Christmas in Kingston

 

This tree was from the last place I had in Türkiye.  That was the only apartment that had any decorations for the holidays. It was only one of the things that made that place better than this new one. 

Josef briefly showed me around and let me know that I have access to the pool out back.  He lived on the property so he was available for any assistance.  He wished me a good stay and left me to it.

I’m not a fan of studio apartments.  I don’t like seeing my unmade bed when I’m eating or cooking – that’s just a me thing.  While the kitchen in the place was decent enough (lots of counterspace which is a rarity outside of the U.S.) the rest of the apartment was only okay. 

I will say that the little accent chairs were comfortable enough for a rest while I calmed myself down.

And, yeah, it took a minute.  The okayness of the place just wasn’t making me feel any better about this trip.  But it was what it was.  I would have to figure it out.

This wasn’t my first choice of Airbnb.  That first host never confirmed my reservation.  It wasn’t my second choice.  That host sent me a message saying that he couldn’t accommodate me.  This was my third choice when I just wanted to have a place to stay.  I should have taken that as a bad omen.

The internet worked the first night I arrived … then refused to work for the next two days.  I had purchased an esim for my phone for the island as I had for Türkiye, Costa Rica, and Portugal.  Except this one refused to work.  Sigh.

Kingston isn’t a pretty city.  It’s kind of run down and everything is covered in chains with bars on the windows.  It reminded me way too much of San Jose.  The city is surrounded by beauty, though.  The mountains rise around the edges and there are gorgeous flowers and plants everywhere. 

There’s a shopping center in walking distance to the apartment.  It’s not an easy or fun walk as you have to cross a very busy street with few crosswalks, no pedestrian lights, and traffic that drives on the other side of the street.  But once I reached the local internet store and waited in a stupidly long line, I tried to buy a couple of sim cards for the phone and for the WIFI hotspot I’d bought in Portugal.  The lady was able to install the card in my phone but couldn’t get it to work on the hotspot.  Okay.

I messaged the host to let him know about the WIFI and began using the phone as a hotspot.  Not ideal, but it would have to do. 

That shopping center also hosts a decent sized grocery store.  It seemed very Americanized with more variety in products than I’ve seen in most places in Europe.  While U.S. currency is accepted by cabbies and some restaurants, it’s still best to use Jamaican money in the grocery stores.  Tap to pay is accepted in most places as well.  1 USD = 156.08 JMD

I visited the Bob Marley Museum one day as it was about a mile from my apartment.  I just looked around the outside since I wasn’t that interested in going in.  Yes, that man’s legacy is all over the island, but since I’m not that big of a fan, I passed on giving him any money.

Popeye’s is big there as is KFC.  I was stunned to see a Wendy’s not far from my place.  Out of sheer nostalgia, I had to have lunch there once.  The wait times for these places (and for everywhere) are insane.  It’s just expected that everything will take a long time.

Case in point: I went to the other major grocery store in the area.  It was another cramped space full of people shopping for the Christmas meal the next day.  I was only there to pick up a few items but since there is no 10 items or under line (and certainly no automated checkouts) I had to wait.  And wait.  And wait.  I kid you not, it took me an hour to get through the checkout line.  And again, everyone just expects long wait times.  I heard a woman pass by saying she should have gotten there before 9.  This was early in the morning but apparently it still wasn’t early enough.

The apartment came with a set of knives sharp enough to cut through time.  I’m not complaining – most places barely have a single decent knife.  This only became an issue when I was doing the dishes one night and sliced a big chunk out of my finger.  Blood everywhere on the day before Christmas. 

(Uh, sidenote: a small first aid kit is essential during long-term travel.  You’ll never know when you’ll need a band aid and some anti-bacterial ointment.)

The whole experience was just draining.  The air felt heavy in my lungs as I walked.  The constant honking of horns on the busy streets quickly gave me a headache (cabs would honk at every pedestrian they saw looking for a fare).  The beaches in the area were miles away.  As the week progressed, that wrong foot that me and Jamaica started on quickly grew gangrenous.  I contemplated cutting it off with one of those samurai swords disguised as kitchen knives.   

Still, there were a couple of … I won’t call them highlights, but at least they were something.  I’d gotten the last of the American food out of my system that week so no more funny tummy (thank goodness).  The cough was slowly going away.  I did get some writing done between bouts of sitting by the pool to read.  The internet eventually came back on and I had no more problems with it for the rest of the week.  I slept surprisingly well in that place – so much so that my bedtime slipped from 10 p.m. down to 8.  I was not feeling Kingston at all and just wanted to sleep.

