Avoiding Prison & Other Noble Vacation Goals Read Online Free Page A

heard with the flawless accent of a native speaker, but I had no idea how to string them together to make a coherent sentence.
    In a slight daze, I crossed the dry pavement and entered the dilapidated airport filled with cigarette smoke, wondering where I would meet up with my parents. Looking around the tiny building, I realized there weren’t too many possibilities: first, the entire building consisted of one gate, which left very little room for confusion, and second, while standing in line at immigration, I heard the familiar, high-pitched voice of my mother, indistinguishable even in Spanish, saying, “
Permiso. Perdón. Permiso.
” Before I had time to count to
tres,
the entire room turned to view a lively, loud, platinum-blond woman completely ignoring the Do Not Enter sign, climbing over a rope, waving past a security guard, and joining me at my side, welcoming me to the country with an emotional scream and a bear hug.
    This was a typical Cathie Dale maneuver. Years ago, after discovering that the Rosarito Beach Hotel in Baja California was all booked up, she’d tried to sneak us into the pool anyway, which she had assured us would be as simple as lying about the room number on the sign-in sheet at the entrance. Unfortunately, the number she wrote down belonged to a single, and since it was unlikely that a family of six was going to be sharing a double bed, the manager had come over to politely ask us to take our lying asses to another establishment. “But I don’t want to leave!” my eight-year-old brother shouted as my parents dragged him out of the pool.
    At the Tegucigalpa airport, this behavior was repeating itself. Smothered in her embrace, I couldn’t help but comment, “You know, no one else’s mother met them at immigration.”
    â€œYeah, but only because it’s not allowed.”
    â€œBut you—”
    â€œI have connections,” she proudly announced. “My Embassy Friend is outside.”
    Apparently those connections were not enough to ensure that everything would run smoothly at the airport. At baggage claim, the roped-off area into which suitcases were tossed by a man into the center of the room, we failed to find my maroon Samsonite. While I had arrived safe and sound in Tegucigalpa, it seemed that my suitcase was enjoying a three-day stay in Houston, courtesy of Continental Airlines.
    â€œI’m sorry, but there has been a problem with the luggage,” the airline representative at the counter informed us.
    â€œWhat kind of problem?” I asked.
    â€œIt will remain in Houston until we have space available on the plane to retrieve it.”
    â€œYou mean, my clean underwear, my deodorant, my toothbrush, my socks, and all my other personal belongings are going to be delayed indefinitely?”
    â€œI’m afraid so.”
    Unintentionally, I let out a small yelp of joy. For the first time in my life, I had had the foresight to purchase a traveler’s insurance policy. It had been a simple financial decision really: A month’s health coverage had turned out to be cheaper than getting the recommended hepatitis, cholera, and yellow-fever shots. And unlike spending a day in a vaccination clinic after which I would have nothing to show for myself other than a few track marks, my traveler’s insurance policy came with a delayed luggage clause. They would reimburse me up to two hundred dollars for necessary expenses. And here I was, in need of a couple hundred dollars worth of personal-care items.
    â€œSo what’s the first thing you want to see in Honduras?” my mother asked me, excitedly rushing toward the more restrained half of my parental unit who was patiently waiting outside the airport.
    â€œThe Estée Lauder counter!” I shouted.
    For me, travel was the real-world version of falling down a rabbit hole. In a foreign country, everything was slightly off: the smell, the sounds, the view. Now I knew