire by empire.

Inside, I paid the small entrance fee and set off to explore. The first floor was interesting, but the second floor—that was mesmerizing. The sheer scale of the mosaics was shocking. Towering floor-to-ceiling, stretching across massive galleries, they looked like paintings from a distance—so vibrant, so detailed. Some were so well-preserved that they felt almost untouched by time.

My favorites were the animal depictions, the tales of Ulysses, Virgo, and the sweeping sea scenes. For the first time, I got a full sense of Roman culture beyond just the ruins—these intricate mosaics had once decorated the homes of wealthy patrons in El Jem, Dougga, Sousse, and beyond. I envied the archaeologists who had uncovered them, witnessing these masterpieces for the first time after hundreds, if not thousands, of years. They reminded me of Impressionism—up close, just a collection of tiny fragmented tesserae, but from a distance, a masterpiece. Absolutely stunning. One of the most aesthetically breathtaking museums I’ve ever visited.

As I ascended the stairs to the second floor, I passed a plaque dedicated to the victims of the 2015 attack—a reminder of the tragic events that unfolded here. On March 18, 2015, armed gunmen stormed the museum, killing 22 people, most of them foreign tourists. The attack, later claimed by ISIS, was one of the deadliest acts of terrorism in Tunisia’s recent history, striking at the heart of its cultural heritage.

Back in the center of Tunis, I wandered through the old market, browsing the endless stalls. While many shops were filled with cheap knock-offs, one stood out—a cramped space overflowing with dusty lanterns and antiques that could have been decades, if not centuries, old. It looked like something straight out of Diagon Alley.

Tunis’s old souks left a strong impression on me. Unlike the tourist-heavy markets I’ve visited elsewhere, this one was mostly locals, and vendors rarely hassled passersby. It was far larger than I expected—after two days of wandering, I still couldn’t find my way through it. I had really come to love this little city.

I was going to spend my last two days in Tunisia in Sidi Bou Said, a coastal suburb of Tunis. As per usual, my driver spoke only Arabic and French yet remained determined to chat with me for nearly the entire 45-minute ride. Honestly, this trend was starting to become quite endearing. When traffic slowed, he entertained himself by scrolling through YouTube, occasionally turning his phone toward me to share a particularly amusing dance video or a surreal AI-generated clip of Donald Trump.

I was dropped off on the outskirts of Sidi Bou Said, as the town itself is a pedestrian-only zone. Right away, I noticed that this was easily the most touristy place I had seen in Tunisia so far. Hawkers lined the streets, selling trinkets and souvenirs at inflated prices—several times what they would cost in the markets of Tunis. Men with falcons prowled the walkways, waiting for unsuspecting tourists so they could perch a bird on their shoulder and demand a tip for the impromptu photo op.

Yet, despite the crowds, Sidi Bou Said really was beautiful. Perched on cliffs high above the Mediterranean, it reminded me of Santorini—whitewashed walls, vivid blue doors and window frames, cascading flowers, and narrow alleyways leading to breathtaking viewpoints.

It’s said that during the Spanish Inquisition, many refugees from Spain—both Muslims and Jews—fled to North Africa, seeking tolerance under Ottoman rule. Some of them settled in Sidi Bou Said, bringing with them Andalusian architecture and traditions that shaped the town into the picturesque enclave it is today. Many of those who found refuge here were artists, drawn to the dramatic coastal landscape and the inspiration it provided.

My day was spent wandering through the town’s backstreets, where the tourist buzz faded into quiet solitude the farther I walked. I stopped often—sometimes to admire the intricate blue doors, other times to gaze at the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean, stretching endlessly toward the distant mountains. At some point, I grabbed a bambalouni—a fried, sugar-coated donut, still piping hot from the oil.

I was ending my journey with the story of ancient Carthage—a city that had once stood as Rome’s greatest rival, only to be reduced to ashes. I wanted to see the ruins in an order that traced its rise and fall, from its legendary beginnings to its final transformation under Roman rule.

I started at Byrsa Hill, the heart of Carthage’s foundation. This was where Queen Dido, fleeing from Tyre, was said to have tricked a local king into giving her land—claiming she would take only as much as an oxhide could cover, only to cut the hide into strips and encircle an entire hilltop. Whether myth or reality, this was where Carthage took root and grew into a naval and trading empire, a power that would one day stand against Rome itself.

But standing there, I knew I wasn’t looking at Punic Carthage anymore. That city had been wiped off the map, its people slaughtered or enslaved, its soil cursed by the Romans and allegedly sown with salt. The ruins beneath my feet were Roman, built nearly a century after Carthage’s destruction, when Rome resurrected the city—not as a rival, but as a symbol of its dominance. To imagine Carthage in its prime required peeling back the layers of history and seeing what was no longer there.

From Byrsa Hill, I walked down toward the Ports of Carthage, once the lifeblood of the empire. The city had not one, but two harbors—one for merchants, one for the navy—holding over 200 warships at its height, ready to challenge the Mediterranean’s superpowers. This was where Hannibal’s fleet had once set sail, where goods flowed in from across the ancient world. Now, it was a small, silent lagoon, barely hinting at its past greatness. I tried to picture the scene as it had once been—masts towering, sailors shouting, the air thick with the scent of trade and conquest—but now, the water barely rippled.

I continued to the Tophet of Carthage, a place the Romans claimed was evidence of the Carthaginians’ cruelty. According to them, the city’s elites sacrificed their own children, burning them as offerings to the gods—a claim that helped justify Rome’s total destruction of Carthage. But was it true? Some historians believe the site was merely a cemetery for infants, while others argue it was indeed a place of ritual sacrifice, used in times of desperation. The truth is buried with the ruins. The site itself offers no answers—only rows of weathered stone markers, standing like silent witnesses to an ancient, unresolved past.

From there, I walked thirty minutes to the Cisterns of La Malga, a vast network of Roman water reservoirs that once supplied Carthage with fresh water. Fed by aqueducts stretching across the countryside, these massive stone structures stored the city's lifeblood, ensuring its survival. Now, they stood crumbling and forgotten, a relic of Rome’s reshaping of Carthage. Over the centuries, they had been repurposed—at one point, Arab families even lived inside them, carving out homes within the ancient walls. Carthage had been rebuilt, reused, and eroded in cycles, its ruins shifting with time.

I was exhausted from walking, so I flagged down a taxi to my final stop: the Antonine Baths. If Carthage had once been a rival to Rome, these baths were Rome’s way of making sure no one forgot who had won. They were the largest in Africa, the third-largest in the entire empire, designed to project power—a place where Roman governors and elites could luxuriate by the Mediterranean, soaking in the spoils of conquest.

Today, much of the structure is gone, its stones quarried to build other cities, its grandeur buried beneath time. What remains is mostly underground—the service tunnels where slaves once toiled, keeping the waters heated for their Roman masters. But as I stood there, facing the sea, I could still imagine what it must have looked like. Where Carthage had once stood defiant, Rome had built a monument to its victory. The city had risen again, but not as its former self. Its identity had been erased and rewritten.

I took one last look at the ruins before leaving. Carthage had once ruled the waves, defied empires, and nearly brought Rome to its knees. But history is written by the victors. The very waters stretching before me had once carried Hannibal, one of the greatest generals the world has ever known—a man whose rise seemed inevitable, a man who legendarily marched elephants across the Alps to shatter Roman legions. And still, in the end, it hadn’t been enough.

Empires believe themselves eternal, but power is fleeting. Carthage was razed, its culture nearly erased, its name reduced to a footnote in Rome’s story. Yet, for a time, it stood unmatched, challenging the world’s mightiest superpower. As I gazed at the tranquil Mediterranean, I couldn’t help but wonder—what great power stands today, convinced of its own permanence, only to face the same fate?

At a checkpoint, a police officer armed with a large gun flagged me down. After scrutinizing my rental agreement, he launched into a mix of Arabic and French. We stumbled through a few rounds of mutual confusion before he waved me off, uninterested. From the looks of it, rental cars were the cops' prime targets – perhaps we were guilty of the ultimate crime: using a turn signal.

