The Adventure that Almost Did not Happen

They told me I was going to get deported.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

I was at the counter, doing my check-in, and facing the flight attendant's categorical refusal, I felt a heavy emptiness sink into my stomach, and red lights flashed zealously in my mind. I was glumly reminded of my last check-in fiasco*. They told me I had two options: buy a return ticket (which I had no money for) or go home and rethink my travel plans (are you kidding me?).

Ok. Ok. Ok.

I had barely forty minutes to come up with another solution. I tried to think rationally, but it's hard to think rationally when your insides are breaking down. I started asking questions, trying to hide the anger and distress in my voice. More than once, I put my elbows on the counter and laid my my face into my hand. Un oeuf dans un cocotier. I probed desperately for a loophole (there had to be a loophole, there is always a loophole).

Finally, it came to me. I only needed proof that I was going to leave the country before my three months were over. If I could not afford a flight, perhaps I could afford another mode of transportation, say, a boat. Throwing myself at my computer, I hastily booked myself a provisional ferry ride. The flight attendant could not refute my idea. Tickets in hand, I ran to the departure gate, travel pillow bobbing against my duffel bag, and made it, just on time, for my first flight.

*My trip to Europe in 2008, I was told at check-in that my flight did not exist (I burst into tears). We were on the phone all day with the booking company to book a new one.

More exciting–and revealing–adventures soon to come. First, I must tend to my stomach. Can you guess where I am?