Josef, the host, messaged me on Christmas morning saying he had a present for me.  We arranged for him to come to the apartment that afternoon to deliver it.  Before that time arrived, he asked if I would be interested in some of the brunch his family had served.  That was such a nice offer!  I said sure and he later came down with his sister-in-law carrying some chocolate, homemade punch, and a plastic container full of food.  A highly appreciated Christmas present.

December 26 was moving day.  After agonizing for days, I decided to give Jamaica another shot.  Kingston was not the right choice for me, but that was my fault for not planning better.  I figured I’d take a chance on a part of the island that was known for its beaches.

The Tenth Country

The travel part of this journey is really working my last nerve.

I really just want to go back to Portugal.  The soonest I can go back is sometime in February.  Until then, I still have two months left on my Turkish visa.  I figured I’d stay there until my Schengen days reset, but I didn’t want to deal with any more rain.  January is the coldest month for that region.  Since I was already in the states, I figured I’d dip down to the Caribbean and soak up some sun for a few weeks then return to Istanbul.

Arranging the flights, though, was just … ug.  My flight out of Huntsville was at 7 pm to return me to Atlanta.  The next flight was at 6 a.m.  So, yeah.  From 9 p.m. to boarding, I wandered Atlanta airport along with a bunch of other holiday zombies.

It sucked. 

Then, somehow, despite being at the airport for hours, I still ended up caught in numerous lines for baggage drop off and security.  One minute the place was nearly deserted and then suddenly it was full of folks, including dozens of military troops on midnight deployment.  I also had to check my carpet bag as well as the rolling bag for the first time this year, at my expense, of course.

I’ve had this persistent, phlegmy cough for days now.  American food no longer agrees with me so I also have a mild stomachache most of the time and some tricky bowels.  Not exactly in tip top physical condition to withstand the lack of sleep and a general air of I’m-tired-of-this-B.S.

Finally boarded the short flight to Ft Lauderdale.  Yeah, I know.  Florida.  It couldn’t be avoided.  Then it was onto the next two-hour flight … if I could figure out the lines.  The place was packed with people, none of whom knew what was going on, including a little girl who insisted on wailing the entire time.  I knew how she felt, but I still didn’t want to hear it.  We stood in a cluster for a full ten minutes after boarding should have started with no sign of progress and no word from the attendants.  I tried to move forward only to have a man with an apparent Napolean Complex put up his hand and shake his head.  Well, then tell us what’s going on, you little sh -- 

Apparently, there was a medical emergency.  Some guy had passed out and we had to wait for the med staff to show up with a gurney.  I felt for him, but still couldn’t figure out why that was stalling our boarding.

We got on the plane.  Yay!  And then … nothing.  We just sat there for around two hours.  The captain would periodically come on to say that the ground crew was still calculating the weight of the plane for takeoff or that sitting on the tarmac had depleted our fuel so they had to call a fuel truck.  It was only after an hour of loud complaining were we finally allowed to unbuckle our seatbelts and were offered some water.

Just my luck, the loudest complainer was the man sitting next to me in the middle seat.  While I agreed with his outrage, I still didn’t need his loud, accented voice in my ear.  I just closed my eyes and tried to keep myself calm.  Yes, this delay sucked and the airline could have handled things better, but at least I was out of that airport and away from all those people. 

The way I saw it, I’d brought this on myself.  I put Florida on the no-fly list earlier this year for a reason.  But, no, I just had to go to Jamaica.  Since I couldn’t find a non-stop flight, I had to go through Fort Lauderdale.  During the Christmas season.  This was entirely my own boneheaded fault.

Even after finally taking off and landing safely on the island, the trip didn’t get any better.  It actually got worse.

Just as a refresher, I’ve had the privilege of traveling through nine countries this year; Portugal, Greece, Ireland, The Netherlands, Bulgaria, Türkiye, Thailand, Singapore, and Costa Rica.  I say this with zero hyperbole – Jamaican immigration is the worst experience I’ve ever had entering a new country.  Even worse than my first trip into Türkiye. 

