Border crossings bother me.
It all started in 2004 when I was traveling from Guatemala to El Salvador. The border guard grilled me repeatedly, in Spanish, about where I was going. “A preacher’s house in San Miguel” wasn’t cutting it. Somehow I got in.
So I was a bit on edge as our van weaved past the miles-long cue of transport trucks at the Ukrainian border. When we came to a stop I saw no fewer than seven uniformed gentlemen standing behind us. I imagined them spending hours going through every single bag and all the supplies we were taking to our Ukrainian brethren — including, ahem, adult disposable undergarments.
Read Erik Tryggestad’s Insight column from Siret, Romania.