What follows does not occur in realtime.

The furor that my mother unleashed was only matched by her concern and fear.

She's one of those people who views the Middle East like some kind of bullet festival. In her mind's eye, I am sure, she sees me ducking as I cross the street as a near endless blur of gunfire goes on. My car will be attacked by rockets. I'll wind up on YouTube with some congenial men with hoods over their faces and a large knife. 

Small subtitles will alert the world to my plight. 

However, that's not how I saw it.

I saw it as a great opportunity to expand my worldview, gain some experience, maybe launch a career, and see a few people I became close to over the course of two and a half weeks of filming their every waking moment. 

My father agreed with me and began telling me I should try to stay longer so I could catch some history and religion. Stay in a hostel. Take lots of pictures.

The only sign of my mother's acquiescence was when she agreed to send me my birth certificate so I could apply for a passport. When I asked her to send it rush mail she said, "Right, you can't wait to get killed."

I love that woman.

I paid upwards of $170 dollars at the post office so I could get my passport rushed. Two weeks they said. I tipped my hat at them and thanked them for their hard labor, wondering if they ever prayed for a day when email would make their menial labor obsolete. 

One week later, and here I am, waiting for my passport, waiting for my plane ticket, waiting for the adventure to begin.