Feeling less overwhelmed now that I had comfortably sunk into my personal couch, my mind drifted into an uncontrollably giddy state as I mused about finally joining my father on his yearly geological research trip to the reefs of Indonesia.

From the start, he had made it clear that this was not to be a vacation, but a chance to learn about the world while working for him to make money over the summer. However, at this point I had completely forgotten that fact, and marveled at what fun I would have bashing around a foreign land without a care in the world or so I thought.

I awoke from my daydream as a giant of a man approached my seat. I glanced upward and upward still until my eyes met his. He was fairly dark, with a light brown mop of hair messily combed over his educated glasses. At a glance he could have been a very professional-looking man, but upon closer inspection I examined his bright white Nike tennis shoes, which seemed strangely out of place in accordance with his full business suit. His towering figure and bland expression repelled my interest, and I prayed silently that he would not sit down next to me.

He did.

I wondered if he spoke English, and was horrified at the possibility of being stuck on a 14-hour flight with someone who didn't. However, I was pleasantly surprised, and checked my pessimism as my new neighbor began a wonderful conversation, accompanied by a beautiful French accent. I soon came to learn that he was not only versed in French, but also in English, Dutch, Japanese and Spanish. Impressive.

I spoke only one and a half. The three years of high school Spanish were hardly mentionable in the face of such an overwhelming lingual portfolio. Still, I ventured that one day I might also enjoy his amazing ability to communicate, although it wasn't until later that I fully understood just how desperately in need of clear communication I would be.

Fourteen wretched hours after boarding, I arrived in Hong Kong, frazzled to say the least. After the inedible airplane cuisine, a nearly sleepless night despite my luxurious accommodations, and more than a day without a shower, I must have appeared a dreadful sight for the few scattered airport employees who speckled the empty shops and restaurants. It was 6 a.m., Hong Kong time.

I exited my flight to witness not the aviation hub that Hong Kong International Airport is famed to be, but a monstrous, desolate, globe of a building, and fewer travelers present than in any other airport I had ever encountered. Opened in 1998, the airport structure was overwhelmingly modern and immaculate. The airport platform consists of a man-made island off the north coast of Lantau island.

Although architecturally grand, the stark environment of the gaping structure was less than impressive in comparison to the beautiful scene of luminous green mountains visible through the huge panes of glass that enclosed much of the terminal. I felt like an insect contained in a glass jar. Why was I stuck in this sterile prison while beautiful Hong Kong beckoned from just beyond the glass? Where were all the other travelers? Why didn't anyone take American dollars? The place was uncomfortable from the start.

In preparation for the 8-hour layover I had ahead of me, I began to seek out an interesting spot to rest, relax, and engage in what had proven to be my favorite sport while traveling: people watching. As soon as I found a comfortable area to sit, I came to realize that the airport was far less adventurous than I had expected: no bustling travelers, no families hurrying their children alongÉnothing.

Nothing but a few perfectly sanitary janitors dressed in perfect white uniforms, sweeping over lonely squares of already stainless carpet. I found it impossible that my first stop on what was to be an exotic adventure to the Mentawai Islands of Indonesia could be so bland. An hour into my layover, I craved conversation, and feared the burden of having to communicate despite language barriers. I soon became desperately lonely and homesick. I decided to write postcards.

After writing as many postcards as my hand could take, I packed them into my bag and left my solitary perch to drop them in the mail. I searched for the mail drop, avoiding discussion, even with employees who may have been helpful in aiding my search. Due to my stubbornness, it took me some time to locate the mail drop, but I finally did so successfully.

As I approached the mail slot I realized that I had not placed a stamp on any of the cards. I searched my bag to find the stamps I was sure I had brought, but my hand came up empty, and I looked around again in frustration. I unhappily accepted the fact that I would now have to buy a book of stamps, and began to make my way through the airport once again. Although one would think that postage and post would be placed conveniently together, I soon found that stamps could not be found anywhere near the mail drop.

Perplexed and aggravated, I walked down an infinite line of carbon-copy airport shops in search of that necessary, tiny, sticky square.

Unfortunately, at the beginning of this journey I had no idea that, as visitor information claims, "The passenger terminal [in the Hong Kong Airport] is perhaps the world's largest enclosed space." As I walked through the terminal I had no idea that, in fact, the airport measures 550,000 square meters, about nine times the size of the old Kai Tak terminal, and the distance from entrance to end of the Y-shaped walkway measures 1.27 kilometers.

