A Return

I always thought that being the proud owner of a busted-looking passport would mean that I had had, at one point, an awesome vacation or that I had lived on "the edge." That the passport had followed me out the hatch of a plane 3,000,000 feet above the ground going at 7,000 mph while headed directly for the summit of some mountain, that it had accompanied me while I jumped out of burning buildings, or that it had been with me while I fought my way out of quicksand. Even though I continued to be the owner of a stubbornly crisp and flat passport, I had amazing vacations which I do not have to describe at this time.

I'm happy to say that since surviving Costa Rica my passport has assumed an entirely new form, due to being soaked through at least 2 times. You see, after getting the world's most ominous talk upon renting a car with Diana from the rental car manager who made it seem as if we wouldn't even be able to drive out of the parking lot without totaling the car and that it was a done deal we'd get something stolen from the car, I decided to carry my passport with me at all times, even when I went on a guided tour through a cloud forest at night when I went diving with at least 75 sharks in pitch blackness with an open, bleeding wound, without a cage or an oxygen tank.

(Beat that, Indiana Jones)

In any case, I can now proudly present a more or less thoroughly wrinkled passport to the officials if I ever have to cross borders. And if any of them ask what happened to it, I'll tell them it fell into the toilet.