As someone who normally stands behind the camera, it was a terrific honor to host such a well-made film in such a special corner of Africa. I was so grateful for the chance to share everything I love about the brilliant cities of Cape Town and Durban with the rest of the world.

I hope you can catch the full show on television, but for those who want a sneak preview, you can catch me in this clip, tracking rhinoceros, cooking up some Cape Malay cuisine, diving with sharks, meeting Gandhi’s granddaughter and making some unforgettable African friends.

I owe a huge thank you to the director, producers, cameramen, and crew for doing such a beautiful job. I am also deeply indebted to the multitude of South Africans who helped make this film possible.

I hope you enjoy watching it as much as I enjoyed making it.

Only when I come home does the mindful stimulation of travel get replaced by the daily horrors of the world played out on loop, it seems, across every digital screen I encounter.

After traveling for an almost consecutive eight months, I returned home for a short break and the latest news of bombs exploding in Boston. Somehow, this particular tragedy felt closer, more real and more terrifying than the everyday earthquakes and wars that get reported from more distant places. In Washington, DC, I woke up to a city under heavy, black-clad security, and then up in New York City, the cute candid puppies I typically photograph were overshadowed by a rampant presence of serious and sinister-looking bomb-sniffing dogs.

In the two weeks following the Boston bombings, a hyperventilated tension gripped the city and country that I call home. Folks were not at ease—rather, we were unsettled by the drastic crescendo of horrific and deadly events that seem to occur with more and more regularity. Suddenly the odds of falling victim to random violence are less odd, and we now might risk our lives in such innocent pursuits as going to school, eating popcorn at the movies, or simply watching a race from the sidelines.

By definition, terror distinguishes a great fear . . . or an overwhelming intimidation against individuals and society. Tyrants use terror to control their populations, malevolent organizations use terror to cause mayhem, disrupt order and shatter the trust in the institutions they seek to overthrow, and rogue terrorists cause enough fear to let fear take over.

Unfortunately, fear has taken over much of the world—and the world of travel itself. Twelve years after 9/11, our institutionalized knee-jerk response to the horrific terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, DC has festered and bloomed into a source of intimidation for all travelers. The Orwellian acronym for “transportation security” has achieved just the opposite by spreading a mood of terror and apprehension throughout the general traveling population.

I am rarely discreet about my dislike for the TSA apparatus and the great illogic it represents, and how our travel security program remains perhaps the most un-American activity in America today. Rather than make me feel safer and more secure, our blue-shirted security force personally terrorize me just a little every time I pass through their unholy gates.

The War on Terror has resulted in the dull-paced norm of terror in our everyday lives, in which the traveling public has become the suspect-at-large. I resent this new reality, yet I refuse to follow the fear-mongers’ march. If I did, I would have to stop traveling altogether, and for me, travel is life. In fact, I view travel as the only effective antidote to the pervading fear.

—which is why, on the morning America watched police chase a terrorist suspect through the suburbs of Boston, I sat silently in a plastic chair, waiting for my number to be called. I returned to the agency the next day and retrieved my passport, a hundred pages thicker than the day before.

As head-wagging news anchors wrung their hands on the television in the room, I flipped through the fresh and empty chapter of newly-added passport pages, thrilled by the adventures that each empty square promised. Stalwart American quotes decorated the top of each page and I scanned them until I read this line from one Harry Emerson Fosdick:

“Democracy is based upon the conviction that there are extraordinary possibilities in ordinary people.”

Somehow, this line of wisdom from John D. Rockefeller’s Baptist preacher offered me a firefly glow of hope. I am one of those ordinary people—most of us are—but democracy has granted us the right to a passport, which offers all of us extraordinary possibilities.

My personal war on terror is manifest in using my passport regularly. (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler).

A valid passport is my personal tool against terror, and on that scary day of terrorist aftermath, I calmed my own unease by adding pages to my passport. To travel freely and experience the world openly challenges the very notion of terrorism. Instead of suspicion and assuming the worst in others, travel forces us to trust total strangers and hope for the best. Instead of defining the world by enemies, it lets us color the globe with new friends.

I suspect that this is the reason why tyrants, dictators and demagogues tend to be poor travelers themselves, and why totalitarian regimes are often upheld by staunch restrictions against travel.

