I’d gone to bed in Hong Kong. A night full of regrets. And a do-not-disturb sign left swinging grimly from my hotel room door-knob like the newly hoisted frame of a young Southerner who had been seen cavorting with the wrong woman in the wrong era of American history. I awoke unceremoniously, and without room-service, in the trunk of an automobile in Colombo, Sri Lanka.

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