I. A Delicate Passage Through Customs

I move slowly in a line reserved for foreigners. A quick glance at my watch: noon, on the dot. Outside, it’s hard to make out the planes resting on the tarmac through the large windows—only the runway lights and the flashing beacons of utility vehicles shimmer in a starless night. On the horizon, a faint glow advances, daylight gradually gaining ground over the darkness. Noon? No, just five in the morning with the time difference. Time to adjust my watch.

Having departed from Madrid with Aeromexico, I have just flown over the Atlantic Ocean, setting foot on Mexican soil for the first time. My sleep was irregular—I’m not used to dreaming while suspended in the air. Now that my feet are on solid ground, I feel energized, excited by this rendezvous in an unfamiliar land.

Around me, hundreds of other travelers, eyes half-closed, yawn and grumble in an airport completely overwhelmed by the still-frenzied flow of globalization.

We are all waiting for the final formality, the proof of our exotic journey: a stamp firmly pressed onto a passport already dotted with similar marks. My turn comes. The customs officer examines my passport, taking his time flipping through the pages—long, very long, too long... My months-long stays in the Dominican Republic catch his attention, as do my previous travels to Cuba, Haiti, and Benin.