Transfixed, I watched as people climbed monuments and waved the flag. Men on top of other men's shoulders shouted in Arabic. The smoke of tear gas canisters rose above the crowd. A man with a megaphone stood on a platform while hundreds of protesters cheered.My heart pounded as I logged onto Facebook and typed Wessam Fayed to the search bar. No account. I did the same for our friends Waleed, Amr, Kamel, Achmed, Asmaa, Amany, and Hoda. Anyone I could think of. No accounts. It was as if our friends never existed. Mine is not a story of a "vacation." It is not a narrative of beaches and pools and drinks with paper umbrellas. It is a chronicle of love, of indescribable joy, wet-my-pants laughter, and unspeakable tragedy. This is my account of leaving behind my comfortable life and-along with my husband and daughter-experiencing the world. It's about living life on the road, trying to keep my perspective, my sanity, and my husband from falling off the many twin beds we shared. From lazy days in hammocks to getting swept into civil unrest and wiping tear gas from our eyes, adventure found us at every turn.Mine was a journey of discovering that a heart can never be so full there is no room to love one more, or so tough it can't be broken.