During his notorious purges, Joseph Stalin successfully terrorized the Soviet population through systematic arrest, imprisonment, and execution. It is believed that during Stalin’s “Great Terror” (1937-38), the NKVD killed at least 700,000 of its citizens. The effect was real—the population was terrorized and terrified, all trust was shattered between neighbor, friends and family, and Stalin’s power was solidified.

It is fair to report that Joseph Stalin disliked travel. In my guidebook to Ukraine, I wrote a section on Stalin’s summer dacha in Crimea—a bounteous and gabled chateau surrounded by a romantic vineyard on the Black Sea coast. And yet, Stalin rarely visited his own summer home—maybe only a handful of times. Some say the man despised the sun, others say he hated to leave Moscow. I think Stalin was no different than any other despot and that he disliked travel because any kind of new and different surroundings posed a blatant challenge to his own ideas and the brutal bubble he had built for himself. Likewise, the Soviet Union enforced extreme restrictions on travel within its borders and severely limited any foreign travel by its citizens. By so doing, they prevented ordinary people from achieving extraordinary possibilities—i.e. democracy.

The problem with travel is that it creates great empathy. You might study Islam extensively, or read the Koran cover to cover—but until you have traveled in a Muslim country and heard the evening muezzin, or lived in a Muslim neighborhood and benefited from its streetwise solidarity, you will lack a full sense of understanding of Islam. The same is true of any culture, religion, race, language, or nationality. Travel grants us that deeper understanding and lets us see the world through others’ eyes. Travel makes the world infinite.

The opposite of travel is terror and the world’s ultimate postmodern terrorist—Osama Bin Laden (who once traveled extensively from his native Saudi Arabia)—became a victim of his own brand of terror when he spent the final five years of his life hiding out in a concrete compound in Pakistan. The man wreaked havoc in the world, and in consequence, had to stop traveling himself. His world became infinitely small.

Terror is the opposite of travel—instead of the freedom to wander and experience the world with child-like wonder, terror causes us to cower inside our personal safe zones, never growing, close-minded, suspicious, and learning very little.

Perhaps the best aspect of working for National Geographic Traveler is that every day on the job makes me feel just a little bit uncomfortable. I wake up in a strange place with a different language and uncertain surroundings and an unknown future outside my door. I have no idea who I might run into and how they might challenge everything I know and assume to be true. Every moment on the road holds the potential for terror.

As I travel the globe, I encounter terror with sufficient regularity. I have felt terror while dodging traffic in New Delhi and I have felt terror while diving (without a cage) in the open ocean as 10-foot sharks graze past my chest. I have felt the terror of being charged by an emotionally-disturbed elephant, being detained by secret police, bouncing around in worse-than-average airplane turbulence, suffering from unidentified intestinal parasites, confronting an angry street mob, and navigating the Tokyo subway.

And yet all those terrifying moments of travel have made me less afraid of the world and the people who live on this planet. Travel has taught me that most people are good and caring, most places are fascinating and hospitable, and even the most daunting situations will probably turn out alright in the end.

Travel is the opposite of terror. It is how ordinary people can overcome the fear and intimidation of the outside—it is the way we make the unknown world known.

This is why I travel and why I encourage others to travel more. I travel because it forces me to step outside my security perimeter. Perhaps it feels uncomfortable and scary at first, but in the end, I am confident that I will always find adventure, knowledge, and beauty.

I travel to conquer terror and I travel to live in lieu of the news telling me that real life is just too scary and dangerous. I travel because it keeps me on my toes, I travel because it’s great fun, and I travel to stay awake in a world that is half-asleep.