The highway itself eventually abandoned all pretense of structure – no lane markings, no rules. It became a dusty free-for-all racetrack. Yet, as I left the dryness of Tunis behind, the scenery began to shift. Green hills rose on either side of the road, dotted with shrubs, and the road smoothed out. Either the drivers mellowed out, or I was finally learning to navigate the chaos. Vendors dotted the highway’s edges, hawking their wares. Some intrepid sellers even stationed themselves at tollbooths, peddling everything from fresh produce to birds in tiny cages – what an impulse buy that must be, picking up a pet bird at a tollbooth with your spare change. After two and a half hours of some of the most stressful driving, I got to Sousse, a city on the Mediterranean, which I would use as my base for the next three days.

I had come to Tunisia for one reason: to uncover its ancient history. North Africa is home to some of the most impressive Roman ruins in the world, and over the next few days, I planned to explore this remarkable heritage. The next morning, I set out for the town of El Jem, my excitement growing as I approached. In the distance, I caught a glimpse of something extraordinary rising above the rooftops—a structure that hinted at Tunisia’s storied past. The narrow, whitewashed streets forced me to stay focused, as scooters darted unpredictably and pedestrians wove through the chaos. This sunbaked, unassuming town holds one of the greatest archaeological treasures in the world.

This was the amphitheater of El Jem – an exceptionally well-preserved, 2,000-year-old monumental stone stadium that ranks among the largest of its kind in the world. Built during the height of the Roman Empire, it could hold up to 35,000 spectators. I entered the site for just 12 dinars – less than four dollars – and found myself nearly alone. Arriving just a couple of hours after it opened, I was surprised to see no more than five other visitors wandering this remarkable place.

Passing through a series of massive arches, I stepped into the arena. On my right was the tiered seating, once occupied by the citizens of ancient Rome, while on my left were the weathered yet still impressive supporting structures of the amphitheater. I took a seat in the ancient stands, imagining the throngs of spectators who must have gathered here centuries ago. In the arena was a fighter, like Russell Crowe in Gladiator, slaying his enemies and roaring to the onlookers, “Are you not entertained?!” Afterward, I ventured into the nooks and crannies of the supporting walls, climbing three or four levels. Incredibly, nearly every part of the amphitheater was accessible – almost nothing was sealed off or restricted.

I couldn’t believe how well-preserved this amphitheater was. Honestly, I think it looks like it’s in better condition than the Colosseum in Rome. It’s a testament to Roman engineering and one of the most impressive sites I’ve ever visited. Descending into the basement, I found dark enclaves that must have once held animals for gladiatorial combat. The fact that you can explore every corner of this place is astounding – and I did!

With great reluctance, I left this extraordinary site and navigated through the maze-like streets of El Jem before setting off for my next destination – Kairouan. The journey took me through several rural villages, where boys stood by the roadside, trying to flag down cars to hitchhike home after school. Along the way, I passed butcher shops with carcasses of sheep and camels hanging beside live animals tethered nearby. The sight was heartbreaking – the fate of the livestock already sealed.

Driving in Tunisia remained a challenge. The speed bumps were practically invisible, their paint long worn away, blending into the roads until the last moment. The erratic driving continued – no turn signals, sudden stops, and cars inexplicably speeding up and slowing down. As I approached Kairouan, piles of trash littered the outskirts, where a shepherd was poking his staff through the rubbish.

The closer I got to the city, the heavier the traffic became. Worn out from the chaotic roads, I decided to park on the edge of the city rather than attempt to navigate the bustling interior. From there, I walked the fifteen minutes to the walled old town, leaving the noise and congestion behind as I ventured into a different world.

Kairouan is the 4th holiest city in Islam, one of the first Islamic cities established in North Africa and a vital center for the spread of Islam across the region. Its most important landmark is the Great Mosque of Kairouan. I followed the path along the old city walls until I reached the mosque. I entered through the side door, paid a small ticket fee, and stepped into the mosque’s vast courtyard. The sand-colored structure resembled a fortress. As a non-Muslim, I wasn’t permitted inside the prayer hall, but I explored as much of the site as I could.

Leaving the Great Mosque, I wandered through the medina – an incredibly picturesque maze of little streets, empty and free of tourists. The whitewashed walls provided a much-needed respite from the heat that had been building near the mosque. The silence was broken only occasionally by the rumble of a scooter or motorcycle passing by. The main market was calm and unassuming; no one tried to hassle or sell me anything. Among the stalls, I noticed beautiful handcrafted metalwork and the renowned carpets for which Kairouan is famous. This sleepy little town truly evokes a bygone era, and I can see why it was chosen as a filming location for Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Back in Sousse, I was tired from a long day of driving but made my way to the old ribat, which was surrounded by the town’s busy bazaar. This ancient fortified monastery, once used to defend the coastline and house devout warriors, is one of the oldest examples of its kind in North Africa. Architecturally, it was fairly modest, but the views from the top of the tower were incredible. From there, I could see the ocean, Sousse’s massive port, and the old town spreading toward the kasbah. I sat at the top of the tower, taking in the views as the day came to an end.

I downed two coffees for breakfast the next day as I prepared for the three-hour drive into the interior of Tunisia. I was having a real mental debate about whether I should drive this far, given my experience with the drivers and roads so far. But when given an option – always say yes to an adventure. The first thirty minutes of the drive took me along a promenade that roughly paralleled the coastline. There were plenty of active people out – runners and cyclists – before I veered onto the Trans-African Highway, a network of roads that will hopefully one day connect Africa from north to south and east to west. The tarmac was pristine, a glimpse of what could be, and I couldn’t help but hope that a connected Africa might someday become a reality.

I was broken from this reverie by a mistake I made with the navigation – I had almost certainly detoured from the intended route. After that, the road conditions began to deteriorate. From well-paved highways, I found myself on local roads that wound through towns, villages, and rural stretches of the country. I passed many dusty beige settlements where hooded figures gave me unsmiling, quizzical looks, likely wondering why a rental car was in such remote parts. Local shepherds in dark brown cloaks, with hoods drawn up, waved their staffs at their herds of sheep. They looked exactly like Jawas from Star Wars in their long, tattered robes, built to shield them from the desert’s harshness.

Street dogs wandered aimlessly, and fields of trash marked the outskirts of settlements. Donkey carts and massive tractors, with wheels that seemed bigger than my car, shared the road. Occasionally, someone would be selling the famed Tunisian oranges, their vibrant color glowing almost otherworldly against the muted tones of the towns. Then there were the axle-crushing, soul-wrenching speed bumps, and the dusty ‘Isuzu’ trucks clogging the lanes, often piled high with sheep or goats in the back. All the vehicles bore a layer of dirt, while mopeds and motorcycles zipped unpredictably from shoulder to road and back, following their own rules. Every so often, a car would stop abruptly in the middle of the road so the driver could chat with a friend.

Amid this chaos, a car flashed its lights at me. A few moments later, I rolled up to the police checkpoint the driver had been signaling about. The officer greeted me with a salute and asked where I was headed. As I reached over to grab my documents, he asked if I could give his friend a ride – a civilian, mind you, who was already halfway to my car with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Politely, I declined, and with a shrug from the officer, I was on my way.

Clouds soon rolled in, covering the once-sunny sky, and eventually, heavy rain began to pour. Fortunately, by the time I reached my destination, the weather had started to clear. The landscape grew greener as I drove further, and on the final stretch – a steep, slippery hill – my car struggled for grip. At last, though, I arrived at Dougga.

On the outcrop lay a maze of ruins, with one Roman temple standing proudly, its Corinthian columns remarkably intact. This was ancient Thugga, one of North Africa’s best-preserved Roman cities and a UNESCO World Heritage site. It was a thriving settlement blending Roman, Punic, and Berber influences, and a testament to the empire's reach into the region. I made my way up the slope to the ruins, slipping occasionally on the muddy path. As I approached the temple, the wind and light rain forced me to take cover behind large stones. But here I was—inside a massive, ancient Roman temple, standing tall two thousand years after its construction. Alone in this historic space, I found myself marveling at the weathered Roman inscriptions carved into the stones. This was incredible.

From a distance, the site of Dougga looks like a sprawling field of rubble, as if bombed during a war. But up close, it’s an archaeological treasure trove. I left the temple and followed the slippery stones of an ancient Roman road, imagining the footsteps of Dougga’s citizens as they made their way to the theater for a night of entertainment. The theater itself was an engineering marvel. It’s said to have had an echo system that allowed the actors to hear prompts for their lines without the audience noticing. From there, I ventured into an underground passageway, dim and mysterious, which led me to a bathhouse. These passageways were once used by slaves to service the baths and other parts of the town. Despite the rainwater, I could still make out stunning mosaics with intricate geometric patterns, the colors of the tesserae still vibrant. Scattered around were headless statues, likely looted long ago and taken to museums in Europe.