Americans don’t need a visa to enter the country.  Everyone coming off the plane is required to fill out a form online after landing.  Okay.  I scanned the QR code and started inputting the usual stuff like name, passport number, duration of stay.  Then the questions got a bit intrusive.  They asked occupation (I don’t have one – you gotta problem with that?), what pharmaceuticals I brought in (do my prescriptions count?  The attendant couldn’t answer that), what did I intend to declare (my computer, maybe?  The attendant couldn’t answer that one either), what countries had I visited in the last six weeks (a couple – all better than this country even, God help me, the U.S.).  The questions just went on and on.

When I was finally okay with my answers and showed the attendant my confirmation, he then sent me onto a kiosk.  This part seemed pretty standard as I had done it in multiple other countries.  I tried to scan my passport but kept getting an error message.  One of the roving attendants saw the trouble I was having and scanned it himself with no problem.  

Then there were more questions.  Where was I staying (answers must be in a specific format that I couldn’t get right the first time)?  Was it a hotel or a residence?  What was the airline and flight number that brought me here? Jamaica, I’m already tired.  What else do you want, a blood sample?

The attendant saw my progress and directed me to take my glasses off and look up for the camera.  The kiosk then spit out a receipt full of info, including a grainy black and white photo of a haggard looking woman.  I took the receipt to stand in line for a woman sitting at a desk.

I handed her my passport and receipt and she asked to see my phone.  I glared at her.  I just spent 10 minutes entering all my info on their website.  THEN I did it again on their kiosk.  Why the #%#% would she need to see my phone? 

Before I could hand it to her, she waved me off as the info had appeared on her screen.  Goody.  She checked my passport and info, then sent me off to the next hoop I’d have to jump through. 

The hallway leading to baggage claim passed through a brief shopping area.  Women tried to entice me with perfume and booze while I shook my head and kept walking.  Then it was time to jostle for position to find my checked bags.  Now, I know that Jamaicans are a very laid-back people, but with as long as immigration took, the bags should have been unloaded by now.  Still, I stood there watching for my bags on the conveyor belt, getting more upset and frustrated.  One of the women beside me commented that they were taking bags off the belt on the other side of the room, so I went to try my luck.

I found my bags quickly, breathing a sigh of relief that they hadn’t been lost.  Ignoring the time I’d wasted watching the belt, I grabbed my stuff and looked for the exit.  Only I couldn’t find one.  Instead, I saw desks headed by signs for Declare (in red) or None to Declare (green).  Taking a guess, I got in the green line. 

I noticed an x-ray machine up ahead and sighed again for other reasons.  Like I haven’t been through enough machines to permanently fry my organs at this point.  A woman met me before I got there and checked my passport.  AGAIN.  She asked me what was in my bags.  Things to cover my nakedness, why do you ask?  I made a show of opening my carpet bag to show her the mess of everything that wasn’t clothing or my computer.   She walked away with my passport (not the first attendant to do that) and I dragged my stuff over to the x-ray machine.  She gestured me to stand to one side as my info was checked then handed back my passport and waved me on.

Finally outside and able to breathe some fresh air, I was faced with even more confusion.  Why the hell was everyone just hanging around outside of the airport?  The road in front was loaded with cars. but no buses or taxis to be seen.  It was the same chaos from inside just out in the hot air.

With most of the benches full, I found a ledge to sit on and finally lost it.  Fatigue, frustration, lack of sleep, too much noise, too many people, and too little food had me at the end of my rope.  I just sat there and cried for a while. 

Yanking up my big girl panties, I pulled it together and went off in search for a cab.  By some miracle, I spotted one and ran over.  He was indeed available and accepted American currency (my host had already informed me that the ride over should be about 35 USD).  I told him the location and we were on our way.

What to say about the ride over?  At least in Istanbul, they drive on the right (usually)?  In Jamaica – yeah, no.  There were plenty of abrupt stops, dodgy turns, and rough streets to rival Türkiye.  I looked out the window and tried to be excited to be in a new place, but I was just too damn tired to care.  When my driver asked about my trip to the island, I told him it had been awful and that I was wiped.  He told me it would take a few days to get acclimated and he was sure I’d enjoy my stay.  If you say so, pal.

He got me to the place with no problem (didn’t even need to use my phone) and charged me the $35 as expected.  I handed him a 50 and he asked if I had something smaller.  I did not.  The bill was a Christmas gift from the father, so I told him to just keep the change.  He would end up earning it.