I also learned that Texas is just way too big to fit into any one blog or any single list, but I can share a few of my most distinct memories and favorites from the place where I was born. Though I know I only mildly scratched the gargantuan surface of a big place, this list represents my very best of Texas:

• Best (and biggest!) Rodeo: Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo, Houston, TX
• Best Patriotic Site: Presidio La Bahia, Goliad, TX
• Best Tacos (OK, I’m gonna get in so much trouble with this one, but out of the dozens upon dozens of tacos that I devoured, my favorites were: Alfredo’s (Uvalde, TX), Easy-to-go-Tacos #3 (Los Fresnos, TX), Taco Tote (El Paso), and Guero’s (Austin, TX).
• Best Steak: Country Barn Steakhouse, Amarillo, TX
• Best Barbecue: Kreuz Market, Lockhart, TX
• Best Ice Cream: Blue Bell of course (though Amy’s in Austin is stiff competition). Best flavor? Lemon Bliss.
• Best Sandwich: Crofutt’s, Bayside, TX
• (World’s Best) Onion Rings: Hil’s Burgers in Canyon, TX
• Best Bakery: Naegelin’s Bakery, New Braunfels, TX
• Best Museum: Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum, Canyon, TX
• Best Gift Shop: The Alamo, San Antonio, TX
• Best Boots: Allen’s Boots, Austin, TX
• Best Vintage Shopping: Rag & Bone, Amarillo, TX
• Best Horse: McLeod (Horses on the Beach) Padre Island, TX
• Best Historic Site: Mission San José, San Antonio, TX
• Best Ranch: Cibolo Creek Ranch, Presidio, TX
• Best Coconut Cake: Cornudas, TX
• Best Cafe: Red Top Cafe, Orla, TX
• Best Hotel Room: “Houston, We Have a Problem!” Suite, Hotel Zaza, Houston, TX
• Best Seafood: Doc’s, Corpus Christi, TX
• Best Scenic Drive: US Route 62 from the New Mexico border through Guadalupe Mountains National Park, TX
• Best Mustaches: Pecos, TX
• Best Zoo: Houston Zoo, Houston, TX
• Best Beach: Mustang Island State Park, Corpus Christi, TX
• Best Run: GSL Trail, Palo Duro Canyon, TX
• Best Place to Get a Flat Tire: El Paso, TX
• Best Radio Station: Marfa Public Radio, Marfa, TX
• Best Live Show: The Rangerettes, Kilgore, TX
• Best Country Dancing: Round-Up Saloon, Dallas, TX
• Best Flowers: Azalea Trail, Tyler, TX
• Best National Park: Big Bend National Park
• Best State Park: Washington-on-the-Brazos State Park, Washington, TX

How about inventing new ice cream flavors for Blue Bell?

Christy Moran, food scientist and flavor developer at Blue Bell Creamery in Brenham, Texas (photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

That’s exactly what food scientist and dietician Christy Moran does at Blue Bell Creamery.

“We eat ice cream every day!” she explained to me when I toured the world-famous ice cream maker in Brenham, Texas. Christy and her team get to play with ice cream in their lab until they come up with the best new flavors.

How do they decide what the next flavor will be?

“We think about what you like to eat and we put it in ice cream!” Christy told me. For months, the Blue Bell team pours through food magazines and cookbooks, and even accepting ideas from other Blue Bell employees. From a list of around 200 ideas, Blue Bell developse 5-6 new flavors each year. Most of these flavors are seasonal, because Blue Bell only uses ingredients that are fresh and in season.

I made it quite clear on Twitter that my favorite Blue Bell flavor was Lemon Bliss, which I was able to eat right out of the carton as part of a “consistency test” in the lab. I also had to sample the Red Velvet, and Blue Bell’s bestselling “Homemade Vanilla” right off the line. Yum.

Another hard day at work for me, of course, but given that we still can’t get Blue Bell back home, I needed to optimize my opportunity down here in Texas.

“Testing” the Lemon Bliss ice cream at Blue Bell Creamery in Brenham, Texas (Photo by John Evans)

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Visitors can tour Blue Bell Creameries in Brenham, Texas, Mon-Fri 8:30 am-3 pm

Driving more than 5,000 miles around Texas granted me a lot of radio time, and as I traveled across the wide open landscape of the Lone Star State, I discovered some truly brilliant melodies and lyrics. I also exceeded the daily recommended allowance for country music.

It would seem that for centuries, beautiful Texas has inspired artists and travelers alike to sing about this great place in the world. The following playlist comprises all my favorite songs about Texas, songs that mention the word “Texas”, songs about cities and towns in Texas, songs by musicians from Texas, as well as the official Texas state song. (I owe a Texas-size “Thank You” to all of you for introducing you to so many terrific Texas tunes.)

