Dakota finally went on his well-deserved R&R trip, a brief break from his PRT post in Afghanistan. He went to Europe with two sets of clothes but almost forgot to take off his consular hat. Excerpt:
Good god I loathed the Red Light district. I, Mr. No-Fun from the Embassy, felt like I was surrounded by dozens if not hundreds of potential American Citizens Services cases, people who could stroll into the Embassy at any time with no money or documents, no recollection of where their hotel is, and a pending court date for wanton theft of munchies-type food. I wanted to grab the people around me, glassy eyed from the coffee shops at 11 a.m., and shake them by the shoulders and tell them not to lose their passports.
My distaste at the roaming hordes in the Red Light district dovetailed with an assumption, innate and unshakable after six years at State, that all female sex workers are the victims of human trafficking. Even in a city as well-regulated and up-and-up as Amsterdam, it was all I could think of. I had to fight the urge not to ask strangers if they needed help in contacting the Embassy of their home nation.
Poor dude, probably had drafted one too many Trafficking in Persons Reports since joining the service …
And there’s a reason why he was in the Red Light district, okay?
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