In my minds eye, he became an ugly, short, hateful drug dealing kingpin with warts on his face from some Slavic country I could not pronounce. But he did not just deal in drugs; my imagination ran rampant. I was convinced he also trafficked arms, and anything else of value, including women. And that is where my passport would come in handy, he would be able to transport some poor drugged up girl across countries and continental divides. My passport, I concluded, would be used for the darkest evils of the world.
Soon, he is called through the large white doors to the right and so am I. The next room was astonishing in its objective beauty, but more in its stark contrast to the previous one. The dark mahogany panelled walls reflected an incandescent lamp and antique fixtures. I sit in a lush velvet upholstered blood red seat directly next to my new slavic PhD friend. We discuss life in the US, and I can't help but notice that he looks at me as if he were star struck, as if I was one of the chosen few to have a treasured American passport. Desperately, he tries to converse with me in his broken english and italian, and we meet somewhere in the intersection of the languages.