There’s something about crossing a political boundary, taking me outside of all the borders I’d been crossing within my own country, that gave it a wildcard quality. Becoming a guest of another country felt vulnerable and precarious.

It’d been nearly three weeks. Certainly not the longest I’d ever gone without, although I’m hesitant to admit what my record is. It’s quite shameful, really. The me of a decade ago would’ve denied it was possible.