So, here it is–the ultimate TEXAS playlist:

1. Deep in the Heart of Texas/ Perry Como
2. Bluebonnets/ Cross Canadian Ragweed
3. Southland in the Springtime/ Indigo Girls
4. Cowboy Take Me Away/ Dixie Chicks
5. The Mighty Rio Grande/ This Will Destroy You
6. Too Far From Texas/ Stevie Nicks
7. Merry Go ‘Round/Kacey Musgraves
8. Gone to Texas/ Terry Allen
9. Ohio (Come Back to Texas)/Bowling for Soup
10.  Way Down Texas Way/ Asleep At The Wheel
11. We Are All Where We Belong/ Quiet Company
12. T is for Texas (Blue Yodel No. 1)/ Jimmie Rodgers
13. That’s Right (You’re Not From Texas)/ Lyle Lovett
14. Texas/ Laura Belle Bundy
15. Somewhere in Texas/ Raveonettes
16. Texas Rivers Song/ Lyle Lovett
17. If You’re Gonna Play in Texas/ Alabama
18. Miles and Miles of Texas/ Asleep at the Wheel
19. What I Like About Texas/ Jerry Jeff Walker & Gary P. Nunn
20. Abilene/ George Hamilton IV
21. Houston/ R.E.M.
22. I Don’t Live In Dallas/ Jarrod Birmingham
23. Galveston/ Jimmy Webb
24. Levelland/ James McMurtry
25. San Antonio Rose/ Bob Wills & His Texas Playboys
26. Amarillo by Morning/ George Strait
27. Streets of Laredo/ Johnny Cash
28. Laredo/ Band of Horses
29. Corpus Christi Bay / Robert Earl Keen
30. Travis County/ Gary Clark, Jr.
31. Luckenback, Texas/ Waylon Jennings
32. La Grange/ ZZ Top
33. Villa del Refugio/ This Will Destroy You
34. El Paso/ Marty Robbins
35. Texarkana/ R.E.M.
36. Does Fort Worth Ever Cross Your Mind?/ George Strait
37. Texas When I Die/ Tanya Tucker
38. She’s Like Texas/ Josh Abbot Band
39. Screw You, We’re from Texas/ Ray Wylie Hubbard
40. God Blessed Texas/ Little Texas
41. Texas/ Chris Rea
42. Texas On A Saturday Night/ Willie Nelson & Mel Tillis
43. Yellow Rose of Texas/ Gene Autry
44. Waltz Across Texas/ Ernest Tubb
45. Ride Ranger Ride/ Cass County Band
46. All My Ex’s Live in Texas/ George Strait
47. The Bluest Eyes in Texas/ Restless Heart
48. Texas Flood/ Stevie Ray Vaughan
49. Stars Over Texas/ Tracy Lawrence
50. Red River Valley/ Woodie Guthrie
51. I’m Bound to Follow the Longhorn Cows/ Alan Lomax
52. The Texas Song/ Sandy (from Sponge Bob Squarepants)
53. Texas, Our Texas/ Rick Pickren
54. Blame It On Texas/ Mark Chesnutt

A cowboy sings in Austin, Texas, “Live Music Capital of America” (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler).

I have zigzagged four thousand miles across Texas by car, but all the comfort and speed of machines can never compare to trotting a mile or two in the packed sand of Padre Island.

Out here, on the world’s longest barrier island, the ocean meets the fringe of Texas with ruffled rows of grey-brown surf. Far away from the plains and prairies and hills and desert, the dull-colored sandbar fades casually into the deep blue Gulf.

This land was made for horses. All over Texas I have watched them graze, nipping at spring shoots in Panhandle fields and scraping at the sage brush of Big Bend, and yet only when I arrive at land’s end do I actually swing my leg up over a leather saddle, grab the reins and really get to traveling.

McLeod is an icy white thoroughbred with a sandy mane and deep wet eyes. He is a giant beast, all muscle and backbone and haunches—and his keeper warns me right off the bat: “You gotta watch him, now, he won’t sit still long.”

McLeod, my white thoroughbred (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

“Yeah?” I ask, a little concerned. I am no stranger to a jumpy horse.

