Traveling...

Dubai International Airport. There is a sign outside the initial security screening checkpoint that clearly states, in several languages, that ticketed travelers are the only individuals permitted beyond this point. Yet, as I approach the screening belt, I am forced to wait for 3 local men, who are obviously not traveling, while they argue in Arabic with the security guard and wave and point incessantly at the bank of ticketing desks beyond the security checkpoint. This is certainly a secure area, I think to myself incredulously, amongst a few other thoughts I won't repeat.

Once safely inside, having finally been waved ahead of the local men, I am stopped by passport control, a customs agent, whatever. He asks me standard questions, like, "Did you pack your own luggage? Was it in your control at all times? Did anyone give you a package to carry?" I notice a crowd forming behind me. People don't typically observe the bold yellow lines on the floor that are supposed to scream, "Wait here until it's your turn!" So when he asks me where I've been, where I'm going, what business I'm in, etc., I answer him in a low voice. He leans in to hear me when I nearly whisper, "Iraq." He repeats, "Iraq?" in a voice loud enough for the strangers behind me to hear. I nod in affirmation. I nearly whisper, "Contractor", and he repeats, "Contractor?" Again, in a voice loud enough for strangers behind me to hear. "Let me see your military ID," he says. He is obviously familiar with contractors and our identification. I discreetly pull it out of my bag and hold it before me, my back to the crowd. He holds it up, visible to all. I then say, "Sir, can we please step to the side a bit? I would prefer to remain discreet about all this. I don't want everyone knowing my business." I motion my head back to the crow behind me. He follows my nod and then understands and steps forward with me. Of course, it would be too much for him to ask people to step back from the line.

Later on, I'm in line waiting to enter the gate area for my flight. A man behind me, who is obviously a contractor in Iraq - I can tell from the backback, boots, etc. - asks in a friendly manner, "Where ya' headed?" Still frustrated at the indiscreet display of my personal business downstairs, I decide I will not have this conversation and instead say, in a friendly, upbeat tone, "Same place you are, apparently!" and smile big. He appears a bit confused and chuckles. I then turn my attention to the progress of the line and he doesn't say another word. Inside the waiting area, I overhear several conversations around me. I know more about these people and their business than I care to - where they work, what they do, pay rates, camp locations. Don't they realize we're easy targets here...? Don't they realize that anyone here could be listening and taking notes? Maybe it's just me, but I prefer to be the most anonymous traveler in the airport. I even keep my passport in a plain black leather case so that i don't flash my Americanism at every security checkpoint. And I keep my boarding pass in my bag until the last possible moment prior to boarding. Perhaps it's paranoia. Or perhaps it's simply observation of opsec and taking responsibility for my personal safety and security when in strange places or vulnerable positions. Here's an afterthought: these people who discuss their jobs, locations, employers - which happen to be very similar to my own circumstances - are putting me at risk as well. Good grief. Where did common sense go?

Another interesting observation... Atlanta. Gate A-14. Smoking lounge. A woman enters with her child, who appears to be approximately 12 or 13 and is clearly developmentally challenged. The mother is frenzied as she pulls a cigarette from her purse, lights it, tries to keep her daughter outside the smoking lounge doors, but within sight, within reach. She is wearing khakis, complete with the signature well-traveled wrinkles, and a black tank, her hair pulled up into a loose, disheveled, last-minute clip. I notice a nicotine patch on her upper right arm. She catches my eye and we exchange a glance. She is frazzled, exhausted, overwhelmed. I smile at her. I don't blame her one bit. Have two, I think to myself.