I hugged my parents as I assured them that I would be safe and excitedly began my first solo trip abroad. I flew out of Atlanta with Managua, Nicaragua, on my mind. I had no idea what I was getting into. The volunteer program I had originally signed up with was a little on the sketchy side. As in, the website was poorly made and I didn’t have any contact information except one e-mail address, which I had only e-mailed twice. But I dove in headfirst anyway, with pride riding on my shoulder.

When the plane landed, the summer heat hit me in the face and I quickly shoved fear into the abyss of my mind. I walked strongly toward baggage claim. A person from the program was supposed to be waiting with my name on a sign, but at first glance, I didn’t see anyone. The thought of them not showing up didn’t occur to me, so I kept a close eye on a group of Nicaraguan men holding signs. My driver never showed and I was left alone, with no plan and no idea what I was doing. It was late afternoon, the day was fading, and time was running out.

I had no address, no telephone number and no name. It took me a few hours to work it out—no one could help, no one but myself. Panic mode set in, as did the tears. In my broken Spanish, I found a lovely taxi driver. I told him the city I was headed to, Granada. With a proud smile on his face, he spoke as quickly as he walked. I was running to keep up, following a stranger, in a strange country, to an unmarked taxi. How silly of me. He whipped my backpack off my shoulder and threw it in the trunk before I could decline the offer, and just as quickly, I was in the passenger seat. We were off.

The driver was very kind and spoke to me in Spanish. He taught me Spanish words and phrases. Things were beginning to feel calm again. I never asked him his name, but I knew he’d keep me safe. As he turned on the radio to some rather relaxing music, I stared out onto the dirt roads. We never drove on pavement and the smell of the outside flooded the car, while the warmth of summer relaxed me. Nicaragua was beautiful. The sun was setting, while we passed families eating outside their worn homes and livestock running around freely. This wasn’t my first time in Central America, so I had some knowledge of what it would be like, but I could already tell Nicaragua would be different from Guatemala. I was ready.

We drove down tight alleyways and finally hit cobblestone. Colorful buildings were spreading before us like wildfire. They weren’t in the greatest condition, but I fell in love with their authentic and vintage ambiance, almost immediately. This was Granada. The city I studied so heavily through Google weeks before. We made it. I made it. Relief cooled me from the summer heat and my lips reacted with a smile. Although I felt composed, I still had no idea where I was going. The driver kept asking for the address. I told him that I didn’t know, and I tried to explain that I would be a teacher in the barrios. He rapidly stopped in the middle of the road and left with the doors locked. Fear was coming back, I began to sweat and people crowded the taxi. They tried to open the doors and all I could think to say was, “No gracias.” I was shocked. The people squeezed their hands through the window cracks and asked questions that I couldn’t understand. It felt like forever and then the sun was down. Finally, when new people began to emerge, so did my taxi driver. He found the volunteer house! I knew I trusted him for a reason. He drove a minute down the road and stopped in front of a hand print covered door that read, La Esperanza Granada. The recruiter who was supposed to pick me up ran out apologizing for the mistake and quickly told me to follow him. I gave my taxi driver a hug and his payment before following Justo (my recruiter) to my home for the next three months.

The walls were covered in painted photos and inspirational quotes that were written in several languages. There was one woven and worn couch, along with a matching chair, which sat around a TV from 1980s. In the next room there was a plastic table and an open kitchen with hammocks hanging all around. The ceiling wasn’t there, so the rain entered without asking and sweetly cooled the summer night. Justo led me to my room, which would be shared with two other people. My bed was a mattress on the floor without a pillow and without a sheet. I didn’t care. My body collapsed with relief and exhaustion. I fell asleep to the sounds of music in the streets and rain beating a tin pot. I did it. I was there and I knew it’d be amazing.