“He’s anxious to travel,” they say.

“Well then—we have something in common,” I reply and slide my palm along McLeod’s velvety face.

My horse begins walking, stepping into the dunes, oblivious to the other horses and their respective tourist loads. For the first twenty minutes we get to know one another. I make sure he knows I like a slow and steady pace—I pull up on the reins and hold him back, then release to let him move ahead. He makes sure that I know how much he hates me pulling on his reins—that he likes the water and staying ahead of the pack. Also, he doesn’t like the smaller brown quarterhorse and the smoke from a far away fire and that curious little dog running in the sand.

We get along, this animal that is carrying me down the beach and I, the distant Texan returned home. My month has passed by too quickly, the vastness of this place still a whirl in my head, but now, on horseback—with the soft rhythm of cold ocean waves—only now does my mind slow way down and I feel myself relaxed in the saddle, toes pressed against the stirrups, riding, riding.

Puffs of sand blow away from each hoof as they pull out of the dune; long and beautiful horsetails twitch and swish as the dune flowers flap like flimsy yellow crepe paper in the wind.

The wind is always blowing here, long and strong. It was blowing on the day I arrived in Texas and it is still blowing now—blowing McLeod’s slender mane to the west. Everything else disappears and we are alone—just me and my horse and the great big sea. Hooves splash into the surf and all I do is keep riding—riding and riding across another beautiful mile of Texas.

When I’m in charge of the world, I’ll make it so that all the kids stay in school and anybody over thirty will take a mandatory week off in the spring.

Though everyone warned me that going to South Padre Island in March was a mistake (“It’s a mob scene!”), I found it to be quite the contrary. As a species, vacationing college kids are entirely nocturnal, so that every morning until noon, I found myself walking alone upon miles of silent, empty beach. When night came, I huddled away in my beach-view hotel room and drifted off to sleep just as the juveniles began their shrill cries and boozy mating dance.

Spring Break at South Padre Island, Texas (Photo by AE/NGT)

Aside from college kids who flock from all across America, South Padre is an important migratory hotspot for  so many fabulous birds, including the roseate spoonbill, hilarious loud laughing gulls, and a real beauty, the painted bunting.

As juniors from Kansas State snoozed soundly past breakfast, I tiptoed through the splendid South Padre Island Birding and Nature Center, happened upon a sleepy 10-foot long alligator and watched great egrets and great blue herons swoop within a few feet of my face. The nature is truly splendid down in this tropical corner of Texas and it was hard for me to connect this lively shoreline of sea grass and mangroves to the high plains of the Panhandle and desperate deserts of the west. And yet, all of this is in Texas.

I was even more excited to learn that South Padre is home to one of my favorite animals: sea turtles!

The rare and critically-endangered Kemp’s ridley sea turtle (Lepidochelys kempii) nests primarily on a single beach in nearby Tamaulipas, Mexico, but a few hundred have made South Padre their home. Threatened by decades of poaching, pollution, and getting caught in fishermen’s nets, the smallest of the sea turtle species fights a tough battle to survive in the wild.

While nature accounts for the poor odds of baby turtles by hatching them in large amounts, the Kemp’s ridley can no longer afford such odds. Luckily, South Padre’s Sea Turtle, Inc. is actively involved in recovering injured turtles and rehabilitating them, and then (if they are capable), releasing the turtles back into the wild.

Kemp’s Ridley Sea Turtle is the most endangered of all the sea turtle species. (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

Though Kemp’s ridleys are a special priority, the non-profit organization works with all species of sea turtle, including loggerheads, Atlantic greens and hawksbills.  Aside from treating wounded animals, they are actively involved in turtle conservation and public education.

I simply walked right into their open facility and came head-to-head with a species I had only read about before. For all the great food and fun that’s in South Padre, seeing a baby Kemp’s Ridley swimming merrily about with this three remaining flippers was sheer awesomeness.