The Airbnb I rented is in a gated community and the gates closed just as we pulled up.  I knew it wouldn’t take much more to have me in tears again.  And, look at that.  My phone won’t connect to the internet.  No access to Airbnb and the instructions I’d need to get into the place.  Pushing the button on the intercom was useless and the woman in the car behind the cab honked at us to get out of her way.

Well, that did it.

I went from cursing to crying in about three seconds.

My cab driver, lovely man that he was, asked my name and used it repeatedly to get me to calm down.  “You’re in Jamaica on vacation.  Just relax.”

The gate opened and we drove through.  He got out, again telling me to breathe, and asked a nearby woman about the Dr. Thomas I’d been told to ask for.  A man soon appeared, calling me by name.  Since I was still a weepy mess, I’m sure he, Josef, had no idea what he was walking in on. 

The driver handed off the hysterical woman onto the new stranger.  I thanked him as well as I could while gulping for air and followed Josef to my new home for the week.

Do I have to explain that Jamaica and I are already on bad terms?  The island will have to do a lot to make me not regret this trip.

Georgia, Alabama, and an Unexpected Reunion

 

Considering the issues I’ve had in the past whenever I return to the states, this trip went off fairly smoothly.  No problems with late arrival, no lost luggage, no unexpected layovers.  I landed in Atlanta, collected my rental car, and proceeded to the Airbnb I rented in Roswell.

This was a change from the hotel I normally crash in when in Georgia.  It was cheaper and I wanted to switch things up a bit.  I’ve never rented an Airbnb in the states.  I quickly noticed the difference in American vs foreign hosts.

Most of the notes in the Airbnb listings of other countries merely mention no smoking or pets.  This place had a laundry list of dos and don’ts as well as detailed instructions about using the cookware, taking out the trash, and stripping the beds.  It was a bit much and reminded me that Americans are seriously uptight.

The place, however, was just as advertised and very nice.  It was a little strange being in the in-law suite underneath the hosts as they stomped on my head, but it had its own entrance and was a good place to stay for a few days.  I felt right at home while still acutely aware that I have no home yet.

I ran into the hosts a couple of times, once when the man left the house and once when a disoriented woman came down to the apartment.  Good thing I wasn’t walking around naked.  She apologized profusely, saying she had been out of town and wasn’t sure why the door to the suite had been left open.

My few days in Georgia were all about collecting mail, visiting the storage unit, and handling all the business I couldn’t conduct from outside of the country.  Then it was back to the airport.

After a short plane ride, I arrived in Huntsville, Alabama.  Spending nearly a year as a displaced traveler, sometimes in countries where the residents barely spoke English, I found myself very much in need of the familiar.  Of family.

I declined to stay at my parents’ home – that would have been too much for me to handle.  I chose instead to stay at a local hotel and let my stepmom know where to pick me up the next day.

When she got out of the car, I was proud of myself for not crying.  It was just really good to see her.  I hadn’t seen Cynthia since her visit to fair Woodstock for my surgery in 2019.  The woman has been my lifeline while I’ve been traveling.  Don’t know what I would have done without her support.

We went out to a cozy place for lunch and caught up.  She is recovering from surgery and not doing as well as she would like.  I thought she looked wonderful.  She’s a tough chick who’s been through a lot and is still smiling. 

The table next to ours was full of a bunch of lovely young ladies drinking it up and celebrating the 21^st birthday of one of them.  Cynthia, being the extrovert that she is, struck up a conversation with them.  Even though she has throat issues, she was still convinced to sing a birthday song.  One of the ladies was gracious enough to take some pictures of the two of us.  We’ve known each other for two decades yet we didn’t have a picture together until now.

After lunch, we continued our tour of the city.  I shouldn’t have been surprised by how much it’s changed in 20 years, but it was still a shock.  I haven’t been in Huntsville since the late 90’s and since then that big, small town has become an actual city.  All the construction reminded me of the Atlanta area and not in a good way.  The easy traffic I remembered from my 20’s was long gone as all the new transplants and houses in the area had overrun the back country roads.

While on one of those roads, I suddenly recognized one of the cross streets we passed.  “Cynthia, are we going to your house?”  “Oh, we’ll just go by it.  I don’t think your father’s home.”

The garage door was up.  Oh.  Guess he is home.

Sigh.

“You don’t have to go inside if you’ll be uncomfortable.”  I just shrugged.  Whatever.

I haven’t seen the man in twenty years and with good reason, considering the mess of our dysfunctional family dynamic.  He’s still the same stiff, rigid, creature of habit he’s always been.  Can’t say I was happy to see him, but it didn’t upset me as much as I thought it would.  I even hugged him when offered.  And since Cynthia is reading this, that’s all I’ll say about him.