I searched every square centimeter. Through the expansive strip of more than 150 outlet stores, past 26 restaurants, beyond gate after repetitious gate, I found nothing.

Stopping every couple of minutes to ask for assistance, I soon found that English was common, and felt somewhat secure communicating with the smiling, happy, airport employees. They were almost too happy, with trained exuberance that forced them to smile and say an excited, "you're welcome."

The employees' merriment may have not been so nerve-racking had each one not told me to go in a different direction than the one before. If it wasn't the exact opposite direction from which I had come, it was to another terminal, another gate, sometimes "just down there" accompanied by a finger pointed vaguely toward one of 10 directions. Impossible.

After a full hour and 15 minutes of wandering aimlessly and unsuccessfully through a structure I now absolutely despised, I had slowly made my way back, about 10 yards from my original writing place. I was shocked. As I glanced to my left, a large metal machine glared back at me in the morning sun. It was a stamp machine, and I was furious. A sheet of paper was plastered across the gleaming metal.

The plain white sign was printed in five languages so that I might be absolutely clear of the message it displayed: OUT OF ORDER. I wanted to kick, punch, hit, hurt, mangle this machine. An overwhelming rage consumed every part of my body, built up over an hour's journey across a terrain of moving walkways, monotonous carpet, and ever-smiling happy Asian faces. I wanted to burst out and scream:

"What do you mean the stamp machine is out of order! Do you understand what I've been through? I want my stamps and I want them NOW!" Instead I silently walked away, glancing back at the sticky squares that taunted me from just beyond the glass.

Three days and 3,000 kilometers later, I sat on a wooden bench atop a fisherman's boat, en route from Padang to the Mentawai islands, accompanied by my father and nine crew members. These islands are located some 130 kilometers to the west of West Sumatra and its capital, Padang.

Of the four islands, the largest and most northerly is Siberut. Immediately to the south is Sipora, which lies a little way to the north of the two islands that complete the group, North and South Pagai. While these are the main and largest islands, small islands are scattered all around and in between the Mentawais.

As I came to find out, the stamp had only been the very mild beginning to many other, more severe dilemmas that would come to take place throughout the journey. The list included: having to turn around after getting halfway to our destination, turning back to retrieve forgotten survey equipment, heading out again only to turn around due to a storm, all the while enduring a serious case of seasickness. Paradise. The ordeal lasted a total of 20 hours. Despite our never-ending mishaps, the sight of the open sea seemed to relax and compose the entire crew.

As the boat chugged on, flying fish broke the crystal surface of the water, and once again I pondered what else might be beyond the glass plane of the cloudless water that lay all around. Bright green islands were scattered over the blue seascape, as we approached the first set. The vegetation was thick and uncut. The beaches were light and inviting. Barely visible coral lay just beneath the waves, its white color radiating like a ghost swimming just beneath the surface.

Exotic birds called through the trees and echoed in my head as we passed. Each day at sunset, prayers were broadcast over loudspeakers, and had an entrancing effect as they reached their Muslim followers. The majority of the island residents chose Catholicism or some other branch of Christianity, while a smaller group chose Islam.

The boat might as well have been sailing through a tropical paradise calendar -- the kind businessmen had hanging on their office walls at home. Coconuts hung from each palm that skirted the beach, and mangrove trees hung low to the water off the island's shores. The sight was breathtaking and mesmerizing. As I daydreamed about the beautiful sight before me, I half-imagined savage English boys running suddenly out of the forest, as in William Golding's "Lord of the Flies."

Half an hour after arriving at Tuapejit harbor, I accompanied a lively, light-hearted crew member named Emum to the shore to begin surveying. We found ourselves in a small town, comprised of a school-like building, one store that sold noodles, rice, and other convenience items, and a few scattered houses, drifting back into the hills of the island.

The inhabitants, as most of the Mentawai island's residents, raise pigs and chickens, harvest fruit, and fish to support their families. Their lifestyle was apparent at the first sight of the village.

Just seconds after setting foot on land for the first time since Padang harbor, stares penetrated every inch of both of our very dissimilar bodies. Emum, an Indonesian dive instructor, was thin and dark, as were the rest of the inhabitants. Even so, he stood out, with his fluorescent wetsuit and gleaming white smile. If he was unusual, I was an alien.