Better yet was that I got to meet Allison, a green sea turtle that was rescued in South Padre after she lost three of her four flippers to what was probably a small shark. Although Allison was given only a 5% chance of survival, Sea Turtle, Inc. nursed her back to health, and today, she is alive, healthy, and nine years old! With only one flipper, Allison could only swim in circles, until an ingenious intern devised a prosthetic fin that would provide enough drag to balance her out. Now, visitors to South Padre can come and watch Allison swim with her prosthesis in the deep water tank of Sea Turtle, Inc. Though I have seen so many able-bodied sea turtles swim in the open ocean, none of them compared to watching Allison soar through the water.

This is the great beauty of travel–that you never know what you might find. I came to South Padre prepared for the mad rush of crazed college kids, and instead I found Allison, the amazing green sea turtle who swims with one flipper.

Gerry the Green Sea Turtle is tempted by a lettuce leaf at Sea Turtle, Inc. in South Padre Island, South Texas (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

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Sea Turtle, Inc. is open to the public, Tue-Sun, 10-4, 10-5 in summer. You can donate to Sea Turtle, Inc. here.

Not only does being male disqualify me, but I would never make it past the first audition. Apparently, in order to join the elite dance drill team of Kilgore College, girls must be able to kick high enough to touch boot toe to the front brim of their white cowboy hats.

“You will not get on the Rangerettes if you can’t kick,” says Jan Janes, Director of the Rangerette Showcase and Museum in Kilgore, Texas—and she’s right.

Elaborate kick line routines are the mainstay choreography of this dedicated corps of precision dancers and when visiting their shrine in East Texas, I watched dozens of video clips of the girls, arms linked, kicking so high, that they (to quote my brother), “Make the Wehrmacht look like a bunch of pansies.”

The Rangerette Museum in Kilgore, Texas (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

I had traveled to Kilgore to see the East Texas Oil Museum—a fascinating tribute to the petrochemical wealth of East Texas and the boom that sprung serious life into this corner of the state. Alas, I had failed to call ahead and arrived to learn that the museum was closed for the day.

For me, the real joy of travel lies in the sudden change of plans—because the open road always delivers something far better than we could ever schedule. Just as I was ready to pack up and leave Kilgore behind, I caught a glimpse of the smiling blond vision down the street, a three-story cowgirl grinning and beckoning to me with all the friendship of sunny Texas.

She was not real—more of a permanent paper doll glued to the side of a beige brick building at Kilgore College—but she served her purpose in drawing me away from the oil museum and pulling me towards the Rangerette Museum.

Maybe I am too young and maybe I am too ignorant, but until driving through East Texas, I had never heard of these Rangerettes. I read the sign and wondered right away, “Oh, the Texas Rangers have a female division?” How had I missed this? “Some special unit of woman combatants who could shoot and ride and who defended the great state Texas from evildoers and lawlessness?” I imagined, entering the museum with a wide-open mind.

But no—The Kilgore College Rangerettes are a drill team. In fact, they were the very first dance drill team in America, founded in 1940 at Kilgore College to “keep fans in their seats”.

Early Kilgore College Rangerettes from the 1940′s (Kilgore College Rangerettes Museum & Showcase in Kilgore, Texas)

Like barbecue and church, football is a religion in Texas, and apparently, back in the day, fans used the half-time to run beneath the bleachers for a drink (the practice may have been exacerbated by the fact that Kilgore’s biggest rival Tyler was a dry city).

Kilgore’s creation of the lively half-time show with synchronized dancing majorettes got the fans’ attention. Chatting with Jan at the museum, she said, “Tyler used to beat us in football but we sure beat ‘em in halftime.” Indeed, Kilgore College was the birthplace of the half-time show—the Rangerettes spawned a tradition that gets replayed across America every Friday night in football season and at every Superbowl.

Today, it’s fair to say that the dance team outshines their own football team in a big way. The Kilgore College Rangerettes have traveled the world, performing in dozens of different countries and representing Texas in a way that no football team ever could: 71 young women, rigid with white smiles, wearing the mini-est of mini skirts, white boots and cowboy hats, dancing in lockstep.

Besides their impressive kick lines, the Rangerette’s signature move is the jump-split, where the girls leap into the air and then land on the floor in a full split. I doubt any Texas Rangers, be they policeman or baseball players, could perform such a physical feat.

