There are trips you remember by the places.

This one, I may remember by the vehicles.

Over three weeks, across Morocco, Egypt, Jordan, and Rome, we moved by almost every form of transportation short of submarine, dog sled, and accidental camel theft.

We took planes, trains, taxis, minibuses, boats, feluccas, hot air balloons, camels, donkeys, 4x4s, horse-drawn carriages, and electric scooters.

Some were peaceful.

Some were questionable.

Some had seatbelts.

Some had reins.

Some had drivers.

Some were named Zuzu.

And somehow, through all of it, my mother kept saying yes.

Morocco: The Tiny Taxi and the Camel With No Brakes

Morocco set the tone immediately.

In Casablanca, we started with a train that seemed like a good idea until it took far longer than expected. Then we negotiated our way into a tiny taxi that did not technically have enough passenger space for five people, but apparently had enough optimism.

We squeezed in anyway.

This was our first warning that transportation would not just move us from place to place on this trip.

Transportation was going to be one of the main characters.

Then came the inDrive rides, which felt slightly illegal because they apparently were. Drivers avoided official taxi areas, encouraged us to hurry in and out, and generally behaved like moving tourists around Casablanca was part ride-share, part spy operation.

Later, in the Sahara, we met the camels.

My mother climbed on.

The camel stood up in its awkward front-back camel way, and suddenly she was moving through the dunes of Morocco at sunset.

Or, more accurately, at cloudset, because the Sahara decided to rain.

Still, she did it.

Camels are not graceful vehicles. They lurch, sway, chew, stare, and give the impression that they tolerate humans only because someone made a long-ago agreement they still resent.

But there we were: three generations riding into the Sahara, mist in the air, sand underfoot, and Zakary treating the dunes like the world’s largest playground.

Egypt: Sleeper Trains, Feluccas, and Balloons Over Pharaohs

Egypt raised the transportation stakes.

The overnight sleeper train to Aswan was an experience.

The station in Cairo was modern and beautiful. The train itself looked like it had been waiting several decades for a renovation that never arrived.

Our sleeper cabin was functional, which is travel language for “it moved and nobody had to sleep standing up.”

The steward was friendly and kind, the dinner was simple, and the bunk beds folded down as we rattled through the night toward Aswan.

I will not describe it as luxurious.

I will describe it as memorable.

Then Egypt gave us the Nile.

A felucca in Aswan was the opposite of the train. Slow, quiet, breezy, peaceful. We wrapped ourselves in blankets and glided along the river while the sail caught the wind.

At one point, a nine-year-old boy paddled alongside us on a board, singing songs in multiple languages for tips.

This remains one of my favorite business models of the entire trip.

Then came the hot air balloon over Luxor.

We stood in a cold field before sunrise while dozens of balloons lay flat on the ground. Then the fans started, the burners lit, and suddenly the field glowed with color. We lifted into the sky with about 60 other balloons rising around us.

Below us were fields, temples, villages, and the Valley of the Kings.

My mother, who had already ridden camels and sleeper trains, now floated above ancient Egypt in a wicker basket.

At this point, I stopped being surprised.

Jordan: Zuzu to the Rescue

Petra gave us Zuzu.

We had chosen the back-door route into Petra, which sounded clever until we accidentally paid an unofficial driver who dropped us off before the actual trailhead.

So we walked.

Then we reached the 800 stairs.

My 81-year-old mother looked at those ancient stone steps and made one of the more sensible decisions of the trip: she accepted help from a donkey.

Zuzu carried her uphill toward the Monastery area, while she dismounted for the downhill sections because bouncing downward on a donkey over ancient stone is apparently where even her adventurous spirit draws a line.

Fair enough.

There was something beautiful and hilarious about the whole thing. My mother riding Zuzu into Petra, the kids moving ahead, the rest of us climbing, the desert opening around us, and one of the world’s great archaeological sites waiting at the top.

Travel often gives you the story you did not know you were there to collect.

Petra’s story had long ears and excellent footing.

Rome: The Scooter Gang

By the time we reached Rome, we should have been transportation experts.

We were not.

We were vulnerable to Orin’s suggestion.

“Let’s use scooters.”

The hop-on hop-off bus would not work well through the old city. Walking everywhere would take too long. So somehow, the idea of electric scooters became reasonable.

I rode with Zakary.

Teyauna rode her own.

Orin took my 82-year-old mother on the back of his scooter.

And off we went.

Across cobblestones.

Through Rome.

Past ancient buildings.

Toward the Vatican.

Toward the Colosseum.

Toward what I can only describe as a family memory with mild vibration damage.

The scooters rattled over the stones, bounced through the streets, and carried us faster than walking would have allowed. My mother laughed behind Orin like she had been promoted from grandmother to Roman charioteer.

After camels, trains, feluccas, balloons, and Zuzu, the scooter almost made sense.

Almost.

We ended the day with gelato beside our hotel, which is the proper ending to any transportation experiment involving cobblestones and questionable judgment.

The Journey Was the Story

Looking back, the trip was not just Morocco, Egypt, Petra, and Rome.

It was how we moved through them.

The tiny taxi in Casablanca taught us flexibility, mostly in the knees.

The camel ride taught us that the Sahara is magical even when it rains.

The sleeper train taught us that “vintage” is sometimes just another word for “still operating.”

The felucca taught us that slow travel is sometimes the best travel.

The balloon taught us that early alarms can be forgiven if they lift you over Luxor at sunrise.

Zuzu taught us that donkeys deserve more credit.

The scooters taught us that Rome is best seen with gelato nearby and a grandmother willing to trust her grandson’s balance.

And my mother taught us something bigger.

Say yes.

Not to everything foolish.

Not without caution.

But say yes to the moments that make the story.

At 81 and then 82 during this trip, she rode more forms of transportation than many people do in a decade. She laughed, adapted, climbed, floated, bounced, squeezed, sailed, and scooted her way through four countries with her grandchildren.

That is the part I will remember most.

Not just the pyramids.

Not just the Sahara.

Not just Petra.

Not just Rome.

But the sight of three generations moving through the world together, sometimes gracefully, sometimes awkwardly, often hilariously, and always with another story waiting around the next corner.

Travel is not only about where you go.

It is about who is beside you.

Or behind you on a scooter.

And if you are lucky, it is about reaching the end of a wild three-week journey and realizing the best memories were not just the famous sights.

They were the rides between them.