Next, I visited the largest house in the area, thought to be either a grand villa or perhaps a brothel, with the many small rooms sparking debate. Nearby, I found the public latrine. Twelve stone seats were arranged in a semicircle with a small channel running in front of them. In ancient times, this channel carried water where citizens would dip sponges attached to sticks for cleaning themselves after doing their business. The wealthy, of course, had their own personal sticks—true luxury in the Roman world.

Exploring this small Roman town left my heart full. I had climbed over the walls of house after house, feeling like a true adventurer, uncovering fragments of the past at every turn. This is the pinnacle of travel for me—Tunisia truly overflows with wonders. Even the mayhem on the roads couldn’t dampen my mood after this visit—I drove back to Sousse with a vigor that would make any Tunisian driver proud.

Every new country comes with things to sort out as soon as you land, and Korea was no exception. My first priorities were exchanging currency and picking up a T-Money card – similar to Japan’s Suica card, an all-in-one pass for subways and convenience stores. From Incheon Airport, a 40-minute express train took me to Seoul Station, followed by a short ride to Myeongdong – the district I’d call home for the next few days.

The airport and express train gleamed with modernity, but the subway system felt just a bit weathered – not quite as sleek as Tokyo’s. It was hard not to compare, especially since I’d been in Tokyo just that morning. Nearly everyone on the subway was glued to their phones – a reminder that Korea is one of the most connected countries in the world. This obsession even shapes infrastructure: at pedestrian crossings, red and green lights are at ground level to guide those staring at their screens.

From the station, I dragged my bags up a steep hill, trying to locate my Airbnb. Google Maps doesn’t function fully in South Korea due to national security policies stemming from the ongoing tension with North Korea. The two countries are still technically at war, and subtle reminders of this are everywhere – like the cabinets of gas masks in subway stations, ready in case of an attack. To navigate, I used Naver, a Korean app that took some getting used to but added a sense of adventure to the trip.

After a quick coffee break at a nearby café – a staple of Korean culture, with cafés seemingly on every street offering everything from specialty brews to decadent desserts – I made my way to the cable car heading up to Namsan Park. This vast green space in the heart of Seoul is home to the iconic N Seoul Tower and provides a stunning vantage point to take in the city’s scale and beauty.

As the cable car climbed, the buzz of the city faded, replaced by tree-lined trails and sweeping views of Seoul’s endless skyline. At the top, I was greeted by a breathtaking panorama: mountain peaks stretched out in every direction, surrounding clusters of silver and white buildings packed tightly into the valleys below. The sheer size of the urban sprawl was overwhelming, easily one of the largest I’d ever seen. When the sun set, the city transformed. Neon signs and glowing windows lit up the skyline, bathing it in a vibrant glow.

I followed the glowing lights back down the mountain to the bustling Myeongdong Night Market. The energy was intense – street food stalls lined the center of the road, flanked by stores and vendors on either side, all competing for attention. Unlike Tokyo, where street food markets are rare, this felt distinctly Korean and full of life.

Vegetarian options, however, were limited. I managed to find a crispy potato snack dusted with cheese seasoning and a sweet red bean-filled taiyaki. Speaking of food – everything seemed to lean sweet, turning meals into a real challenge. I try to be as open-minded as possible within the confines of being a vegetarian, but as the days passed, I grew tired of the constant sweetness in the few things I could find to eat. Garlic bread? Sweet. Doritos? Sweet. Even Ritz crackers? Sweet. It was a relentless pattern that left me desperate for something – anything – to break the cycle. Personally, I found Korea to be the most challenging country I have visited so far food-wise.

The shops in Myeongdong stay open late, often until 10 PM, offering everything from Western brands to an excessive number of sock stores. But the real stars of the show are the cosmetic stores, a testament to Korea’s globally renowned beauty culture. Known as K-beauty, this industry has taken the world by storm with its focus on innovation, multi-step skincare routines, and a societal emphasis on achieving a flawless, ‘glass-like’ appearance. Olive Young, often described as Korea’s version of Sephora, buzzes with activity, packed with (mostly) women shopping with a fervor reminiscent of Black Friday in America. Beyond general skincare stores, there are shops dedicated to specifics like colored contacts and cosmetic accessories.

It’s impossible to ignore how central appearance is to life in Korea. People casually sport nose-job bandages, under-eye strips, and, on the subway, I noticed many women openly checking their reflections in the glass.

The next day, I left Seoul’s modern districts to explore its ancient history. I took a train to Changdeokgung Palace, one of five royal palaces from the Joseon Dynasty, which ruled Korea for over five centuries and shaped much of the country’s cultural identity. It was a drizzly, gray morning as I arrived at this UNESCO World Heritage Site. Entering through its imposing gate, I wandered through a sprawling complex of red and green buildings with gracefully sloping roofs. The layout reminded me of Beijing’s Forbidden City, with its many halls and courtyards, but what made it uniquely Seoul was my favorite feature of the city – the ever-present mountain peaks framing the backdrop.

My favorite part of the visit was the Secret Garden, a secluded retreat within the palace grounds. Featuring lotus ponds, pavilions, lawns, and flowering trees, it felt like stepping into a Claude Monet painting. I enjoyed capturing the reflections in the still waters of the ponds, where nature and architecture seemed perfectly in harmony.

Right outside the palace is a traditional neighborhood where alleyways are lined with hanok-style buildings – traditional Korean houses made from natural materials like wood and stone. Many of these beautifully preserved homes have been transformed by enterprising owners into cafés and boutiques. After my visit to the palace, I stepped into one such café, Cafe Onion. Its wooden roof and warm, minimalist interior were inviting. True to tradition, I had to take off my shoes to eat, as seating was on the floor.

At dawn the next day, I began my tour to the DMZ. I boarded a blue bus conveniently marked “DMZ Tour,” and as we left Seoul, the early morning fog draped the Han River, creating an eerie stillness. Our guide, Kenny, started providing background on the Korean Demilitarized Zone – a name that couldn’t be more misleading. Far from being demilitarized, it is the most fortified border in the world, with over 2 million landmines, 750,000 North Korean soldiers, 450,000 South Korean soldiers, and 20,000 American soldiers stationed nearby.

Tensions have spiked recently. Since last May, North Korea has sent thousands of balloons filled with trash and excrement in retaliation for South Korean propaganda balloons. Just the day before my visit to the DMZ, North Koreans blew up sections of symbolic inter-Korean infrastructure in a display of aggression following reported drone incursions above Pyongyang.

Korea was a unified kingdom as early as 688, isolated as a “hermit kingdom” until great power intervention reshaped its fate. The peninsula became a strategic pawn during the Sino-Japanese and Russo-Japanese Wars, ultimately falling under Japanese occupation in 1910. During this time, many heritage sites were destroyed or damaged, and much of what remains today has been carefully restored, not original. I couldn’t help but mourn the voiceless pieces of Korea’s past, lost to the ambitions of imperial powers.

After Korea’s liberation from Japanese occupation in 1945, the peninsula faced an uncertain future. The Japanese had ruled Korea with an iron grip, stripping the country of its resources, suppressing its culture, and forcibly assimilating its people. With Japan’s defeat in World War II, Korea was freed, but its fate was decided by outside powers rather than by Koreans themselves. The Soviet Union occupied the North, while the United States occupied the South, dividing the peninsula along the 38th parallel – an arbitrary line chosen at the Potsdam Conference. Koreans had no say in this decision, which set the stage for decades of conflict.

What followed was a political and ideological struggle as both sides claimed to be the legitimate government of a unified Korea. The North, under Kim Il-sung, aligned with the Soviet Union and later China, while the South, led by Syngman Rhee, allied with the United States and other Western powers. Tensions boiled over in 1950 when North Korean forces, backed by the Soviet Union, launched a surprise invasion of the South, igniting the Korean War.

The war was brutal and devastating, claiming the lives of 5 million people, half of them civilians. Entire cities were reduced to rubble, and families were torn apart as the fighting raged across the peninsula. The conflict eventually ended in 1953 with an armistice, not a peace treaty, leaving Korea technically still at war. The Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) was established along the ceasefire line, solidifying the division that persists to this day.

