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My bag was packed. And only a little one. I guess it’s because I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Six months, maybe more, maybe less. I suppose it doesn’t matter if I don’t make it. But, for some reason, I anticipate the worst-case scenario. I begin to imagine the internal shame I’d feel if I went home early. I’m conflicted. I feel like I’m the only one. I told myself that, ‘If it’s not for me, I can always leave’. It’s almost become my new mantra. Worst case scenario I’ll go back home. My room in my parent’s house is exactly as I left it when I had first moved out many years ago, just with more cardboard boxes. But I don’t want to go home. That’s the whole reason I left. Did I talk to anyone about this? No. No one has left like I’ve left. I thought about it. Paid for my ticket. Packed my bag. Left everything behind with my mom and dad. I said sad my goodbyes. I cried. I left. … As I lifted my rucksack into the already overfilled overhead compartment and took my seat in the middle row of three, I instantly regretted not paying that little bit extra for a window or an aisle. Aisle guess aisle know for next time. My hands are gripping the arm rest. Am I greedy for having both arm rests right now? I look left and then right. One looks out the window, the other is still on their phone. I guess they don’t mind. They don’t notice how anxious I am. I’m nervous. I’m Excited. But most of all, I’m scared. As soon as the cabin lights dim and it’s time for take-off, my decision becomes real. I’m breathing hard. In less than twenty-four hours, I will be on the other side of the world. 24 hours away from home. A 12-hour time difference. And 1 hour until they serve the first meal on this flight. … I must have slept through most of the flight. I’m disorientated. The plane is beginning to descend. The flight attendants are gently waking and helping fix the last of the sleepy passengers. We are just above the clouds. I’m eager to see the world. My new world. I’m squirming in my seat. My neck is beginning to ache from craning it to see out the window. But sadly, I’m watching the world from behind my eager neighbour’s head. I’m amazed at what I see. I look into the distance. Different shades of brown, tan, and sand. A bronzed, sun kissed land. In the distance, a vast city emerges. The city looks old and ancient. Full of mystery. There’s a gentle haze over it. I’m mesmerised by the tan coloured buildings, mosques with green neon lights, and a tiny windy river passing through it. As the plane descends, we enter into the haze. I strain my eyes past the protective blanket that disguises this mysterious city. I make out a great divide between the city and the desert. Where the buildings, houses, and city stop. Here the desert starts and doesn’t want to end. It looks relentless. The plane descends a little further. The haze from the city is gone. The plane veers right. The chatter on the plane stops. My breath stops. The entire plane is quiet. That’s when I see it. The three pyramids of Giza. I won’t lie, I always thought the pyramids were not real. I thought, they were never this big, this imposing, this grand. I can’t take my eyes away from it. But as quickly as they came, the pyramids disappear into the desert. A mirage in the distance. I’m speechless. This new world I’m seeing. It’s actually one of the oldest in the world. I close my eyes. I breathe. It’s happening. It’s real. I’m here. I’m anxious. My stomach begins to grumble as the plane lands in this new foreign land. Am I nervous? Absolutely. Am I scared? Entirely. Am I excited? Completely. But the most important question I ask myself is: So, where’s the best place to get felafel?