The stares of men, women and children seemed to penetrate my white flesh and see right through my sun-bleached hair. I was a foreigner, and I knew it. The sudden realization that it was possible to have ever felt out of place in my own country now became incomprehensible in comparison with the feeling of alienation I now experienced. Even in the company of a crew member who spoke some broken English, I felt isolated, away from my father, and scared that I may have difficulty communicating.

Throughout the islands two languages are commonly spoken. The national Indonesian language is dominant, while a minority speak the Minangkabau language. I spoke neither, and as a result I was sure that any attempted conversation would be a total failure.

As small children began to swarm around us, I felt more and more uncomfortable, until I came to the sudden realization that these children, all about 5 to 7 years old, were in reality probably the least threatening thing I would encounter on my journey. They stared and stared with wondering brown eyes filled with questions they couldn't ask. I wished desperately that I might speak to them.

However, language once again restrained me, and I found myself frustrated again, after not even trying to communicate. They danced and skipped around the survey equipment, as I stood there in what no one else could recognize as utter hopelessness and discontent.

A firm tug on my pant leg shocked me out of inward thought. At my right side stood a dark boy, no taller than my knee. I was awestruck. No supermodel or celebrity's presence could have stolen the breath from my body the way this tiny, fragile character managed to do just by standing at my side. He wore nothing but an oversized, torn T-shirt that might once have been neon green.

Sticking out from underneath were his tiny bare feet that seemed to defy the laws of nature by successfully supporting his wobbly body. His jet-black hair needed cutting; it was uncombed, and rested peacefully over the intensely dark eyes that told a story without speaking. His eyes wanted to know who had wiped the color from my skin. They asked where someone as strange-looking as me could have possibly come from. They wondered why I was here. They asked me my name.

I looked at him like a child first looks at an animal at a zoo: just beyond that glass enclosure, just out of reach, just unattainable. On his side of the glass was a different world. It muffled my voice, and made communication seem impossible. His wondering eyes were met with my equal amazement, as I stared at him, wondering how to deal with this sudden, yet totally innocent confrontation.

"Hello!!" sounded powerfully from his mouth, smudged with dirt from the morning's activities. I must have looked like a baby bird, mouth wide open as if something should have occupied the gaping space it formed. Had he really just spoken? The youngest child of the group, by far, had just spoken to me in my own language. Had he really? I replayed it in my head, mouth continually gaping in utter astonishment. "Hello!" filled my ears again, as the entire rest of the world came to a halt around me.

"H- H- Hu, Hu, Hullo." I sputtered with serious difficulty. "Hello" echoed from his tiny mouth. My reply mimicked his, as a final "hello" sounded automatically from my mouth. The exchange was breathtaking. One word empowered me to communicate with a child from this strange land. Amazing.

At the sound of my voice, the tiny brown arms that rested limp at his sides suddenly rose to cover the broad smile instantly plastered across his face. He laughed hysterically as he unsteadily waddled away.

Emum waved his hand in front of my face to regain my attention, as he laughed at the situation from his perspective. An outspoken American girl had been rendered speechless by a 3-year-old Indonesian boy. What seemed comical to Emum served as an astonishing personal realization.

For the past few days I had been frustrated, angered, overwhelmed, and eventually silenced by my sudden speech disability. I had been as frustrated at my inability to speak as I had been looking through the glass walls of the airport. Language discrepancy became the glass, and communication was waiting just beyond the surface. But this time the surface was cracked. A sudden window to the Indonesian world was opened.

After all my failed attempts at discussion, I felt strangely victorious after simply repeating one of the most basic words in my language. As I had learned in the first days after my arrival, there are in fact four different ways to say hello in Indonesian. "Selamat pagi" served as hello in the morning. "Selamat siang" at noontime, "Selamat sore" in the afternoon, and "Selamat malam" at night. These similar phrases were easily confused, and I had found myself chuckling when I happened to accidentally say "goodnight" at 6 o' clock in the morning.

All those unsuccessful interactions were suddenly forgotten with my new accomplishment. The emotionless frown I had worn during my failed attempts to speak turned into a broad, gleaming smile for the remainder of the afternoon and evening.

