My Brief Undocumented Migrant Phase

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Forboding creeps into my heart as the bus nears Copacabaña border crossing. I'm taking a gamble. All the other passengers are European, because Americans are supposed to get visas before entering Bolivia with a two-way plane ticket, but I'm relying on the schmoozing powers that have so magically transported me across many frontiers.
This could be a disaster. I'm an aging fermenting solo yankee dressed like a vagabond (in a group of glowing honey-...