I could probably write a book on foreign ATM use — or rather, a what not to do. I’ll spare you today and just leave you with one anecdote.

I’ve always taken an “I’ll figure it out as I go” approach to travel and life. To say I arrived in Beijing underprepared is a massive understatement. I landed late at night with an orange backpack and a job teaching English. What I didn’t have was cash, any idea what the local currency was, Mandarin skills, or a map.

I woke up jetlagged with a massive headache. I may have a slight Diet Coke addiction.

That's the view from my apartment on the tenth floor. The CCTV tower is somewhere in the distance. I was no longer in Missouri.

My first mission was finding an ATM. What could possibly go wrong?

I confidently stepped up to the machine. Step one: there was an English button — winning. Step two: choose an amount. My confidence faded fast. I had no idea what a yuan was worth. I selected the middle amount and prayed. Colorful bills started piling out of the machine. My immediate thought was have I drained my entire account? I had no idea if I’d taken out ten dollars or a thousand.

A problem for later. On to find a Diet Coke.

I walked down the street to the tones of Mandarin rising and falling — what sounded to an outsider like yelling but I would later learn was simply the Beijing spirit and dialect. I found a small convenience store and spotted a Diet Coke. YES. I decided to buy two, placed them on the counter and smiled. The store owner punched a few buttons and turned the screen to face me. I still had no idea, so I handed over a generous amount from the ATM and hoped for the best. She handed back both Diet Cokes and my change.

Success.

Beijing was full of challenges. It also awakened my tastebuds — for life, for food, for the kind of adventure only available to someone who has absolutely no idea what they’re doing. I fell in love with the city, its food, and the kind people who patiently endured my botched Mandarin with a side of charades.

That year in Beijing was just the beginning. The orange backpack has since made its way into 41 countries — on wrong buses and last-minute flights, through night markets and mountain passes, and into restaurants I never would have found if everything had gone according to plan.

This is where those stories live. Beijing, Tokyo, Puerto Rico, Cambodia, and everywhere in between. Every Tuesday a new one. Some are funny. Some involve yogurt soup. All of them are true.

Glad you’re here. 🎒

— Hilary