As Kenny continued recounting Korea’s history, I watched birds soaring overhead, blissfully indifferent to the manmade borders below. Our first stop was Imjingak, a park filled with somber reminders of separation – a train frozen in time, sculptures of sisters reunited, and stories of families torn apart by the division. I bought some North Korean currency here, a rare find due to U.S. embargoes.

From there, we entered the Civilian Control Area, a buffer zone that restricts civilian access to regions near the Demilitarized Zone. The increased military presence was noticeable – armored cars and trucks dotted the roads, and soldiers in camouflage uniforms stood watch. Two young guards, likely no older than twenty, boarded our bus to check passports.

Afterward, we visited the Third Infiltration Tunnel, one of four known tunnels (there are thought to be up to twenty more undiscovered) dug by North Korea in an attempt to launch surprise attacks on the South. Discovered in 1978, this tunnel stretches over 1,600 meters (1 mile) and was designed to move 30,000 troops per hour, complete with weapons. Walking through it was a unique experience – and not an easy one. The path sloped steeply downhill, and we were given hardhats to protect our heads from the low, uneven ceiling. The tight, dimly lit space combined the discomfort of exploring Egypt’s pyramids with the claustrophobia of salt mines in Poland.

Just five minutes from the tunnel, we arrived at the most impactful experience of my trip to Korea. From an observatory on a small hill, I caught my first glimpse into North Korea. The observatory had been closed for several months, but fortunately – and somewhat puzzlingly – it was open despite the heightened tensions following North Korea’s destruction of inter-Korean roads just the day before. The outdoor rooftop was still closed due to the supposed risk of sniper fire, though I’m not sure how realistic that threat truly was. We were ushered to the top floor, where I had a rare and haunting view into the most isolated country in the world.

From the window, I saw a green landscape with distant hills and mountains beyond a river. On the left, faint smoke rose, likely from a farmer’s fire. On the right, near a massive flagpole, stood what South Koreans call a ‘Propaganda Village’ – a hollow, artificial city meant to project vitality where none exists. Its buildings are said to be empty shells, with fake windows and facades. For me, though, the most striking sight was a city in the distance, shimmering white in the afternoon light. This was Kaesong, North Korea’s third-largest city, just 10 or 15 miles away. I strained my eyes, hoping to see movement – cars, people, anything – but there was nothing. Just stillness.

As I stood there, I couldn’t shake the weight of the injustice before me. Beyond this heavily fortified border are farmers and families living under absolute oppression, without freedom or access to basic necessities. Meanwhile, I sat in a café in the observatory, sipping sparkling grapefruit juice imported from Australia. It was a stark and jarring juxtaposition, a cruel reminder of the world’s deep inequalities, and a contrast that left me unsettled.

Seeing the DMZ with my own eyes made it impossible to ignore the fragility of global stability. There are too many flashpoints in the world, and as I stood on the edge of one, it was clear that until these divides are addressed, true peace will remain elusive.

My remaining days in Korea took on a lighter note. As I mentioned earlier, Korea is world-renowned for its cosmetics and skincare, so for the sake of the culture, I decided to step into that world – an area far outside my comfort zone, where I felt both awkward and nervous. My first foray was a 15-step Korean scalp treatment, famed for its ability to rejuvenate hair like nothing else. The process took an hour and a half, beginning with a microscopic scalp analysis. If you’ve ever had any shred of ego about your hair, this will promptly destroy it. To my dismay, the analysis revealed that my hair was thinner and my scalp far more built-up than I’d imagined. Once my self-esteem was sufficiently shattered, the treatment began. It included a series of steps involving brushes, steamers, specialized solutions, and even a miniature waterfall to rinse my hair. By the end, a second analysis revealed a noticeable transformation – my scalp looked refreshed, and my hair revitalized.

The next day, it was my skin’s turn – an experience I dreaded even more. I imagine the population of Korea would be collectively horrified at how little effort I’ve put into skincare over the years. Like the scalp treatment, this session started with an analysis, including a calculation of my ‘Skin Age.’ Predictably, my skin age was several years older than my actual age. The analysis also covered pores, wrinkles, pigmentation, radiance, and more – all in painstaking detail. Based on the results, the doctor recommended a simple facial, sparing me the mention of the more intensive treatments that many visitors come here for at a fraction of the cost compared to the U.S. Despite my embarrassment, the facial was surprisingly relaxing. It felt indulgent in a way I wasn’t used to, and in the moment, I was inspired to take better care of myself.

My time in Seoul felt different from my usual travels. I wasn’t ticking off landmarks or chasing itineraries; instead, I spent my days sitting in cafes, wandering through night markets, stepping into the world of Korean skincare and haircare, and trying to grasp the rhythms of life here. Despite the short time I spent there, I tried to understand the culture as best I could.

Still, my visit to the DMZ stood out as the most profound moment of my trip. It was impossible not to reflect on the invisible line dividing a shared people – a nation bound by history, yet torn apart by it. If the South alone has created global icons like Samsung, LG, and Hyundai, the potential of a united Korea is exciting to imagine. Reuniting the peninsula would unlock possibilities far beyond what we can envision today.

I began my trip by stepping away from Tokyo’s relentless energy, opting for a day trip to Kamakura, a former imperial capital. Still shaking off the fatigue from travel, I wasn’t ready to plunge into the chaos of the world’s largest city. Kamakura offered a quieter pace—a chance to ease into the trip and take in the enduring charm of Japan’s historic traditions.

Leaving the Airbnb, I walked to the train station closest to my apartment—Shin-Okubo—and was immediately reminded why I loved this country. Workers were doing construction and had partially blocked the road. As I passed, they bowed—a gesture of respect even to a total stranger. At the station, I picked up a Suica Card, the all-in-one pass for everything from trains to vending machines to convenience stores. From Shin-Okubo, I boarded the green line to Shinagawa, where a cheerful, high-pitched voice announced the stops along the way.

On the ride, I couldn’t help but admire how seamlessly Japanese culture keeps everything running. Passengers lined up in orderly queues, allowing everyone to exit the subway before stepping in—a small courtesy that felt almost alien after years experiencing the New York subway. From Shinagawa, I switched lines to a train bound for Kamakura, about 50 minutes south of Tokyo. The ride took me through suburban neighborhoods, where balconies lined with fluttering laundry offered a glimpse into everyday life.

Kamakura Station felt smaller than Tokyo’s sprawling hubs but was just as tidy and organized. Stepping out, I understood why this city remains a popular tourist destination. Once the seat of Japan’s first shogunate (military government), Kamakura’s now peaceful streets and historic sites offer a striking contrast to Tokyo’s modern dynamism.

I had mapped out a few shrines and sights to visit. From the station, I walked about ten minutes down Komachi-dori Street, a narrow lane lined with shops and restaurants. The area had a distinctly traditional feel, reminiscent of Kyoto and Nara—the two other historic capitals I visited on my previous trip. Artisanal shops specialized in everything from jewelry to pet goods and scented items, creating a cozy and inviting atmosphere. Unable to resist the shops selling sweets, I tried some candied grapes and cherry blossom-flavored confectioneries.

Leaving behind the pull of the shops, I made my way to Tsurugaoka Hachimangū, the most important Shinto shrine in Kamakura. Dedicated to Hachiman, the Shinto god of war and samurai, its entrance was marked by a towering red torii gate—a symbol of Shintoism. Beyond the gate, I passed small ponds and an arched bridge, watching the red structures rise in layers against the greenery. Even on the grounds, vendors had set up stalls selling snacks like French fries and churros.

I wandered through the various buildings, gates, and shrines, their deeper meanings and symbolism lost on me, though I admired the traditional architecture. Locals came to pray, some dressed in formal attire, reminding me of American families attending church on Sundays.

After some time exploring, I returned to the main station and took a five-minute ride on an old-timey green train to Hase, a suburb of Kamakura. I had come to see a famous statue of Buddha, though it quickly became clear this was no hidden gem—Western tourists were everywhere. On the walk to the Buddha, I passed small streets lined with shops, each one immaculately kept.

