A few minutes later, we found a second black Lab. Both males, and clearly siblings; the second dog was even sicker than the first one. My daughter and I got very upset but no one wanted to help us. I realized that this was a moment for me to be an example to my daughter.

If I want her to be a compassionate person, how could I turn my back on these dogs? My daughter is the next generation. How different is that from turning my back on a homeless person or others who need help? I want her to learn that we can make a difference — don’t give up!

Just then, a young couple came along and the woman, who introduced herself as Jess, became as worried as we were for these two starving pups. She and her new husband were on their honeymoon from Boston and offered to find a nearby shelter where the dogs at least would get some food and a place to sleep. Emily and I helped get the pups in Jess and her husband’s car, and she and I exchanged telephone numbers.

A few days later, I called Jess to see how it had gone, and although she was back in Boston by then, she told me that she and her husband had fallen in love with the dogs and signed a “no-kill” form at the shelter on Maui. This meant that if the dogs were not adopted then she would somehow ship them all the way to Boston unaccompanied; it would cost about $2,000 if it could even be arranged. It was kind of depressing, because I knew that because of the expense, this was a long shot. My husband was worried that I’d want to adopt them.

As soon as I got home, I sent out an email blast to my friends, asking if anyone could help get these dogs from Maui to Boston. To my surprise, a complete stranger named Debbie, who had received a forwarded email, got in touch with me. An animal lover, Deb lives in a nearby California city and was visiting Honolulu at that moment. If I could somehow get the dogs from Maui to Honolulu in about a week, she agreed to bring them with her back to L.A.

I was ecstatic, but then wondered how in the world we would get the dogs to her. Who would buy their crates, fill out the paperwork for the dogs to travel, transport them to Honolulu? Meanwhile the shelter contacted Jess, pressuring her to get the dogs out of there soon.

Even though I felt really uncomfortable about it, I sent out an even wider email blast to friends asking for ideas and help. People seemed to come out of nowhere! A friend of Deb’s (who live in Maui) said he’d get the dogs out of the shelter and keep them at his house for a few days. A friend of mine put me in touch with a Los Angeles real estate agent named Juanita, who in turn told me about Pilots N Paws, a group of pilots who transport dogs in their own private planes and ask nothing in return. Within minutes of my contacting Pilots N Paws, I got two replies. I went with Howard, as he offered to pick them up and get them to the airport. I could not believe this was happening!

Howard arranged for the dogs to go on an empty charter flight returning to Honolulu. The dogs were met by another person unknown to us, who picked them up and kept them at his house for several days before they could fly to L.A. with Deb.

Jess and I could not believe the boys were safely out of the shelter and out of danger and being loved by these unknown angels. The dogs had their crates, new collars and even beautiful Hawaiian leis for the ride to L.A. Deb checked in at American Airlines with the boys. All went so well that when the airline staff heard this heartwarming rescue story, the manager gave a free ticket to one of the dogs. Again, angels! Jess and I were on pins and needles. Would all go well for takeoff?

My daughter and I went to the airport to pick up the dogs, where Juanita joined us, just to meet them! It was so exciting — as a team we had done it. We hadn’t given up and we now had the dogs with us. We all cried — it was unbelievable! It had taken us three weeks to get them this far. There had been moments when I almost gave up and then something wonderful would happen, I’d get a call with help and was renewed and hopeful again.

Now safely at my house, we had to figure out a way to get the two dogs to Boston. I sent another email asking for anyone flying to the East Coast who wouldn’t mind two Maui pups accompanying them. One woman forwarded my plea in an email blast to 600 actor friends, and about 30 people offered to help. In the end, Jess and I paid for the dogs to be flown to her, and that is where they arrived a few days later, safely and happily. She named them Kona and Kai.

My VIV Moment came somewhere in those weeks when I realized everything was going to fall into place. People really care, and will come together if you can reach them. Even though my husband was not enthusiastic about this whole project, I pushed through anyway.

It’s a small thing to save the life of an animal, but each of our little contributions can make a difference in the world. When I was on that beach, I had a little piece of hope that it was possible. It felt like a huge risk. I didn’t know if others would ignore me, but every time I reached out, people had so many good ideas! That made it easier. Now I feel like the world is bigger, filled with a lot of people who care about animals as much as I do.

