<div class="floatleft">(http://i63.tinypic.com/2eqf9j4.jpg) <br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><div align="center"><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 10pt;">Peter Warcaof</span></strong> <span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><div align="center"><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 10pt;">CGDA Benefactor</span></strong><br/>‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾</div></div></div>As has been my custom, I check my bags inner ‘pocket’ confirming that the extra passports are where they should be.  I pat my vest pocket, confirming the legitimate one is with me.<br/><br/>After packing our items, the cab takes off.  Jaclyn asks after the late-night routine.<strong>“Close.  Open.  Those are foreign concepts.  Some of the chaps and I tipped into a few bottles—and do you know, one of the younger lads, I actually had an escapade with his father.  He brought it up.  Warcaof is not a common name.  I was relieved to hear that his father eluded the authorities as did I!  The father’s story is close to mine, but well you can imagine some bending when he told his son the story.  <em>Hee-hee!</em>”</strong><br/><br/><strong>“Now I can’t tell you <span class="bbc_u">that</span> story unless you tell me you have also become a lawyer and my ‘confession’ is confidential.”</strong><br/><br/>I look out the window as we travel to the airport.<strong>“Do you think they will have dashikis in XXL?”</strong><br/>