As I entered the grounds of Kōtoku-in Temple, the Great Buddha of Kamakura came into view even from a distance. This bronze statue, towering over 13 meters tall, dates back to 1252 and once resided inside a great hall. Although the building was destroyed by a tsunami, the Buddha miraculously survived and has been sitting contemplatively in the open air ever since.

I circled around the Great Buddha’s slightly hunched frame, noticing the fresh flowers laid at its base—a quiet reminder of its spiritual significance. I was even able to step inside the hollow interior. Despite the mild weather outside, the space felt stiflingly hot and humid, like a sauna, with the metal walls warm to the touch.

After spending time with the Great Buddha, I delved deeper into Kamakura's spiritual landscape by visiting Hase-dera Temple. This temple stood out for its diverse features: koi ponds, bamboo groves, zen gardens, and mysterious caves lined with small shrines to gods depicted as tiny statues the size of chess pieces. The temple's golden statue of Kannon, standing nearly 10 meters tall, is one of the largest wooden sculptures in Japan.

According to legend, about 1,300 years ago, two Kannon statues were carved from a sacred tree. One was enshrined at a temple in Nara, while the other was cast into the sea with prayers that it would reappear and bring salvation to people elsewhere. After a 15-year journey across the waters, the statue finally washed ashore and was brought to Kamakura. In 736, Hase-dera Temple was established to enshrine this miraculous statue.

After taking it all in, I felt the early symptoms of what I call “temple fatigue.” Much like the “church and palace fatigue” of Europe, visiting too many shrines in one go can dull the magic. I slowly made my way back to Tokyo, only to be thrust into the chaos of rush hour. The train was packed to its limit—all I saw were arms grasping the green handles in a sea of bodies. Even the famously polite Japanese crowd tested my patience. I breathed a sigh of relief as I reached Shibuya and escaped the train. Seeing the famous crossing—a symphony of crisscrossing paths lit by neon signs—felt electric. What a world away from the serene atmosphere of Kamakura.

Japan isn’t an early-rising country, so I took my time the next morning and headed back to Shibuya for coffee. Train stations in Japan are like miniature cities, with multiple floors of shops and restaurants, and Shibuya Station—the largest in the world—is no exception. Cell service can be spotty, and even when it works, you have to follow the exit instructions on maps carefully to avoid costly detours. Needless to say, I couldn’t find the coffee shop I was looking for, but I eventually got my oat milk latte. Dairy-free coffees in Japan are incredible—perhaps born out of necessity, given how many Japanese are lactose intolerant.

I spent the day exploring Shibuya, which I’ve come to realize is my favorite district in Tokyo. Even browsing seemingly mundane places like shopping malls and parks felt exciting—signs in a language I can’t read, technologies unfamiliar back home, and the nuances of a completely different culture. Recently, I’ve found myself feeling a little jaded with European travel, and I’m convinced the antidote for that is a trip to Asia.

I don’t enjoy shopping at home, but in Tokyo, even that feels like a novelty. My favorite stop is always Uniqlo, which in Japan is incredibly affordable. With the dollar strong against the yen and a generous tax discount for foreigners who show their passport, I managed to get half a wardrobe for less than a hundred dollars. The checkout process is unlike anything I’ve seen—you place your basket on the counter, and the system reads all the prices automatically. Living in the future!

Department stores are just as fascinating. I browsed household items like knives, cutting mats, and more. There’s an inherent trust in the quality of Japanese products—it’s hard not to buy when you know they’ll last for years. Eventually, my bag became too heavy, and I stopped at a restaurant in the dimly lit basement of what seemed to be a shopping mall. Space is at such a premium in Tokyo that buildings are designed vertically, with floors hosting an eclectic mix of shops, restaurants, and offices—all coexisting seamlessly.

Before collapsing from jet lag at 8 PM, I jotted down a few things I love about Japan:

1. Color coding: Everything is thoughtfully categorized and labeled, adding clarity and ease to daily life.

2. Silence is golden: Public spaces, especially trains, are so quiet.

3. Clean public bathrooms: They’re everywhere, immaculately maintained, and most often equipped with bidets.

4. Orderly train etiquette: People allow others to exit before boarding and line up in an orderly way.

5. Vending machines: Conveniently everywhere, offering water, coffee, and more, 24/7—no need to drive or take the train when you need something at any hour of the day.

6. Directional flow: People stick to the left for going up and the right for going down—no chaos.

7. Thoughtful bag storage: Little baskets or trays are provided to keep your belongings clean. For example, if you’re dining at a restaurant, you don’t have to place your backpack or purse on the floor—there’s always a designated spot to keep it tidy and off the ground.

8. No shoes indoors: Even Airbnbs provide special slippers to maintain cleanliness.

9. Respect: As I mentioned before, construction workers bow to passersby, and transactions are handled with care—money is placed on trays, and items are handed over with two hands. These small gestures reflect an incredible respect that permeates daily life.

10. Care and precision in everything: From bubble wrapping at stores to any small action, every task is done with care and attention—a hallmark of Japan’s high-quality culture.

I spent the next day exploring more of Tokyo—wandering through Shinjuku and Harajuku, neighborhoods brimming with their own quirks and attractions. The whole time, one nagging thought kept running through my mind: "Why can’t we have this in America?" Japan, a high-functioning, democratic country, demonstrates how thoughtful design and cultural values can shape daily life. There’s no need to reinvent the wheel—so much here just works.

What strikes me most is that these behaviors aren’t enforced by police or rules but are ingrained in the culture itself. People line up, stay quiet on the subway, and respect shared spaces without being told. Yet, Japan is a largely homogenous society, with over 97% of the population ethnically Japanese. In the United States—a melting pot of nearly every nationality in the world—can we ever hope to instill this level of cohesion and mutual respect? I want to believe it’s possible, but I’m not sure.

When people ask me about my favorite place in the world, it’s a question I struggle to answer—Switzerland for its breathtaking nature, Turkey and Jerusalem for their deep, layered histories. But Japan stands apart. It isn’t just a place to visit; it’s a lesson in what society can achieve when respect, care, and order are at its core. If you’re searching for inspiration—not just as a traveler, but as a citizen of the world—Japan is where you’ll find it.

With the rugged Dingle Peninsula behind me, I set off southeast to Killarney, passing through small towns on my way to Muckross Abbey, an old, abandoned monastery tucked into the pastoral backdrop. About an hour and a half later, I arrived at the entrance, where jaunting drivers waited with their horse-drawn carriages.

I, however, chose the short walk along the quiet paths and soon spotted the outline of the medieval building in the distance on my right. A walkway snaked around it, leading me to the entrance. In the courtyard, a towering yew tree spiraled skyward, its gnarled trunk like something out of Tolkien’s world. I wandered through the hallways with their faded ceilings until I came to a set of stairs leading to the second level. Above were more rooms, including one with a fireplace and an ancient chimney—I could picture chilly nights spent gathered around its warmth.

Outside, I wandered through a large cemetery surrounding the abbey. The gravestones spanned centuries, with many older stones so weathered that their inscriptions and names were blurred by time. Some were enormous tombs, draped in vines and moss. It was a place steeped in quiet reverence.

Near the abbey was a small waterfall I wanted to visit. The parking lot was surprisingly busy, filled with hikers decked out in gear—big backpacks, hiking sticks, and top outdoor brands. The signage to the waterfall wasn’t great, and I got lost for a few minutes before figuring out the route. It was a slippery, 20-minute walk downhill through mud to reach the base of the falls. Surrounded by thick forest, the water tumbled over mossy rocks into a series of smaller cascades.

Short on time, I reluctantly headed back to Dingle, wistfully wishing I could linger longer, perhaps even take one of the famous horse-drawn carriage rides through the serene surroundings. The interior road I took felt straight out of a classic country song. The winding route curved dramatically, my little red car bouncing along the narrow lanes. Incredible homes with perfectly manicured gardens lined the way, and whenever another car appeared, I had to pull into a small gap to let it pass. Amongst the greenery were many cows, horses, and sheep.

I decided to return to Dingle via a different route: Conor’s Pass, one of Ireland’s highest mountain crossings, renowned for its dramatic views and challenging roads. The ascent grew steeper with every turn until I encountered warning signs advising trucks and trailers to turn back—the inclines ahead were too treacherous. On one side, sweeping valleys stretched endlessly, while sheer mountain slopes rose imposingly on the other. Along the way, I passed a cyclist tackling the 1,400-foot climb—an incredible feat that instantly humbled my sense of adventure. As Qui-Gon Jinn wisely said in Star Wars, 'There’s always a bigger fish.'

