If Purgatory exists, I imagine it looks something like the Concord District Courthouse’s waiting room: a torturous realm of eternal, soul-sucking silence; overly air-conditioned, reeking of floor cleaner, lined with wooden benches crammed with faces of desperation and dread. The few empty areas are filled with cheery motel-paintings and attractive potted plants—a feeble effort to distract you from ripping out all your hair and then screaming at the mirror.

I nervously fidgeted with my paperwork; I had a lot at stake. If I were convicted, I would need to pay fines equivalent to two months worth of budget. This meant that I would either have to remove two countries from my route or skip eating lunch for six months. For a brief, humiliating moment, I humored the idea of trying live webcam modeling from the road, but quickly overruled it; Asia’s connection speeds are too slow, plus whenever I try…

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