The Intercontinental Hotel comes into view, a vintage postcard come to life. The hotel, only five stories tall but wide, sits atop a high hill and boasts incredible views of the city. I have walked through the front doors in glossy Mary Janes for a family wedding and circled the pool in the back, my small hand fitting snugly in my father’s, as men swam laps and women wearing round-rimmed sunglasses lounged in the sun.

We pass through multiple security checkpoints, pat-downs, and metal detectors to enter the hotel lobby, a grand room constructed of marble, boasting wide columns with gilded bases. Elaborate chandeliers brighten the long marble-tiled hallway, a regal floor designed with medallions and intricate borders to mark off sitting areas with tufted sofas and armchairs.

Men and women in dark blazers and brochure-worthy smiles greet us from behind the reception desk. Sparks of light dance at the far edges of my vision. I sense a migraine coming on, fueled by the recycled cabin air, the lack of sleep, the empty stomach, and more.

We turn our passports over to the woman behind the front desk counter. She has thick, perfectly shaped brows and is a decade younger than me, and still I surreptitiously search her face for any familiar features. Could she be a cousin? Maybe the sister of someone I knew? When she notices my stare, I turn my attention to my phone.

“I hope you will enjoy your rooms. They are on the second floor with a view of the pool, as you requested Ms. . . . Aryana,” she says as she hands my passport back to me. Afghanistan was once named Ariana. I wonder if she can see through my documents and clothes to know that I am made of this earth too.

She points us in the direction of the elevators and assures us that the bellhop will bring our luggage to us shortly. Clay’s room is down the hall from ours. We all need to rest and agree to meet in the hotel lobby in two hours for dinner, adjusting ourselves to local time. Our room is simple but thoughtfully decorated, the pattern on the blue carpet reminiscent of the patterns on the walls of the Alhambra in Spain. The plush bedspread and cushioned headboard are the same regal shade of blue. Our bathroom has steel fixtures against white marble, spotless top to bottom. Two bottles of water sit atop the wooden dresser.

I look out the window while Mom thanks the bellhop for setting our bags inside the room. When she closes the door, she joins me to check out the view.

“I swam in that pool a handful of times. Had plenty of dinners in the restaurant downstairs. It’s strange to see it again, on the other side of a war,” she says.

“This hotel is a five-star experience compared to some places we’ve stayed in, isn’t it?” I add.