When I was seven, my family moved across the world to spend 12 years in Mongolia. I still remember the day our plane touched down and the drive from the airport, drinking in the new sights, sounds, and smells: the Soviet-style apartment buildings, the old women sitting together in their traditional Mongolian coats, the little kids walking home from school with their ice cream cones, the tiny shops along the road that sold everything from Coca-Cola to socks, and the unfamiliar language that grew to be so sweet to my ears.