No address in Haiti. A problem. I’m stopped in immigration. My friend is picking me up, I say. I don’t know where I’m staying. Some hotel. No go. They want to know where to start looking if there’s a kidnapping. It would make them look bad if they did not know. They take me to a side room. Various people look at my papers. They send me winding through the airport out the front door with a woman official. She tells me to point out my friend. She’s not there yet. We stand in the sun. Squinting at the crowd. And I am not yet through immigration. We go back to the room. My papers and passport pass from hand-to-hand. They stamp my papers anyway and send me on my way. By the time I get my bag and change a little cash, she’s outside, waving wildly and picking me up.