The next morning the decision was made to return to the town to finish surveying. The crew seemed to wonder why it was that I volunteered so excitedly to return to the town with Emum to do what was thought of as somewhat tedious instrument work, but Emum smiled knowingly as he accepted the offer of a companion.

We stepped off the small boat later that morning and were received with warm familiar looks from the villagers. As we set up our survey equipment once again, my eyes scoured the landscape, searching for children. Slowly, they emerged from the small buildings and surrounding forests, and approached the equipment with their beautiful, wondering eyes.

The small boy from the previous day saw the excitement and joined the group, running sloppily behind the rest of the older children. They asked questions in Indonesian, and Emum happily answered, while attempting to successfully run the equipment without stepping on the swarm of children. Instead of feeling lost and overlooked as before, I listened intently and enjoyed the beautiful flow of language that others might have seen as childish jabber. They held nothing back, asking question after curious question, until a usually placid, cheerful Emum looked as if he was about to burst.

In an effort to allow him to work without distraction, my first reflex was to pull out 10 caramel apple suckers I had held within my bag. The children were suddenly silent. They formed a perfect semi-circle around me, and patiently waited their turn to receive the suckers I happily passed out. No words were exchanged, just a wonderful look in each child's eye, as if they had just received the most beautiful, valuable, foreign object they had ever set eyes upon. Suddenly an American child's shallow "thank you" would never again have the same value. Their eyes lit up with true thankfulness, and their patient acceptance showed their gratitude.

After the suckers were gone, the children needed once again to be entertained. Girls ran off to play recklessly with limp-bodied kittens, and slingshots emerged from each boy's pocket. Crafted out of a forked stick, and 20 to 30 rubber bands wrapped around each other, the toys reflected amazing craftsmanship, in comparison with the store-bought plastic bangles children at home played with.

After some time the other children, more shy than my little friend, began to trust me. Through hand motions and simple sounds, we began to communicate. I voiced my interest in attempting to try to use a "katapel" the translation for "slingshot" that, with Emum's help, I pronounced correctly. A small boy hurriedly granted my request, and I picked up a tiny pebble as he instructed, using hand motions. He must have seen me the same way I saw him: foreign and new, silly and entertaining. I welcomed the attention, as did the children.

The children gathered around as I made my first attempt. Pulling back the rubber bands as far as they would go, the stick shook, the bands stretched snap! The rock made a pathetic, whistling tumble to the ground a few yards away. My poor attempt received laughter from many of the children, as they helped teach me to hold the stick properly, open only one eye, and let go of the pebble quickly. My skills greatly improved. I had learned something without speaking one understandable word to these children. It was awesome.

In the big harbor towns I always had someone who spoke Indonesian negotiate for what I wished to buy, standing by and watching the interaction take place. Here I was part of the action, included and understood. I had made friends.

I asked the boy who seemed to be in charge if he would like to trade one of his slingshots for one of my chocolate bars, by showing him the chocolate, and pointing to his slingshot. He didn't understand. The confused look I received in response told me that he might think I had intended to shoot the bar using the slingshot, and how comical I must have seemed. I slowly took the slingshot, gave him the bar, and repeated, giving him back the toy he had taught me to use. Connection. He understood, and agreed. Both of us thought we got the better deal. Both of us went home with a piece of something that exceeded the value of a tasty chocolate bar, or a foreign keepsake; we went home with pieces of each other.

I sat on the deck of the boat that night, thinking over the day's events. Looking back at myself hurriedly rushing through the airport, I realized how easily I had allowed myself to become so incredibly angry at my incapability to understand a foreign place, partly due to language. I recognized how silent I had been since I had arrived on board. I thought about how I had not yet attempted to have a real conversation with a crew member.

I felt ashamed. For the better part of the journey, I had labeled myself as American. Therefore I was not Indonesian, therefore I was not able to speak. I had set my ideal after a man who had learned to communicate through the use of five languages, and came to the conclusion that if I could not do the same, there was no way for me to engage in a valuable exchange with a foreigner. After eliminating in my mind any chance of real intercultural exchange on this journey, it took a group of children to help me come to the realization that no matter what the boundary, there would always be a way, sometimes not the most obvious way, to overcome it.

Even if the barrier may appear totally impassable, the answer might be just beyond the glass.