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“Excuse me,” I said to the flight attendant. “The guy next to me, do you know where he went?” I extended my finger towards my seat, the row of which still remained empty. Just then, the plane started to shake, and the “seatbelt sign” illuminated, accompanied with a small yet terror-inducing ding.
Coming from the Philippines, I have what the world considers a “3rd world” passport. Every time I pass through immigration, I spend that extra five to ten minutes having to explain how I can afford to travel and how I managed to get my visa.