The drive wasn’t without its challenges—moments when I came uncomfortably close to the cliffside or teetered near a trench—but I managed to navigate through. From the viewpoint, I noticed distant stone structures scattered across the scene. Were they remnants of ancient settlements or newer sheep shelters still used by farmers? In the valley beneath the mountains, the waters of the murky lakes added to the untamed atmosphere.

Descending from Conor’s Pass, the narrow roads opened up, and soon I came into the town of Dingle. The pastel-colored shops came into view, lined against the water with masts from docked ships—a quintessential harbor town. I had an ice cream of sea salt and caramel from the famous Murphy's Ice Cream to end another perfect day in Ireland, before heading back to the Airbnb. As I packed for the next part of the journey, I felt a bittersweet pull—this special little corner of Ireland had captured my heart.

The following day was the longest drive of the trip. I packed up and left the Airbnb, armed with Doritos, chocolate, soda, and other snacks—the essentials for a proper road trip. After about two and a half hours, I reached the Grange Stone Circle, the largest in Ireland and the first I’d ever seen. Stone circles are ancient monuments, typically made of standing stones arranged in a circular pattern, believed to have been used for rituals, ceremonies, or astronomical purposes. The smell of manure filled the air as I walked to the slightly elevated platform where the circle lay. Large trees and stumps had entwined with parts of the circle over time. Most of the stones were small, but one massive one weighed 25 tons. I thought this spot would be an obscure find, but a small lot nearby held several cars. One woman even had a picnic set up against one of the stones. Coins and small offerings were scattered around many of the stones, perhaps left as mementos or tokens of ritual significance. A sign noted that only half the site has been excavated, leaving me to wonder what secrets might still lie buried beneath.

From there, I set out for the Cliffs of Moher, Ireland’s most iconic destination. My luck with the weather finally ran out just twenty minutes before reaching the cliffs. A light rain began to fall, growing heavier as I got closer. Still, I couldn’t complain—this was my first rainy day in eight days across London and Ireland. I started at the southern end of the trail at Hag’s Head. A local farmer had set up parking nearby, and after a short walk past cow farms, I reached the cliffs. The views were dramatic, with the Atlantic stretching endlessly into white-capped waves, but the trail further along was closed due to recent deaths along the cliff.

I drove ten minutes to the official visitor center to see the classic view of the cliffs, but the rain had worsened, and fog now obscured the landscape. The trail was narrow, crowded, and bordered by an electric fence on one side, which made the experience feel claustrophobic. Between the weather and the crowds, I quickly realized this wasn’t the way to see the cliffs and decided to move on.

Near the cliffs was Poulnabrone Dolmen, a monolithic tomb in an area known as the Burren. Oliver Cromwell once called this region unfit even to bury a man, and as I drove through, I could see why, with its rocky, desolate terrain. A deep mist surrounded the area, and cows groaned in the distance, their silhouettes barely visible through the biting rain. At one point, I passed a man on a motorcycle herding cattle with a stick. Blackbirds flew in flocks over the road as puddles formed in the craggy limestone.

The tomb itself was striking—two towering stones standing upright, supporting a massive flat capstone. Thought to date back over 5,000 years, it predates the pyramids and was used as a burial site. Archaeologists uncovered the remains of at least 33 people here, along with pottery and tools, pointing to its significance as a ceremonial site for Ireland’s ancient inhabitants. Its presence in the stark, craggy expanse was a reminder of the enduring mark left by those who came before.

The final stretch to Galway, where I would be staying for the night, felt like driving through a green tunnel, with narrow roads hemmed in by hedges and trees arching overhead. Occasionally, the greenery opened up to reveal small towns with colorful buildings, often a pub and sometimes an old stone church. Road signs were in Gaelic, and the roads themselves were barely wide enough for one car, let alone two. At every bend, I braced for a tractor, a truck, or worse, scrambling to pull over and hoping the edge wasn’t a ditch.

I arrived in Galway just as the sun was setting. After dropping off my bags and freshening up from the drive, I headed to O’Connell’s Bar—a cozy pub featured in Ed Sheeran’s Galway Girl video. As a fan of the song, this was a stop I’d been looking forward to. The bar was packed, its lively atmosphere perfectly capturing the spirit of the music. When I asked a waitress about the filming, she smiled and proudly shared that she had played Barmaid #2 in the music video.

I left drizzly Galway the next day in a hurry, planning to reach Dublin by evening with a few stops along the way. About an hour into the drive, I arrived at Clonmacnoise, a monastic site founded in the 6th century that was once a major center of religion and learning, drawing scholars and monks from across Europe.

The ancient crosses and gravestones stood quietly by the River Shannon, framed by two round towers that rose prominently above the ruins. As I wandered through the site, its history revealed itself in the intricately carved high crosses, the weathered markers of forgotten lives, and the skeletal remains of once-majestic buildings. The round towers, standing tall like silent sentinels, spoke of resilience against centuries of invasions. Its riverside location had been both a blessing and a curse—a spiritual hub with access to trade routes, yet vulnerable to Viking raids.

After another stretch of driving, I reached one of my favorite stops in Ireland, the Rock of Dunamase. Perched on a hill overlooking farmland, the ruins of a massive castle felt straight out of a fairy tale. Chunks of crumbling stone lay scattered across the site, while a gravel path wound up the hill, offering sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. In the distance, donkeys and other livestock grazed peacefully. In its prime, this castle must have been an imposing stronghold, giving defenders a clear vantage point to spot intruders from miles away.

The ruins were full of little windows, arches, and corners to explore and photograph. The sun peeked through the clouds, and a steady wind swept across the hill. A few visitors wandered the site—a couple with their dogs playing near an ancient wall and children climbing the ramparts while their parents rested. It felt authentic, untouched by the kind of over-polished presentation you see at some historic sites.

As I stood at the top of the hill, looking out over the golden farmland below, I felt a deep sense of joy. Traveling is hard—long flights and drives, unpredictable circumstances, expenses, and the constant planning can wear on you. But moments like this make it all worthwhile. Standing there, surrounded by castle ruins with the horizon stretching out in every direction, reminded me why I love traveling. These are the experiences that stay with you, the ones that make you want to do it all over again, for as long as you can.

From there, I drove to Dublin. The highways were smooth, but traffic slowed as I entered the city. After checking into my hotel, I wandered past St. Patrick’s Cathedral, towering and majestic, and through the bustling areas of Temple Bar and Grafton Street. Dublin was lively and full of energy, but my mind kept drifting to the places I had left behind.

I thought of the winding lanes of Dingle, the commanding ruins of an ancient castle, and the solemn beauty of abandoned places of worship. Ireland’s history and landscapes felt alive, leaving me with a deep connection to its stories and its land. I know I’ll find myself drawn back someday, retracing those old country lanes and discovering even more of what this extraordinary place has to offer.

The man at the car rental center managed to unnerve me about driving in Ireland, and for the first time in my life, I caved and bought extra insurance. Perhaps he sensed my inner apprehension about driving on the opposite side of the road and navigating Ireland’s notoriously narrow lanes. After what felt like an exhausting conversation, I finally set off from Shannon Airport toward my destination for the next few days—the tiny town of Dingle, just under three hours away.

Driving on the opposite side of the road is immensely confusing, but luckily, I’d done it once before in Scotland. Slowly, the muscle memory returned—how to navigate turns, approach roundabouts, and so on. Even so, I found myself veering slightly to the left at times, mentally reminding myself to stay centered in the lane. The smooth highways eventually gave way to narrow country roads, and I finally pulled up a steep incline to my apartment. My host, Danny, was a kind man, and the apartment was stocked with fresh butter, soda bread, muffins, cookies, and homemade jams—a very nice welcome! The host family even had a four-year-old golden retriever who came over to sit with me for a bit. Whenever I see a dog, I can’t help but miss mine back home. It was around 8:15 by the time the sun finally dipped below the horizon. Tomorrow, I’d begin properly exploring Ireland.

