So with that fateful telephone call, my adventure began.

I had been reading and re-reading the suggestions on what to bring with me should I be selected and asked to spend a year in a foreign land – foreign as in halfway around the world and foreign as in a totally different culture. I had, therefore, a good idea about what to put in the suitcases, but not how much. I knew that someone else would be doing laundry (as if that doesn’t happen already – thank you, Mr. Max!) and so I would need to bring washable clothing. I would also need the things of life: soap, shampoo, hangers, toothpaste, and other things that I knew I wouldn’t remember until it was too late.

In the midst of all this, I had no idea what I was going to put all this “stuff” in. I remembered that when Emily returned from her Italy sojourn, she bought two humongous suitcases to pack all her loot, but those bags were with her in Savannah. So Max and I found a good, big Samsonite suitcase during a Macy’s sale, and we bought it and a companion piece. After all, while I might be able to give up some things, I simply could not give up style! Eventually, everything went into four bags: two checked and two carry-on. And I was off to the first part of my journey: to say good-bye to my baby daughter, who was bereft (as opposed to gleeful) that I would not be around to talk to at any given time every day.

We had a wonderful visit, and I got to see her at work at her first real job at the Troon Golf Club in Savannah, where, as Customer Relations person, she has organized a Tuesday night happy hour with special cocktails, aptly named “Mix and Mingle with Emily.” She has been there about a month, and all the people who were there, including her boss, told me how wonderful she is – manna to a mother. Also while I was there, I took one of her big bags and reorganized, because one of my bags was horribly overweight in Kansas City, and I had an unwelcome surprise when I found out I would be able to carry on only one bag for the transcontinental flight and the one to Dubai.

Saying good-bye to Max at the airport as I left for Washington was harder than saying good-bye to him at KCI, mostly because we were almost late in Kansas City, but saying good-bye to Emily at the Savannah airport on Wednesday morning was the hardest of all. I know it is normal for parents and children to live across the country from each other, but as you now know, that is not normal for me, and it certainly is not when the parents and child are Max and Emily and me. I tried to keep from crying, but could not, and I was reminded of the day Max and I left Emily at Hendrix College, she knowing that she could not look back at us while we drove off, and we knowing that we had to leave her. This time, I was the one who could not look back, and Emily was the one who had to leave.

Then I began a journey that would take me halfway across the world, being unable to change clothes or lie in a bed for 36 or more hours. I have never done anything like it, and what I now know is that I can, and that I will have to do it at least twice more before I come home for good.

I first flew from Savannah to Atlanta by way of Charlotte, because to fly directly would cost me an additional $250. I then waited at the Atlanta airport for about eight hours for the flight that would take me across the Atlantic to Heathrow in London. I tried to check in immediately upon my arrival in Atlanta at 1:00, but British Airways didn’t open its station until about 3:30, so I got to sit there for two hours. Fortunately, I had enough books to keep me company, but I wasn’t really happy because the lobby is not really very comfortable, which is the opposite of the gate lounge areas, which have ample, comfortable seating with nearby electrical outlets for our absolutely necessary tag-alongs: the phone and iPad. That being said, should you ever get a chance to fly British Airways, do so. They provide pillows and blankets (and toothbrushes and toothpaste), real meals, and get this, free booze. An added bonus is that the flight attendants are very efficient, and there is something exotic about being told in a lovely British accent to fasten your seat belt and that we will be arriving much earlier than expected after such a “sluggish start.”

I slept across the Atlantic, with the help of Advil PM and a headache, and then awoke to fly into Heathrow at 10:30, where I waited another two hours for the six- or seven-hour flight to Dubai, also on British Airways. My seatmates were charming; I had the aisle, but when I saw the young man who, at 6’5”, was doomed to sit in the middle, I gave him my seat, thereby sandwiching myself between a good-looking 32-year-old man and a man-of-the-world from Nova Scotia who was moving his family to Dubai for a new business venture. We held nice conversations while we did not sleep. Neither of them snored; I hope I did not. If I did, they were too nice to mention it.

We arrived in Dubai around midnight, and I dragged my bag to passport control and customs. I was taken aback by the number of people standing in line to go through passport control at that late hour. I believe there were six to eight lines, with at least 75 people, maybe more, in each line. As we stood and patiently waited our turns, young men whose job it is to expedite the lines roamed about in gracious white garb, headdresses, and sandals. At first, I thought they must be sheiks or something, because their posture was without flaw, they were all handsome and tall, and they had a regal air. Then I saw more and more of them and realized they were airport personnel. Oh, well.

Though my bags were not overweight, they were VERY heavy, and I was thrilled when a man offered to help me put them onto a cart, after which I pushed them outside to a waiting cab. The company had arranged for me to sleep at the Crowne Plaza in Festival City, about 10 minutes from the airport, and when I arrived, I wished that I didn’t have to sleep, because the hotel was so beautiful. It was very modern in design, in that all lights were controlled by sleek stainless steel buttons, and the bathroom was cool and white with a rain shower head. For the first time in around 36 hours, I took off my shoes and looked at my feet. Though I had taken off my shoes during flight, my feet had swelled, so much that they looked like buffoonish balloon animals. I showered in clear, warm water, and then I did sleep, and woke up in time to go downstairs for a buffet breakfast.

I could have been in any Sheraton in the United States, except that I was pretty much the only white person in a room full of people whose skin colors were different shades of brown. I knew then how it must feel to be the only black person in a classroom full of white people. Families were eating breakfast together, fathers were scolding children, children were running around, waiters were hovering attentively, and all were smiling. The smiles could have been because of the abundance of food, which was somewhat different – for instance, one line in the breakfast buffet offered baked beans and chicken, while another offered green salads. I had an omelette to order, some fresh-baked bread, brie cheese, and what was purported to be strawberry jam; however, it was blackberry. In re-packing for weight, I had taken out my French Vanilla Café, so I had hot tea and a small strawberry smoothie. That was the first real food I had eaten since leaving Savannah. It tasted good.

Then, I took another cab and went to the Dubai airport, this time, going through the passport control the other way. Though I thought I had packed well, my luggage was overweight for Safi Airways, the Afghan airline. “Miss Deborah,” the attendant said, “your bags are overweight. You will have to pay 500.” I thought she meant Five Hundred Dollars, and I just about croaked. She explained that the payment was in Afghan money, but she couldn’t tell me how many US dollars that would be. I had to go to another counter to find out that 500 Diri equals $142.

Then I had a couple of hours to explore, and found that the Dubai airport was both exotic and western at the same time. I found a Coldstone store, and a Citibank computer kiosk, but saw much written in some form of Arabic, and the design, while modern, encompassed some Arabian Nights themes. For those who feel sorry for the tobacco companies because Americans are quitting smoking in record numbers, stop right now. Marlboro and its friends are alive and well in the Middle East. Cartons of cigarettes were stacked high in the duty-free shop. In my favor, Afghanistan allows a person to carry in two bottles of liquor, but because of my packing fiasco, I would have room for only one – so Jameson’s from duty-free came with me.

As I boarded my last flight, my stomach was churning. This, truly, was the point of no return. I had done all of this so far alone, save for the nice people who helped me with my luggage, and I was relieved that I had come so far. Going even farther, I walked toward the jetway, and toward what I hoped would be a rewarding, challenging time. I sat down in my seat, and for the first time in every flight, had no companion. I stretched out and slept.