So, it seems some people in my little town in Vermont think I work for the CIA. I had to pause and think why. But then I remembered that last year when I came back from Juba, South Sudan, I went into my daughter's school and gave a presentation. It was hard -- oh, so very hard to explain what I do.
Then, there was the package -- the package that arrived from Kyrgyzstan. The brown paper package with cyrillic writing and wax stamp. I ordered pillows. I really did.
And the black SUV that sat in our drive with Virginia plates.
And my numerous early morning flights to D.C.
What do I really do? Check back tomorrow.