The next day felt like one of those rare, perfect days that travel dreams are made of. I left later than planned—it always seems to happen—but it was worth it for the simple joy of making grilled cheese for breakfast, a small luxury of staying in an Airbnb. With the car packed, I set off. The narrow roads demanded full attention, especially with dogs wandering leash-free along the way. Eventually, I arrived at Kinnard Beach, a secluded stretch of sand where waves crashed rhythmically against the shore. A striking sea stack rose from the water, and for a few peaceful moments, I stood still, letting the sound of the ocean wash over me. There’s something about the sea—it’s endlessly cathartic. My reverie didn’t last long, though, as dark clouds began to gather. When the rain slowly started to fall, I moved on.

From there, I ventured deeper into Ireland’s countryside, seeking out hidden treasures off the beaten path. One such obscure place, accessible only by car, was Garfinny Bridge—perhaps the oldest bridge in Ireland. It’s so ancient that even experts can’t pinpoint its exact origins, though they estimate it dates back to the 14th or 15th century. The bridge looked like something out of a storybook, with a gentle river flowing beneath it. Remarkably, no mortar was used in its construction—just stones, perfectly balanced and holding steady for hundreds of years. There’s something incredibly fascinating about walking across an ancient bridge like this and knowing it has stood the test of time.

After a while, the narrow roads led me to the Dingle Peninsula, where I joined a spectacular stretch of road known as the Slea Head Drive. Hugging the coastline, the route was shared by a mix of cars, buses, cyclists, and even walkers, all mostly moving clockwise to avoid oncoming traffic on the narrow, winding roads.

I hadn’t driven far when I found myself drawn to another beach. There’s something strangely unique about visiting beaches in places that aren’t tropical—as though you’re in a setting that shouldn’t be there. The rain from earlier had dropped off after a brief drizzle, and the sun was now out, warm and inviting. The beach wasn’t crowded, making it feel like a peaceful escape. I wandered along the shore, picking up a few shells and rinsing them in the crystal-clear water. The wind was brisk, and the ocean was icy to the touch, yet there was an Irishman swimming in nothing but his trunks. How does he do it?

Western Ireland is dotted with archaeological remnants of its past, and among the most fascinating are ringforts. These circular fortified settlements were built from the Bronze Age up to about 1000 AD and are found across Northern Europe, especially in Ireland. While many served as homesteads for farmers or minor chieftains, they’re also steeped in folklore. The early pre-Celtic inhabitants of Ireland are often associated with these sites, giving rise to tales of 'fairy forts' imbued with Druids' magic. Folklore holds that these forts were sacred, and believers in fairies avoided altering them, leaving their mysteries undisturbed for centuries.

I stopped at one such ‘Fairy Ringfort.’ Ingenious property owners have transformed these sites along the peninsula into charming roadside attractions, often advertised with handmade signs boasting of ‘the world’s best brownies’ or coffee. This particular stop featured the ruins of an unexcavated fort, which the enterprising farmer had turned into a feeding farm. As soon as I got some feed, the sheep rushed over eagerly, nipping at the food. There were also pigs, goats, llamas or alpacas, and even a sheepdog puppy in training, darting around and herding the sheep. All the while, I couldn’t help but wonder: what mysteries still lie buried beneath this Emerald Isle?

I got more of a glimpse of Ireland's ancient past as I stopped at a set of beehive huts, perched atop a steep hill. While the fort earlier was nearly entirely buried, these were distinct structures still standing. The climb was well worth it, revealing several circular huts made entirely of stacked flat stones, each with low entrance doorways I could still squeeze through. Thousands of slate stones, carefully balanced atop one another, formed these incredible structures. How they managed to construct these without mortar and have them endure for centuries is remarkable. Some huts were missing their roofs, but some were perfectly enclosed. One rock here bore a faint cross, a subtle reminder of the layers of faith and history that have shaped this land. The stones were speckled with yellow and white lichens, blending seamlessly into the rugged landscape—it was hard to tell where nature ended and the ancient monument began, and perhaps that’s the point.

There are over 2,000 archaeological sites scattered across the Dingle Peninsula, each more fascinating than the last. To some, these places might seem repetitive, but as someone living in the U.S., I rarely get the chance to explore structures that are hundreds or even thousands of years old. These sites ignite a sense of wonder, blurring the lines between history and legend. Walking among them feels like stepping into another time, a connection to a world long past.

Each site felt like it was leading to something extraordinary, and that was Cashel Murphy. This collection of beehive huts carried a deeper significance, believed to have been the domain of chieftains. The huts are aligned to Orion’s Belt—just like the pyramids—and on the equinox, sunlight streams into an underground passage to illuminate a carved stone at the back.

One narrow hole in the ground caught my attention, and my curiosity got the better of me. Crawling feet first, I squeezed into a dark, cramped tunnel, the sound of water dripping steadily from the stones. The air felt thick and heavy, as though it held the weight of ancient rituals. I couldn’t stand, and the darkness was absolute, broken only when I pushed through a tight gap into another small chamber. Was this where Druids once performed sacred rites? The space felt charged with mystery, but the oppressive closeness and steady dripping began to unnerve me. With my heart pounding, I scrambled back toward the light, emerging into the open air with a sense of profound relief—and an even deeper respect for the secrets this site continues to guard.

After a few quick stops—feeding baby lambs in rock shelters and pausing at scenic viewpoints, including one where a musician played traditional Irish songs against a backdrop of yellow flowers—I arrived at the Dunmore Head Loop hike. I hadn’t planned on hiking, but sometimes the best experiences come unexpectedly. Despite the packed parking lot, I managed to find a spot and set off on what would become one of my favorite adventures of the day.

The trail started with an uphill walk—not too strenuous—leading me over a stone wall meant to keep the sheep in. The views were breathtaking. The water below was a mesmerizing deep aqua, waves crashing against a small beach where surfers dotted the shore. As the path flattened, it offered uninterrupted views of the endless ocean. When the trail curved to the right, a sudden gust of wind hit like a slap in the face. At the edge of the small plateau, the waves below were frothy and white as they crashed against jagged rocks. Across the water were the Blasket Islands, steeped in fascinating history—a story for another time. For now, I simply stood there, taking it all in, feeling completely alive.

I drove along small, winding interior roads to reach the final viewpoint of the day, a perfect end to an epic drive. The roads twisted through farmland, narrowing to a path where I started the climb. It was an easy walk, but the strong winds made it feel like a battle against the elements. Horses and cows grazed nearby, scattered across the fields.

As I reached the top, the view was incredible—the vast ocean stretching endlessly ahead. For a moment, the only sound was the whip of the wind. This was the spot where Luke Skywalker connects with the Force in Star Wars: The Last Jedi, the scene where he transcends, fading into the light of the setting sun. Standing in that very place, seemingly at the end of the world, I felt a surge of awe—the Force is strong here.

After a flight just a bit longer than the journey from New York to Los Angeles, I arrived in London. The clouds hung heavy in the sky as I caught glimpses of dim orange car lights crawling along the left side of the road—something that never feels quite natural when you’ve grown up with traffic on the right.

I took a train into central London and then hopped on the ‘Tube,’ London’s version of the subway, marked by the iconic red circle with a horizontal blue bar reading ‘UNDERGROUND,’ to reach my hotel. It’s the little things like that which make London intriguing—the familiar icons you’ve always associated with the city and seen in countless movies and shows. The first thing I noticed, grabbing a late-night bite, was the abundance of signs reminding tourists to look left or right before crossing the street. It’s a small thing, but important—people have actually lost their lives by stepping into traffic, unaccustomed to the reversed flow.

After a good night's sleep, I hurried to Big Ben. Last time, as I mentioned, it had been under restoration, and this was the first thing I really wanted to see. As I walked towards it, I passed the quintessential sights of London: iconic telephone booths, black cabs, and even the little red postal boxes. It’s details like these, along with seeing the ‘UNDERGROUND’ signs yesterday, that give London its familiar, storybook feel.

Crossing Westminster Bridge, I finally caught the view of Big Ben I’d been waiting for. The sight transported me to all the scenes I’d watched set in London, where the iconic clock tower loomed large in the backdrop. I stood there for a moment, appreciating the view. I hadn’t woken up too early, so the crowds of the big city were already creeping in. I would come back here at sunrise another day to have a more undisturbed moment.