“Beauty knows no pain,” is The Rangerettes’ official motto (versus the Texas Rangers’ “Courage, Integrity, Perseverance”) and based on my brief observation of their rehearsal at Kilgore College’s Dodson Auditorium, I would say they live and breath by that motto.

“The lower, the better y’all!” yelled Dana Blair, director of the Rangerettes since 1993 and a former Rangerette herself. The girls were practicing a hip-hop number for the upcoming springtime review “Rangerette Revels” dipping low and then jumping high. Dressed in laced-up black boots, they practiced the same move over and over, stopping constantly for critique from their choreographer and director.

“Yes ma’am, Thank You Missus Blair,” The girls replied cheerfully in unison with flawless smiles plastered on their faces. I watched and listened to them repeat that exact same phrase about fifty more times during their practice, to the point of it becoming slightly alarming, or at least disconcerting. They were not saying these lines out of heartfelt gratitude or common courtesy—they were saying it because if they didn’t, something horrible would happen.

Mrs. Blair seemed nice enough, but this was a drill team and she is their drill sergeant. There was no giggling or laughing or playing up on stage—watching the Rangerettes practice was no different than watching a US Marine boot camp where if a soldier made a misstep and forgot to say, “Yes, Sir”, they might have to drop and give twenty.

And yet despite the discipline and physical rigors of the corps, being a Rangerette is a great honor and the dream of many a young Texas girl. Every year, more than 100 girls audition for just 35 spots. Most are trained studio dancers and the competition is fierce—most who make it receive a full college scholarship and a chance to live in the Rangerettes own dormitory on campus.

More importantly, they become part of the Texas tradition and a lesser-known American legend—the team that invented the half-time show and the sport of precision dancing. Though I have now seen them practice in person, and have since watched countless clips of their spectacular routines, discovering the Kilgore College Rangerettes of East Texas has granted me another, new travel dream—that someday, I might come back to Texas and watch the Rangerettes perform live—to find out for myself if they can really kick that high.

The Kilgore College Rangerettes prepare for the spring dance review “Revels”. Intense training, discipline and constant practice make the Rangerettes one of the best precision dance teams in the world. (Photo by Andrew Evans, National Geographic Traveler)

I was grateful for their advice and how it reinforced my belief that no matter where you land in the world, no matter how familiar and mainstream it might be, there are splendid and exotic moments to be found. Dallas, Texas is such a city and even after just one day of perusal, I grew convinced that I needed a few longer days to truly know what this place was all about.

In the morning I was overwhelmed with tulips and bridal gowns at the Dallas Arboretum, then enjoyed a smokey, meaty brunch at Smoke. Afterwards, I explored more of the downtown and arts district, including the Dallas Museum of Art, the outstanding Crow Collection, and Nasher Sculpture Center and in the late afternoon, I was able to peruse the Highland Park and Preston Hollow neighborhoods, famed for the giant mansions that reflect some of the great wealth attached to this city. I also went for the biggest baddest steak in Texas at Bob’s Chop & Steakhouse and had a cracking foot massage. The next morning, I hung out with some of my Twitter followers at Klyde Warren Park (an urban space-turned nature park with its own Twitter address) and talked about how much I had enjoyed Dallas–really.

As I travel across this state, I find it impossible to fit Texas into any particular box–and you can say the same  about Dallas. Anyone who travels here can find whatever they want, from JFK conspiracy theorists soliciting followers to Vietnamese food trucks and glossy high-rises that reflect the passing clouds in blue and copper windowpanes.

I know I’ll return–Dallas is a city with a long To Do list, including a visit to Cowboy Stadium (next time) but until then, I’ll remember everything I did get to see and do in the Big D.

Look at the face side of the money—the one with Andrew Jackson with his big wavy hair. No go up to the upper right hand corner, right beneath the number “20” and the final “S” in United States.

There should be a tiny letter, and if you’re extra lucky, you’ll see a pair of even smaller letters to the left of it: FW.

FW stands for Fort Worth and every buck that’s printed in Texas is printed with those two letters. In fact, the money in your pocket has more chance of carrying the telltale FW than not, because at present, 63% of all American currency is printed at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Fort Worth, Texas.

I never knew that until now—did you? Before visiting the “Money Factory” in Fort Worth, I thought we Americans got all our paper money from my city (Washington, DC)—and, in fact, we used to—but ever since 1991, the Department of Treasury has been printing lots of dollars in Texas.

