Country number 73 on my journey to 100 wasn’t meant to spark an international incident. Yet, my goal to visit 100 countries before turning 40 unexpectedly thrust me into a Balkan geopolitical controversy, ignited by a single tweet gone spectacularly wrong.

It started as a friendly wager – who could visit 30 countries before age 30 first? Inspired by a college friend and her cosmopolitan sister, I perhaps had an unfair advantage, quickly surpassing the milestone during my tenure as a BBC correspondent covering international diplomacy. Saudi Arabia became my 30^th country at just 28, prompting me to elevate the challenge – first 40 by 30, then ultimately, 100 by 40. 

The rules were straightforward – if it has its own flag, it counts. This sparked playful debate in the UK, where England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland counted as separate points, and not-so-playful debates elsewhere, especially where territorial autonomy was contentious.

Travelling solo quickly became essential, given America’s limited vacation allowances and difficulty securing travel companions. Practicality soon evolved into empowering solo expeditions. The girl who once hesitated to dine alone now navigated unfamiliar cities with a carry-on suitcase and newfound confidence. Unknowingly, these journeys laid the groundwork for my brand, Helmet to Heels, which blends fashion, foreign affairs, and feminine power. Each garment collected – from umushananas in Kigali to sandals in Rome – became a storytelling piece, connecting me deeply to places and people.

In Scandinavia, a summer stint at the BBC in London offered me a chance at a deeper exploration of my roots. My aunt, a refugee from the Iran-Iraq war, spent her formative years in Sweden before migrating to America to help raise me. Speaking Swedish before Persian, I later learned Farsi thanks to her persistent teaching – a skill invaluable in journalism, though my Swedish eventually faded. 

Solo travel, free from the timelines of others, often led to unintended adventures. Accepting an invitation to a game at the 2018 World Cup in Moscow, through a chance encounter in Stockholm, provided richer insights than any history class. Growing up in the US South with American exceptionalism ingrained, the humility found in a city where English was scarce proved transformative.

My trips to other “forbidden countries” – China, Cuba, and Iran – were equally revelatory, reshaping my understanding of global dynamics. Through a miracle – or a good contact – I secured a visa for China to attend a media conference. This trip drew criticism from sceptical American colleagues amid tense US-China relations, but proved illuminating. In Shanghai, a mother pleaded with me to help her son access education in America, ironically while American families chased Mandarin immersion for competitiveness. Cuba starkly revealed my addiction to digital connectivity. During my first visit post Obama’s historic détente, the lack of internet forced a reckoning with my tech dependency. By my third reporting trip, digital access was widespread – I was paying bills via mobile banking from the square awaiting Fidel Castro’s funeral procession.

Not every journey was met positively. Escaping Dubai’s heat spontaneously to visit Azerbaijan, the nearest country I hadn’t seen that was a direct flight with a body of water, drew suspicion from Armenian followers convinced I was on a sponsored influencer trip. Soon, I found myself calling government contacts and questioning officials on behalf of my audience. Could a journalist ever experience the world without her reporter hat on, I wondered, or was international diplomacy forever my identity?

Yet, nothing prepared me for breaking the Macedonian internet, as one follower put it, during my trip to Lake Ohrid. Captivated by its beauty and compelled to protect it from Instagrammers overrunning it à la Lake Como, I sarcastically tweeted, “Definitely don’t come to Lake Ohrid. It’s an absolutely terrible place in North Macedonia. Super expensive. Bad weather. Really crowded.” The irony failed to translate, sparking outrage in local media and flooding my feeds with angry responses. I fell on my sword, tweeting, “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, said Oscar Wilde, and apparently doesn’t always travel well.” Amid livid DMs, I revelled in Ohrid’s exquisite pearls, crafted for generations and worn by Queen Elizabeth II and Princess Diana.

Now comfortably into the 90s on my global checklist, and with a few more years to my deadline, significant gaps remain, notably India, where restrictive visa policies for journalists – even off-duty ones – have delayed honeymoon plans. Ultimately, this quest transcended counting, evolving into a rich tapestry of cultural nuance, personal connections, and self-discovery. 

Moving to Dubai unexpectedly became a strategic pivot, making previously impractical places from the U.S. easily accessible – Tajikistan’s Seven Lakes, Uzbekistan’s Silk Road cities, Malaysia’s multicultural scene, Sri Lanka’s serenity, Bulgaria’s beaches, and Moldova’s monasteries. Dubai wasn’t just geographic convenience – it reshaped my travel narrative, offering access to stories I never imagined I’d tell.