It is an intensely long line at passport control. Flights keep arriving and people keep cutting. A tall man and I are both determined to stick to the vaguely orderly line, though streams of people march around us in a mob. The tall man says, “We must be the Americans, right? Single-file like a pair of suckers.”  We aren’t even into the maze of silver bars yet.  It’s been 20 minutes and we’ve moved about four steps.

A family from India stands in front of us, also waiting, until they see that we’re parked next to an open space that would put us ahead of the mob and into the lines ordered by the bars. At least we could stem the tide. The father mutters it to the grandmother, the set of boys in matching striped shirts get wind of the idea as well. They stare at the opening as…