Amman

Trapped in the air next to coughing, snorting, gouging, yakking. I clocked one span that spluttered on for 40 minutes without pause. On arrival at baggage claim, this overfed champion of the people, earning more money a year than the average wage earner here sees in over a lifetime, refuses to shell out five bucks to a baggage porter to wrangle luggage for the three of us. The vehement grounds? "these guys just rip you off and you know it."

Clearly, I have different criteria for what constitutes a rip-off. Old enough to know better and disinclined to reprise the role of my undergraduate self, I was also disinclined to endure a late-night scene in the Amman airport. So, with out argument, I grabbed a bag stuffed with books and security gear, yanked it from the carousel—and felt a white-hot tear sear through my left shoulder. It's a rotator cuff. I know it. I can't raise the arm. The third in our party was thankfully sane enough to quietly snag a baggage cart.