I liked those weekends, but I felt alone, alien. Roaming the streets looking for the best presents to take home to my family was one way I tried to cope. So I was delighted when I first came upon the kite vendors in Tianamen Square.

There were always groups of men flying kites in the square. It was a serious occupation, no child’s game. They’d stand there wearing dark parkas and taciturn faces, watching the birds and dragons they loosed in the sky with an air of sternness, parents monitoring their wayward charges above.

One day in March, I bought a giant kite from a vendor in the square. About five feet wide, it had a broad face of a Buddha sewn onto it, a bright series of primary colors. After some intensive bargaining, the vendor sold it to me for 50 kuai — $6.25 — no sum of great value, but after days of $0.40 noodle dishes, it felt like a serious investment. I figured I would give it to my family, and took the subway to a nearby, quieter park to test it first, expectant and pleased.

But as I unfolded the wrappings and laid them out on the cloth, I discovered there was a piece missing. Trying uselessly to fit the rods together, I felt a surge of anger creep up inside me, and foolishness, too. The vendor had cheated me — the kite wouldn’t fly.

Feeling helpless, I did the only thing I could think of at the moment: got back on the subway and made my way back to Tianamen Square. I wandered around, dumbly asking groups of Chinese tourists if they’d seen a man selling kites. They looked at me blankly — who was this girl? and shook their heads, with curious eyes.

Finally I made my way to a group of four men who were flying their own hand-made kites, which flew on the wings of old plastic bags they’d refashioned into objects of art. As I descended upon them and emphatically relayed my story, there was a horrible, amused silence. I waited. Did they not understand my Chinese?

At last, one of them — an elderly, tiny man with a narrow beard — spoke up. “This is terrible!” he said. “This poor girl comes to China, she’s just a student, she wants to buy something for her family, and this vendor cheats her! It’s a shame.”

I couldn’t have found a better ally. Surprised, I listened as he told me he had an appointment for that afternoon, but to come back the following day and meet him in the square at 3pm. We would set things right, he said — quite firmly. Faltering with my poor Chinese, I tried to ask questions, but ended up simply thanking him, somewhat bewildered.

The next day I arrived at the square, wrapped in a double layer of sweaters; it was another wintry day, and the square was more deserted than usual. We recognized each other right away, and his eyes, electric in his wizened face, lit into a smile. “Hello!!” he called, one of the few words he knew in English. “Hello,” I returned.

As we talked further, gradually I understood that he intended to take me to buy a new kite — from a wholesaler where he bought his kites, not some foolish tourist vendor. He gestured for me to sit sidelong on the back of his bicycle, and so I scrambled on. Often I’d seen Chinese girls do the same, their heels swinging insouciantly on the backs of friends’ bikes. Now we rode together through the hutongs south of Tianamen, where my new friend lived. As we weaved through the neighborhoods, he slowed seemingly every few feet to greet old gentlemen and young children who called out to him, peering excitedly at his cargo — that is, me — sitting astride.

“She’s the daughter of an old comrade,” he told them all with gallant charm, and we cycled on.

It was a dizzy, happy afternoon in which we picked out a series of new kites from a nearby warehouse, for the half the sum of the original one I’d purchased. There was the orange one shaped like a fish, the white-and-green one that stretched out its wings like a bird. And my favorite: a series of triangles that fluttered on a long string, which my friend called a “long-long kite,” imitating foreigners he’d heard. After we were through, we cycled back through the hutong, waving and calling to his acquaintances.

We were to stay friends for the rest of the time I was in Beijing. On weekends, I often returned to his neighborhood to share a home-cooked meal with him and his wife, and to pore over old photo albums featuring his time in the People’s Liberation Army. A few months later, his hutong was razed in advance of the Olympics, and he and his wife were shipped out to a faraway high-rise in the suburbs — away from the bustling neighborhoods south of Tianaman he’d shared. I continued to visit him, and together we’d fly “long-long kites” out in the empty expanse where buildings had not yet been constructed.

Three years later, I still think of him often. I wish I knew how he was doing. I wish him and his wife the best of everything, and continue to be grateful for the kindness and different glimpse of China that he shared with me, a stray student lost in Beijing.

I buried myself in the work. These were not happy days. My marriage was not going well and I did not know what to do about it. At 34, I felt old, unattractive, vague.

And then, staring with annoyance from a window at the conference site, I looked down to see heavily armed soliders watching me. One was gesturing, wildly. Was I in trouble? I looked closer. He was blowing kisses. The other was smiling, broadly. I blushed! I laughed. I blew a kiss back and my audience was happy.