Emily was sad that we couldn’t adopt the dogs ourselves, but she’s happy that they’re in a good home now. And we both know that you don’t have to give up on an idea just because it seems almost impossible.

It puzzled me that not one of the 20 people in my tour group turned to watch me leave, as they prepared to board a flight to the next destination on our tour of China. When they get to the next town, will they notice I’m gone? There was no struggle. “You are under arrest,” one soldier said, seemingly as an afterthought.

I found myself under arrest in Shanghai, China, in December 1988, with a fever of 102, barely able to stand without everything going into a Disneyland Mad Tea Party kind of spin. The only thought that broke through my fever-induced indifference from some virulent flu was, Maybe they’ll let me sleep.

My mind went back to a conversation I had earlier in the week on the train to Shanghai. Having always been fascinated by cultural differences, it was my habit when traveling, whenever someone appeared even slightly interested in speaking, to encourage conversation by asking questions.

One young man on the train turned to me and said in clear, precise English, “Hello. It’s so nice to make your acquaintance.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I beamed back at him. It was a pleasure to speak to someone other than my tour-mates.

My visit to China was inspired by the movie, The Last Emperor. I wanted to know more about Mao Zedong, the communist leader of the country from 1943 to 1976. Every person I had approached so far was quick to inform me that any discussion of Mao was forbidden, and that made it all the more enticing.

We freely shared details of our lives as travelers frequently do, until I asked if he remembered any stories from when Mao was in power. His demeanor changed. His eyes darted carefully around the train; no longer focused on me. He whispered out of the side of his mouth, “We don’t speak of those times. It is forbidden. But, if you invite me to visit you, we could speak privately, away from the ears of the other people.”

He motioned with his eyes towards the train’s conductor, and then again towards the ticket-taker. After several hours of conversation, it was clear he was interested in being sponsored to the United States, and had no intention harming me. I wrote the name and address of my hotel on the back of my business card, and we arranged to meet at 6 p.m.

He was right on time, and eager to talk. “When I was a child,” his story began, “I loved school, and I loved my teacher. She was so beautiful, and so kind. But, we were told that the teachers were bad, and when the officials came to school to ask us questions, I didn’t want to say anything against her, so I told them that she made pretty pictures for the classroom.

One official asked me, ‘So, your teacher is an artist?’ and I couldn’t think of anything else to say; I only knew that I loved her pictures. They took her away, and I have always blamed myself. My parents were both professors at the university, and they knew that they would also be sent away any day, so we all went and lived in the countryside with the peasants. It was a hard life, but it was better than the re-education camps.” He seemed so relieved to share this burden; there really wasn’t anyone else he could talk to about it.

Though my experience pales in comparison to what those who lived in China under Mao must have experienced, I soon had a glimpse into loss of personal freedom. Each morning following my arrest began at 6 a.m. with a cup of tea and a dry biscuit. The soldiers would then take me to the airport, and upon arrival, my luggage was placed next to a vacant chair, and one of my armed guards would mumble, “Wait.”

Like clockwork, each evening at 5 p.m., they would greet me with the now meaningless, “No room on plane,” accompanied by the usual bow, and they would transport me back to the hotel. The day ended when the hotel doctor bowed and presented me with a disgusting-looking liquid he proudly proclaimed was something that sounded like, “ground bones and crushed herbs.” The concoction did little to ease the fever or the hunger, and my only food was the English tea cookies I’d brought with me in my suitcase from home. I hoped the medicinal drink would have some nutritional value.

On the sixth morning of my arrest, I sensed something had changed. The soldiers were chatty and seemed lighthearted and friendly. When we arrived at the airport, they threw my luggage out of the car and told me to board the plane heading to Xi’an to join my group. As they drove away, I was left with two suitcases, two heavy jade sculptures, two silk carpets and my purse.  No explanation was given for my arrest or my release.  I just wanted to get out of this airport.

The visit to Xi’an was a blur of six-foot sculptured terracotta warriors and almost complete silence from the group. One of my co-travelers whispered into my ear, “Some guy in uniform came and talked to the guide. Then, the guide told us not to talk to you. It was creepy.”

