The Geography of Belonging - Reflections on 34 Countries and Counting

As I conclude my travels through my 34th country, I find myself reflecting not just on the places I have visited, but on why I have always been drawn to travel.

Growing up, my family did not travel much internationally. But even as a child, I dreamed of seeing the world. That dream began to take shape in college, when a friend introduced me to the possibilities of budget travel: finding $200 flights to faraway capitals, piecing together layovers into makeshift itineraries, staying in hostels where a bunk bed came with ten strangers and a dozen travel stories.

Since starting my full-time job, I have visited 24 countries in just two years. I am constantly aware that the ability to move so freely across borders is not a given. That awareness changes how I travel: I tip more generously, I ask more questions, I try to notice the invisible work that makes my movement possible. Sometimes it also carries a quiet guilt, knowing I can leave while others cannot.

I have traveled solo, with friends, and with family, and each experience has taught me something different. What has stayed constant is the way travel heightens my attention. I find myself drawn to overheard conversations in unfamiliar languages, compelled to follow the sound of music around a corner, always reaching toward something just beyond my understanding.

Perhaps this attention began long before I ever boarded a plane. I spent nearly equal parts of my childhood in India and the United States, and people often asked me which culture I preferred or felt more connected to. Those questions trained me, from a young age, to notice how people think, act, and believe differently. Observing cultural contrasts became part of my daily life, whether I wanted it to or not. In some ways, my travels now feel like a continuation of that early habit, only on a much wider stage.

I think of my travels as a form of informal cultural anthropology: observing how and why people live the way they do, and how their traditions came to be. In Tanzania, I learned about local marriage customs—family negotiations, ceremonial exchanges, multi-day celebrations—that mirrored what I had grown up seeing in India. Two cultures, separated by continents and histories, had found strikingly similar ways of marking life’s milestones. I wondered if the similarity came from shared values around kinship, or if marriage rituals everywhere simply bend toward the same human needs: connection, community, continuity.

Beyond these deeper questions, I am drawn to culture’s most vivid expressions: food, music, and language. These already shape my personal life, so encountering them in new forms feels like a continuation of something I have always been doing. I remember walking through the spice markets of Doha, where vendors called out prices in Arabic while the scent of cardamom and saffron hung heavy in the desert air. Or standing in a small church in Slovakia, listening to a choir practice traditional hymns that seemed to echo off centuries-old stone walls. These moments are my favorite kind of research—felt before they are understood.

Travel also brings moments of discomfort. I have felt the heat rise in my face when I have butchered a local greeting, or the awkwardness of being served in a place where wages are low and tourism is high. And yet, I have also been surprised—like when I got hopelessly lost in the narrow streets of Yogyakarta in Indonesia, and a woman selling fruit from a roadside cart not only gave me directions but insisted on walking me halfway there, switching effortlessly between Indonesian and broken English to make sure I understood. These moments remind me that hospitality is often less about formality and more about small acts of care.

In recent years, I have noticed how globalization reshapes the cultures I encounter. McDonald’s golden arches casting shadows over ancient temples in Singapore. Young people in rural Costa Rica scrolling through the same TikTok videos as teenagers in New York. In some places, this blending feels seamless; in others, it feels like erosion. I find myself asking: what is worth preserving, and what is worth letting go? Not all traditions should be preserved—many have roots in exclusion, patriarchy, or other systems of inequality. Yet with every tradition that disappears, something irreplaceable also fades.

This tension is not something I witness only abroad. It lives in me. My upbringing braided together values from two different worlds, and sometimes they pull in opposite directions. I do not yet know which ones I will pass on and which I will release. Travel does not answer these questions, but it keeps me willing to sit with them.

I expect my style of travel will shift over time. Perhaps I will move past the impulse to see everything and instead choose to stay longer: watch the same street at different hours, follow the arc of a conversation with someone I have met more than once.

Seeing the world has never been just about the passport stamps. It’s about noticing the small threads that connect us: shared rituals, familiar laughter, the way a song or scent can feel like home halfway across the globe, while also honoring the differences that make each place irreplaceable. Travel sharpens my awareness of the cultures I carry within me, the ones I inherit, and the ones I choose moving forward. And perhaps the real journey is learning how to weave them together into a life that feels both rooted and open, a bridge between where I come from and everywhere I’ve yet to go.