The tropical temporary home where I'd been living for six months was just a few minutes' cab ride down the white beach. Its balcony faced a shore lined with blooming hibiscus, our life there set to the push and pull of the waves. It felt so, so far away. Sweat trickled on my tailbone. I bit my lip and completed transformation into an Eisenhower-era desperate housewife: I cried for the immigration officer. So not behavior of a confident global journalist. How had I let this happen?