She took me on a tour of all the changes she’d made to the décor.  Over the years, she’d ripped out the fireplace and the carpeting, replacing the latter with hardwood floors, changed the countertops in the kitchen and furnished rooms I remember as being barren the last time I’d seen the place.  They’d built a deck off the dining room and a shed for his boat and multiple cars.  It was a whole new house.

After the tour, she settled in her favorite chair while the father ate his usual meal of chicken, rice, and broccoli.  That part hasn’t changed.  Nor has his habit of disappearing into the garage for hours at a time as he did after his meal.  I lay on one of the sofas and soon became engrossed in the PBS special playing on the big screen TV.   It was very cozy.

It was also very weird.  I was in this place that had been my home for nine months after college, the same place I had avoided in the twenty years since.  Cynthia had made it over to be very comfortable, a real home full of character and family memories … and I really didn’t belong there.  Didn’t belong anywhere.  Just like my last Airbnb, being in that house just made me long for a place of my own that I simply didn’t have yet.  

I had to leave.  Not wanting to wake my stepmom, I kissed the top of her head and called an Uber.  There was a bar on the front door that I didn’t want to disturb so I begrudgingly went to the garage, hoping the door to the outside was open.  It wasn’t.

I had disturbed the bear from his cave and he jumped up to see to me.  I explained the situation and was told to open the garage door.  Then, since the driver hadn’t arrived yet, he told me to wait inside and he would lock up after me. 

As a parting shot across my bow, he asked me where all the money for my travel was coming from.  He mentioned my age (as he never fails to do when we meet) and the fact that I should be saving for retirement.  I assured him I had it under control and ended the conversation.  I knew from experience that he didn’t ask from genuine concern.  He just wanted to piss on my rainbow again.  That’s just who he is.  I know that by now.

I thanked him for my Christmas card and wished him a happy holiday.  Jumping into the Uber, my shoulders slumped in relief.  I listened as the driver answered a call from his mom.  Apparently, the next day was his birthday.  He explained later that this would be his 51^st anniversary of life and he always devoted the day to his mother as a thank you for bringing him into the world.

That’s nice.  Meanwhile, my mom is long dead and the only person who cares about me lives with a man I can’t stand to be around.  Merry f#^%ing Christmas.

I wished him a good one and headed off to bed.

I checked out the next morning and camped out in the lobby for a while.  My flight out was not until nearly 7 that evening, so I was in no hurry to get to the airport.  Cynthia called and offered to drive me over, stopping for lunch beforehand.  Not necessary or expected but much appreciated.

We lunched, she drove me to see some more sights, we spoke to her daughter, a woman I hadn’t interacted with in years.  We reached the airport and said our goodbyes.  Then it was time for me to leave Alabama, unsure when or if I’d ever return.

Return to Fatih

 

Like I said in my last post from two weeks ago(!), the transition from Portugal to Türkiye was a rough one.  I was in Istanbul for three weeks and it rained almost every day.  The temps hovered around the mid-40’s with just enough drizzle to make sure everything was wet and miserable. 

I’d go to sleep in blackness and wake up in gray.  It did a serious number on my state of mind.  I didn’t want to write, didn’t want to study, definitely didn’t want to look for a job.  Just not the best trip to the city, though it did confirm for me that I will choose Portugal over Türkiye for a new home.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  I extended my stay in the Taksim apartment for another week since it was a decent place.  The host did make things a bit more … interesting by asking for a cash payment instead of going through the Airbnb app.  A cash payment in euros.  But, we’re in Türkiye.  How’s that supposed to work?

All over Istanbul are rows of ATMS.  They usually appear in clusters of 3-5 all from different banks in the city.  They can be tricky, though.  Some do give out denominations other that Turkish lira, but they don’t always have signs to indicate this.  Some have limits to how much they lend, usually 4000 lira at the most.  That’s about 138 USD. 

The host asked for 315 euros which meant I had to hit a couple of ATMs and then find one of the many conversion offices on Istiklal Street.  Needless to say, it was more of an adventure than I was planning on. Despite that issue, I paid the fee and enjoyed the rest of my time in the place. 