Compared to the security at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, the TSA looks like a Little League team. There’s no fuss and no exceptions—even I, the digital nomad, had to leave my cell phone in the car. Only with special permission and under the watchful eye of a chaperone, was I able to carry a camera into the hidden world of printing cash.

Watching money become money is like hearing the world’s biggest secret and then wanting to share it with the world. What I noticed first were the massive rolls of paper unwinding onto the printing machines. The heavy cotton paper used for American dollars comes from the Crane Paper Company (just like your wedding invitations). 32 bills are printed per sheet, and there are three different print runs for each side.

It’s quite a process:

1) Offset Printing Three different subtle colors are applied to either side of the paper—the shading and background colored shapes that appears behind the detail. After the offset, the pages are left for 72 hours to allow the ink to dry.

2) Intaglio Printing The offset pages are pressed into the inked grooves of the working plates at 10,000 pounds per square inch, a process that gives American currency its signature feel. (I was amazed by the thick ooze of army-green ink that was automatically wiped across the plates in the printing press.) This is where the portrait, images and the detail of the dollar bills are added, and then once again, the ink is left to dry for 72 hours.

3) Overprinting Finally, the Department of Treasury seal and individual serial numbers are added. In this regard, no two bills are alike.

Quality control is a constant and intense process at the money factory. Electronic eyes scan 8,000 sheets of money per hour, looking for any flaws or inconsistency. I was amazed by the rare throwaway, in which a whole sheet of hundreds was pulled from the pile and crumpled up like any old bad draft.

“That forgotten bit of trash is $3,200! I thought, and as a spectator, it’s hard to watch and NOT think of it all as money—which it is not. Even after successful completion of all three printings, a quality control pass, cutting and bundling into “bricks” of 4,000 notes each, the product is not money.

Only after the cash crosses the threshold of the Federal Reserve vault does it actually magically become real money, and even then, it only enters the world economy when the Federal Reserve wants it to.

Currently, Fort Worth prints $298 billion a year—about one billion dollars per work day. That comes down to 38 million notes per day. If that number is too big to comprehend, I can tell you that I looked into one room where they were printing the next generation of hundred dollar bills (they’re pretty!) lined with stacks of uncut currency. Each stack consists of 10,000 sheets of money, equivalent to $32 million each and there were more stacks than I could count.

As exciting as it was to be surrounded by billions of dollars, it was also slightly depressing to think that most of us will only ever earn and spend a few inches of money. At the same time, I truly gained a new appreciation for the American dollar—not as a bill that represents our economy, but as a patient, well-thought-out work of art.

It takes about 400 hours to engrave a president’s portrait onto a steel plate—a portrait that is engraved backwards by hand in order to print a reverse image. The workmanship of drawing with dots, dashes and lines is so meticulous and refined that fewer than ten people in America are actually qualified to do it.

“If you want to be an engraver, you have to be able to draw,” said Richard Baratz, an engraver with the Bureau who I met at the factory in Fort Worth. Like all engravers, he completed a ten-year apprenticeship in order to be qualified to engrave the designs for American currency.

“Money is art,” he declared, and then pointed to Benjamin Franklin’s backwards face, shining up from the nickel plate of the new hundred dollar bill. “This is portraiture right here, and look at the lettering, all of it is art.”

He’s right—it is art, but too often when traveling abroad, I’m told American money is too green and too boring. Richard disagrees.

“Our money is the most beautiful in the world,” he said and now that I’ve seen how it’s made, I agree wholeheartedly. That American currency is hand-engraved and (basically) letterpressed with incredible small detail makes us unique. When you hold a dollar bill, you’re holding onto a tradition that goes back to Civil War times—1862 to be exact, when the United States began printing paper notes.

And now I will never look at a dollar bill the same way. Instead, I will always search for that tiny FW on the face side and if it’s not there, I’ll know that it was printed in my hometown Washington, DC.

But if it is there—then I’ll know exactly where it’s from: Fort Worth.

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Visitors can tour the Fort Worth, Texas Bureau of Printing & Engraving from Tuesday through Friday from 8:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.