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evening,” I said. It was Sunday.
    â€œIt’ll be tight,” she said grimly. “Tomorrow is a national holiday.”
    â€œAnd there’s nothing you can do for me?”
    â€œNo,” she said firmly. “Nothing.”
    I returned to the hotel in a police cruiser. Too depressed to remain conscious, I fell into a deep sleep of many hours. When I awoke, any complaints I may have had about organized tourism were forgotten, for it had become my fairy godmother.
    The director of our tour group had been on the phone to the head office in Boston. They had changed my flight from Cusco to Lima and arranged for a local to meet me at the plane. I was handed a xerox copy of my old passport and an envelope of cash for cabs and fees. In the meantime, I was advised to relax and enjoy the national holiday.
    Believe it or not, I did.
    My escort, Martin, turned out to be an ex-skateboarder whose band had once played the Warp Tour. With his help, I was able to negotiate taxi fees, maneuver through traffic, fill out forms, get photos, swear I told the truth and nothing but the truth, then race across town with my brand-new passport to the Peruvian Immigration office, which as you know closes at noon, but where the line to find out what line to wait in is a mile long, where armed guards are charged with preventing you from asking questions, where you need two copies and a receipt for your payment from the bank, where at 11:45 a fat man puts everybody’s passport in a pile and gets on the phone to order lunch.
    Having been in a state of extreme stress for eight hours, I was starting to lose it. I slumped to the floor in exhaustion, wondering vaguely where I would sleep that night, what would happen to Jane when she got home if I was unable to rejoin the group before they left the country.
    Martin was a mild sort, but he rose to the occasion. Braving the guard, he stormed the counter and got my passport back. At which point the fat man returned everyone else’s passports, too, so that we walked out of there like Olympic heroes.
    Then we returned to the airport and met up with my tour group, and we all came home.
    There is a reason these things happen to me and not other people, people who lock their doors and use fanny packs when abroad and don’t take their passports out of the hotel. My son Vince has kindly called it an “aura of vulnerability.”
    May it fail to kill me and continue to provide amusement for us all.

Reading Guide Questions

    1. In “The Getaway,” the author finds an unexpected bright side in airport delays—the reemergence of her identity as a person who is not just a mother. In what ways have your travels strengthened your sense of identity? Challenged it?

    2. Paris is often portrayed as the quintessential city of romance. In many ways, though, “August in Paris” is an antiromance. What specific details does the author zero in on to create a less-than-idyllic vision of this city?

    3. The author seems to be someone who pushes traditional boundaries when it comes to parenting. How would you describe her relationship with her sons as described in “Party Time in the Lost City”? Her relationship with her daughter? In what ways is she a nontraditional parent? A traditional one?

    4. In “Transit, a War Story,” Winik depicts a very different airport experience than in “The Getaway.” Is this because she is traveling with her daughter? Do you think her experience would have been as difficult had she been traveling alone?

    5. In “Crime Report: Robbed in Peru,” a negative experience is transformed into something more positive. How have your own travel experiences reflected that kind of transformation?

    6. The author’s mother makes an appearance in several essays. What role does she play in each?

    7. Do you have a favorite essay? A least favorite? Discuss your choices.

About the Author

    Marion Winik is the author of the