I booked the next place for a week in the Fatih region.  I called for an Uber only to realize that in the city, the taxis are the Ubers.  I ended up in a non-Uber taxi thinking it was the one I called, then had to cancel the other one.  Since the new guy had no idea where we were going, I had to lend him my phone with the directions.  I still don’t get that.  Everyone and their mom has a phone.  I shouldn’t have to provide mine for directions in your city.

The new neighborhood is called Sehremini, a nicer looking place than the last.  Although, my intro to the new apartment was not the greatest.

There was a noticeable temperature change when entering the apartment.  Could there be actual heat in the place?  It was very warm, yet I never saw a heating system (there was a radiator in the kitchen, but it was inactive).  It just reminded me that I could never get any of the radiators to work in the last place.  I just bundled up and hoped for warmer weather.

The place was eerily quiet.  That’s usually a good thing in an Airbnb.  But in Türkiye?  It was just weird.  Where was all the horn-honking and random shouting?  The nightly screeching of the neighborhood cats?  I could barely even hear the calls to prayer.  In Istanbul!

In my last place, the call was so loud in the back of the apartment, where the bedroom was located, that I would usually wake up just before 6:30 because I knew it was coming.  I actually like hearing those calls.  It’s part of the charm of the place.

Not to worry, though.  My neighbors made up for the lack of street noise by constantly stomping on my head and talking loudly at all hours for the first couple of days.  Because of the rain, that person was stuck inside as much as me and I really grew to hate him.

Walking along the streets on that first day, I clearly saw the difference in the neighborhoods.  The sidewalks are wide and unbroken, the side streets usually traffic free.  And again there is the quiet.  While it was nice not to have to constantly watch my step because of the broken tiles, bobbing and weaving to avoid the motorcycles coming up behind me on the sidewalk, I think I prefer the bombed-out warzone of Taksim.  There was always something going on outside my window (usually two cars trying to go in opposite directions with a taxi and a delivery truck blocking the way – so many horns!) and the street felt more alive.  My only view on the basement level of the new place was the lovely patio area and that’s it.

As my taxi driver so succinctly put it in his broken English, “Taksim bad.  Fatih good.”  I see what he means.

As with any place in the city, there was easy access to food, shopping, and pharmacies right around the corner from the quiet back street of my apartment.  A weekly farmer’s market set up only a few blocks over.

My last two days in the apartment saw the glorious return of the sun.  So bright!  So pretty!  I went out in the 50-degree weather and just stared at the sky like a woman transfixed.  I was able to walk near Sultanahmet for lunch (making sure to steer clear of Zaza’s hunting grounds).  I strolled along the sea and for a time, all was good in the world.

It didn’t last, though.  As much as I love the city (everything is so cheap!), I’d made the choice days before to get out of that weather.  I knew the decision was a good one when departure day arrived and the sky was gray and foreboding again.  And my taxi driver was another confused man.  I used Uber to get him as well, so he knew we were going to Istanbul airport.  He just didn’t know where at the airport.  His phone led us past a security check on a deserted back road and, after a mistaken turnaround, to the cargo department of Turkish Air.  He pulled over and I just stared.  I’m not getting out here.  I don’t even know where here is! 

He found a guard and asked for directions.  And again, I was confused.  This is a cab driver in Istanbul.  Are you seriously telling me the guy has never dropped anyone off at the international terminal of the biggest airport in the city?  How is that even possible?  Why would the directions on his phone lead to the cargo terminal?  I just don’t understand.

Laughing it off, he let me off at the terminal.  I was just grateful not to have been left in the middle of nowhere.  Then it was onto not one, not two, but three security checks.  First it was the screening as soon as you enter.  Then the main screening which only stood out because they no longer make you separate your liquids or take out computers.  That was a nice touch.  Didn’t stop me from losing another corkscrew and a pair of hair shears.  Totally my fault this time.  I hadn’t remembered to put them in the checked luggage.  Sigh.

The third check was a surprise.  I had walked the six miles to my gate (the airport is massive) only to find it closed off by plastic panels.  My passport was then checked three times before I got to a table where the staff searched my bags.  Then a chick patted me down and waved a wand over me.  Seriously?  We’d all been through normal security.  How much more dangerous could we have gotten in the hour since then?

I sat down to wait, feeling violated and exhausted.  Nothing like being treated like criminal when you’re a paying customer to really take it out of you.  And I had a 12-hour flight ahead of me.  Yes, it was back to America.  It had been almost two months since my last visit so I figured it was time to pick up my mail and figure out my next move.