In a park near Big Ben, statues of British Prime Ministers lined the paths—Churchill, David Lloyd George, icons of British history—and unexpectedly, I came across statues of Gandhi and Nelson Mandela. There was something powerful about seeing these freedom fighters honored in the heart of London. Gandhi, who had led the movement to free India, once the 'pearl of the British empire,' and Mandela, a global symbol of resistance to racial oppression, stood as reminders of the enduring struggle against injustice. Their presence here felt like an acknowledgment of the complex legacy of British history.

After a bit of rest, I made my way to Buckingham Palace. Built in 1703 and transformed into a royal residence by Queen Victoria, the palace is both the official home and administrative headquarters of the British monarchy. Security was tight—emptying pockets, taking off watches—almost stricter than at an airport. Once inside, I wandered through the grand rooms, each one more ornate than the last, with high ceilings, portrait galleries, and halls adorned with landscape paintings collected by former royals. One day, I’d love to have a gallery of my own, with my travel photography on display in an exhibit like this. My favorite rooms were the drawing chambers overlooking the gardens. Perhaps most of all, it was fun connecting the palace to scenes from The Crown, a show I watched during the pandemic.

After leaving the palace, I strolled through the gardens. The walk was refreshing, and soon I hopped onto one of London’s iconic red double-decker buses, followed by the Tube, en route to a long-awaited stop—Stanford’s bookstore. It might sound trivial to some, but for me, this was a dream destination. An entire store dedicated to maps and travel books? I could have spent hours exploring every corner. I picked up two books on cycling and motorbiking adventures around the world, and the clerk, sensing my enthusiasm, gave a knowing smile. 'Careful,' he warned, 'buying books is an addiction.'

The next morning, I woke just before dawn, quickly dressed, and set out to capture Big Ben. The sky was spectacular, breaking into fiery shades of orange and pink over Westminster. Unlike the day before, the bridge was quiet, letting me cross with ease toward the perfect viewpoint. A few early risers had already set up their tripods, and a couple posed for wedding photos, but otherwise, it was just me and the city awakening around me. I found a tunnel to frame my shot, watching as the sunrise cast a golden glow over Big Ben. It was a perfect, unforgettable way to start the day.

After a few hours of rest, I made my way to Westminster Abbey, a place that feels like the soul of Britain’s past. For nearly a thousand years, this Gothic masterpiece has hosted everything from royal weddings to coronations and final farewells. Its exterior is striking—the towering spires, intricate stonework, and massive stained-glass windows give it an almost otherworldly presence. Inside, the sheer scale of the place is overwhelming. The ceilings soar above, and the echo of footsteps fills the long, shadowed halls lined with tombs of kings, queens, and some of the greatest minds in literature and science. Despite the crowd, it was impossible not to feel a sense of wonder, standing amid centuries of history.

For lunch, I decided to try Dishoom, a famous Indian restaurant. London is often celebrated for having some of the best Indian food outside of India. I ordered chili cheese toast, samosas, mataar paneer, garlic naan, and raita. The ambiance was impressive, with its vintage décor and buzzing atmosphere, but to be honest, the food was just okay. After sampling dishes around the world, I still stand by New York and New Jersey as home to some of the best food, regardless of cuisine.

On my way back, I wandered through St. James’s Park, one of London’s many ‘royal’ parks, and unexpectedly found it to be one of my favorite spots in the city. The park was lively with people riding bikes and strolling, and the peaceful paths and greenery offered a welcome escape from the city’s rush. There was something calming about the open space and natural beauty that made me feel grounded amidst the city’s energy.

The next day, I took the underground east, heading toward a part of London I hadn’t explored yet. On my way to Borough Market, I passed the towering monument to the Great Fire of London from the 1600s. London seems to immortalize every chapter of its history in stone and bronze - I had previously seen statues of Admiral Nelson and monuments commemorating the Crimean War. Pride in their past runs deep here, and it’s hard not to feel the weight of it as you move through the city. Crossing the Thames, I could see Tower Bridge in the distance, its iconic towers framed by two warships anchored in the water.

Arriving at Borough Market, I was immediately swept up in the sights and sounds. Nestled under the arches of a railway bridge, the market had a chaotic, slightly haphazard layout, with vendors selling everything from tea and spices to cheese and fish and chips. The air was thick with aromas, and the buzz of voices filled the space. It was the kind of lively, sensory experience that reminded me why I love markets—a place where locals and travelers alike come together to sample the best of the city.

Crossing the bridge back, I spotted the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral rising over the skyline, a sight that brought to mind the domes of the Vatican or even the Capitol building back home. As I walked, I couldn’t help but notice the range of characters that filled the streets—homeless people, beggars, drunks, and those who seemed to be shouting at ghosts, as if they’d stepped straight out of a Dickens or Arthur Conan Doyle novel. London’s diversity was equally striking, perhaps even more so than back home, with women in hijabs, Sikhs in turbans, Eastern European accents, and American voices all blending together. This mix extended to the food as well, with restaurants serving everything from Uzbek to Burmese cuisine—a reflection of the world in one city. I guess this kind of diversity is bound to happen when you’ve colonized half the world.

In the evening, I made my way to Tower Bridge. As I rode the Tube to Tower Hill, I thought about how I was finally getting the hang of London’s transportation and neighborhoods—only to realize it was almost time to leave. Isn’t that always the way with travel? Just as you start to feel at home, it’s time to pack up and go. Tower Bridge, one of London’s most iconic landmarks, is often mistaken for London Bridge by visitors, likely because of the famous nursery rhyme. They see this elaborate structure and assume it must be the bridge from the song. In reality, the original medieval London Bridge no longer stands.

Standing nearby is the Tower of London, an infamous fortress established by William the Conqueror in the 11th century, steeped in a history of executions and imprisonments. The contrast between the ancient stone walls and the modern skyline in the background, with buildings like The Shard and The Gherkin (which looks like an egg), was striking. A light drizzle began as I walked across the bridge, casting the blues of Tower Bridge against gray skies, making for a classic London scene. When the rain finally let up, I set up my camera, capturing the two towers, the elegant suspension, and the shimmer of lights on the Thames below.

On my last day in London, I made my way to the London Eye, a giant white Ferris wheel built to celebrate the new millennium and now a fixture on the city’s skyline. Located on the south bank of the Thames, it offers one of the best panoramic views of the city. As the glass capsule rose slowly, London unfolded beneath me in all its layered beauty. Big Ben, Westminster, and the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral emerged as we climbed higher. The audio commentary pointed out iconic landmarks—10 Downing Street, Scotland Yard, and Buckingham Palace—places I’d always heard about, now spread out below. After the ride, I stepped out into a distinct chill, the brisk September wind carrying the unmistakable feeling of autumn settling in over the city.

I had one more indulgence on my London bucket list: afternoon tea—a tradition I’d always considered the height of British pomp, but one I couldn’t leave without trying. It was a short walk from the hotel, right next to the Ritz, where Julia Roberts stayed in Notting Hill. At the exact time of my reservation, I was ushered to my table, surrounded by the low hum of conversation echoing through the ornate room.

The tea was brought out first—Caramel and a Blended Afternoon Tea mix—and soon after, the centerpiece arrived: a three-tiered cake stand. On the top, fresh scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam; in the middle, delicate pastries; and on the bottom, finger sandwiches with simple fillings—cucumber, tomato, avocado, and pickle. The scones were an instant favorite, crumbly and paired perfectly with the thick clotted cream. Around me, the soft clink of cutlery made me feel as if I’d slipped into a more refined world. It’s not my usual scene, but stepping into a fancy world, even briefly, was a nice change.

I walked back to the hotel, hoping to burn off a few of the day’s calories. Passing by Buckingham Palace, I paused to watch the guards, those nutcracker-looking soldiers with their stoic faces. The silence broke when a few kids from Spain started climbing the fence, and suddenly, one of the guards barked at them, his voice cutting through the air with such force that, for a second, I thought he might actually raise his weapon. It was amusing and a little unnerving all at once.

As evening settled in, I made my way to Big Ben one last time. Against the night sky, its glowing clock face looked like a full moon, casting a gentle light over the city. I think I checked off nearly every tourist site I’d hoped to see in London. Sometimes, I aim to ‘travel deeper,’ playing the curious observer in search of elaborate histories. But here, I was simply someone enjoying London for exactly what it is, and it felt satisfying to take it all in without any agenda. I packed up and tried to catch a few hours of sleep - tomorrow, a new country awaits.