Venice had only begun to work its magic. In the morning, I got up early and made my way to the conference site. Strains of opera drifted from alleyways. Had someone left on the stereo? Was an opera singer up early practicing? No, I was being serenaded by the garbage collector.

And my commute. No nasty road ragers, no crowded underground subway rides. I walked to St. Mark’s Square, where I got on a vaporetto that took me by water to the conference site on the Lido. At night, I returned the same way, the rocking of the boat and the waves of the lagoon washing away every last vestige of workday stress.

By the time I got off the boat, I was ready for the night. For enjoying the friends I was rapidly meeting. For the adventures in food I will never forget. The food, northern Italy’s pure flavors, unsullied by layers of sauce or other attempts to gild the lily. I will never forget this food and crave it to this day.

All too soon, it was time to go. I was profoundly upset. The work had been good, the fellowship heartening. And Venice had revived me. I did not want to go back to my life, to my problems, to a marriage I knew would not survive. I did not have the heart for it.

But I packed up, I had one last blissful breakfast on the small patio on the front of the hotel, settled up and my bags were placed in another boat for the trip back to the airport.

I was dragging again, my heart heavy. I had lost the spark Venice had given me. And then it happened.

A young man who worked at the hotel, who barely spoke English, rushed up to me in the moment before I stepped down into the boat holding steady in the canal at the side of the hotel.

“Senora?” he said. “Yes?” I replied. He said, “You are leaving?” I responded yes. And in that moment, he brought his arm forward and in his hand was a bouquet of small pink roses. And he handed them to me.

I did not know what to say. I could only say one thing, anyway, since I did not speak his language. Time was running late and I had a plane to catch and I didn’t understand why this beautiful young boy was giving me roses.

So I said “grazie. They are beautiful.” Over and over I said this. And I stepped into the boat and I left.

I held onto the roses for dear life. Through the boat ride, onto the airplane. I clutched them as we hurtled through the air to Paris, on another leg of my temporary assignment abroad. I was meeting my husband there, for one thing, and the truth is I was not looking forward to that.

But the roses held me in one piece, somehow. They held me, for years, floating in the sun, water and glorious music of an ancient, sinking city where I took my first full breath in many years. Where I remembered what it felt like to experience unexpected wonder. And to feel truly alive.

Actually it has some lovely areas and lovely people. I stopped at one very small town, Rocanville, and decided to stay the night. My grandfather had been buried there when my mother was just one year old and I had never been to the grave.

I parked at the motel and was getting my luggage out when a truck pulled up beside me. They were an older couple, curious about a new car and new person in town. I told them I was just visiting my grandfather’s grave and asked if they could direct me to the graveyard. They asked his name and even though he hadn’t been there long, it turns out they remembered the name as the baker in town in around 1930.

I won’t drag this out – they drove out to the graveyard so I could follow, waited for me so I’d find my way back, took me out to the house where the family had lived (which had been moved outside of the town and the people that lived there let me in to look around), then I followed them back to town where they took me to visit someone who had known my grandfather.

Huge hearts in Saskatchewan. My best vacation. Ever.

Sweden. Visiting the country my dad fell in love with years before I was born. Walking the streets in Lund, taking pictures, trying to capture every old building. Drinking elderberry saft like there’s no tomorrow.

China. I’ve been studying Mandarin for three years and have arrived here only to discover that I’m not nearly as fluent as I thought I was. Still, it’s enough to get around. I walk the Great Wall, and then diverge onto paths less traveled.

None of these have happened yet. I’m 19, single, a full-time student. Traveling has taken back burner to rent and final exams. But things can still cook on the back burner, and they’ll all be a reality before five years are out.

It’s silly to live in a world and never venture beyond the borders of a country. I lived in Japan as a young child, but the memories are faint. Perhaps they’re even imagined, pieced together out of snapshots of Japanese countryside featuring friends with fingers up in the usual “V” and old ticket stubs and stories from my parents.

This next go-around, I want the photos to be ones I took myself and stories I remember. I have enough memories of the future; before too much time goes by, I’d like them to be experiences of the present and then memories of the past.

I responded with, “Not with a stick,” to which she said: “Oh, no. It’s automatic.”

The 5-hour flight from New York to Limerick was perfect timing for a rest, or would have been with a better seat assignment. Scrunched into a tight spot in a rear corner of the plane, I instead discovered the first of many Irish delights – an expat returning to his homeland for a family wedding, whose gift of blarney enlivened the passage. His recommendations for sightseeing (”not where the tourists go!”) proved helpful in the days ahead. I’ll admit, though that his advice for bicycle rental was not heeded (”Brilliant, you know? If you leave your rental bike outside a pub and it’s gone when you come out, just hike to the next pub and take one that’s there!”).

Arriving at Shannon in a sleep-deprived state, I stumbled around the terminal ’til I found the right connection to board a bus to Limerick, where a transfer was needed for the Castleconnell ride. Once there, the driver rattled off directions toward my destination. “Sure, now, it’s just a bit down the road from here,” he assured me.

My new walking shoes proved much more comfortable toward the end of my stay in Ireland; right now, they were wearing blisters in my heels as I pulled my luggage down the road behind me. Must have stopped at least three times to ask directions. ‘A bit down the road’ proved to be about 2 miles – an easy walk for the locals, and within two weeks, for me as well.

Class was already in session when I huffed and puffed into the cottage, but I was warmly welcomed by Janet and the three other students, and assured there was a much closer bus stop (for next time!).

It was truly a memorable visit, and Ireland is indeed as green as all the calendar pictures promise, with enough rainy days to illustrate just why it’s so green. Harps were found everywhere, live in pub sessions and represented on sculptures and gate ornamentation; on Irish coins and Guinness trucks.

Would I go again? In a heartbeat! Would I do things differently next time? Well, at least I’d break in my walking shoes ahead of time.

As we left the stadium, we get a bit swept up in the crowd and ended up in a section of Glasgow that, let’s just say, you don’t want to get lost in – Glasgow being one of the more crime-ridden cities in the UK, much less Europe. So we attempted to flag down a taxi, but we were having a lot of trouble finding one (perhaps because of the section of town we were in!).

Finally, we were able to find a cab and we flagged it down, only to discover that he was headed home and not in service. Danny, the cab driver, heard our accents and realized that we had NO clue where we were. So after he stopped to pick up his brothers who were also at the game, we went on something of a free whirlwind tour of Glasgow. Danny showed us many of the sights of the city, including the stadium for the opposing team in Glasgow (Rangers, if you’re familiar with Scottish soccer), and gave us some good recommendations for places to eat.

It was at this point that we realized he hadn’t even turned on the meter – he was doing all of this free of charge because he didn’t want to let the visitors to his city hang out to dry in a rough part of town. So when we got to our hotel, we tipped him HEAVILY, which he was reluctant to accept but we insisted, and he gave us his number for a ride to the train station from our hotel in the morning.

It’s this kind of experience that makes you truly appreciate that there are good people no matter where you go.

But our group leaders had heard about a free jazz festival in town, and we were determined to go.

The other thing the hostel staff warned us about were the minibus taxis: they shuttle around set routes, and are a popular alternative to public transport. The hostel staff said the drivers were lunatics. And that we’d probably be stabbed.

Our group leaders told us they were fine and about a third the price of a taxi. This made them hugely attractive, as we were coming to the end of a ten-week tour round Africa so funds were a bit low.

So the ten of us hailed a minibus from the street outside the hostel, paid our fares to the driver’s mate and bundled in. The driver beetled us all the way to city centre (not driving much like a lunatic) and we hunted down the festival… when my little sister let out a cry of woe. “My purse. I think I dropped it in the minibus.”

“Oh Rosey, was there much in it?”

She hadn’t had much cash on her, but there was a card, which was a bit more worrying. We went into a large hotel and asked to use the phone. The concierge was sympathetic: “Need me to look up the number for you?”

The 24-hour emergency number for the bank led us into automated message hell: “What is the number of the card you are reporting lost?”

“I don’t know, I’ve lost it.”

“I didn’t understand that.”

We resigned ourselves to a damage limitation exercise in the morning.

“It’ll be all right,” I told her. “They haven’t got your PIN, and I’ll buy you supper.”

“I feel so stupid. And I was really looking forward to buying presents for everyone tomorrow. ”

We enjoyed the music as well as we could: but Rosey’s heart really wasn’t in it; and I felt bad for her. She’s normally the careful, sensible one who never loses anything, so she was taking it particularly badly. The group split up because some of us wanted supper while others wanted to stay and listen in the square.

We ended up picking at snacks in a lively bar. Rosey was thinking about going back to the hostel, and I supposed I ought to go with her, when the other half of our group appeared. “Rosey, you’ll never guess what!”

“My purse!”

“The minibus guys heard us talking about the jazz festival. The driver’s mate came and walked around until they found us.”

The money was still there. “He wouldn’t take a reward,” they told us.

And best of all, not one of us got stabbed.