The next day, boarding the plane to Hong Kong passed without incident. When finally at the hotel front desk, I exerted the last of my strength and said, “Please help me. This is an emergency. I need a doctor right now. I am seriously ill.”

I was immediately ushered into a penthouse suite, and the hotel doctor arrived in minutes. “It’s all right, dear. You’re going to be just fine. Take this pill to sleep, and I’m giving you an injection of antibiotics. Do you understand?”

I nodded yes. He leaned in and whispered in my ear (it seemed that everyone whispered in China) “We know what happened, did anyone hurt you?”

“No, but I haven’t eaten for days.” I was too exhausted to elaborate on my menu of tea, dry biscuits and cookies, or explain that I was so sick I could barely swallow anything.

“I’ll send a tray of food up as soon as I leave. Eat when you wake up. What did you do? Why did they want to scare you?”

“I’m a writer, and I interviewed as many people as I could about life under Mao.”

It was the first time I’d defined myself as a writer; I was just trying it on for size. Although I had been writing since I was a child, now, at 42, I was a successful CPA. Writing was just a hobby. It was as if the earth had shifted on its axis. It fit perfectly. I am a writer, I thought. As I continued to let the words play over and over in my mind, I laid my head back and took it all in. It was the first moment that I knew I not only could write, but that I had stories to tell.

“Thank you,” he said simply. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “Didn’t you know the rooms are all bugged?”

My visit took place just four short months before the incident at Tiananmen Square in April of 1989, when the start of the democracy movement in China became known to the world. The Chinese government officials must have feared that I was a foreign instigator of democracy. And, maybe, in some small way, I was.

One morning I came across a photo of a man in a big, floppy hat, walking down an empty mountain highway in Colorado. The caption read, “David Kunst, walking through Colorado on his way home to Minnesota to become the first man to walk around the world.”

Wow, I thought, staring at the photo. I didn’t know you were allowed to think of such a thing if you were from Minnesota. Fascinated that the simple movement of putting one foot in front of the other could transport you through countries, across borders, over mountains, and into various cultures, peoples and ideas, I was inspired. That’s how I want to see the world someday — I’ll walk! I thought.

But I knew I was thinking way outside the box for a 12-year-old girl from Minnesota, so I tucked the idea into the back of my head.

Fast-forward ahead 22 years, and life’s journey had brought me to living in Vail, CO. A lot of women around me had been diagnosed with breast cancer — friends, colleagues and two aunts, one of whom died from the disease. I got nervous and went to the doctor to get a mammogram, where I was told something that inadvertently changed my life. The doctor said, “You don’t need to worry about getting breast cancer. You can’t get breast cancer if it doesn’t run on your mother’s side of the family.”

After my appointment, I returned to work, where a friend asked how it all went. I told her that I was one of the lucky ones — I can’t get breast cancer. She set me straight. “Of course you can get breast cancer!” she said. “Every single woman in the world is at risk for getting breast cancer! The bottom line is that we have no idea what causes breast cancer! This is the sort of bad information that’s going on in the world, and this is what we have to put an end to!” And she fumed about my doctor for the rest of the day.

I had my VIV Moment as I walked home that night. All the stars aligned, and I knew I would do that walk I’d always wanted to do. I immediately loved the idea of a woman walking for women, educating women all over the world about this disease that unfortunately bonds us all from the smallest nooks to the largest cities.

My head started spinning with all the questions: Can I walk 15 miles a day for five years? Is it safe? How do I protect myself? How can I afford it? How do I get sponsors? How do I make a business plan? What countries can I get through? How do I get across the water? And during the last mile walking home that night, I started planning my GlobalWalk for Breast Cancer.

After three years of planning and five years of walking, I, in fact, did finish my walk around the world on July 20, 2004, with 14,124 miles, 22 countries and four continents to raise more than $250,000 for 13 breast cancer organizations around the world.

The majority of fundraising was done with the help of Lions Clubs International, who would pass me from town to town and help plan fundraising events. The more press they generated, the more people on the road got involved. One time, during a traffic jam, I walked right past all the stuck cars until someone knew who I was from the newspapers. When he got out to make a donation, it started an avalanche of donations through the traffic jam.

When possible, I worked with breast cancer organizations in each country. Along with my international sponsor of the Lions Clubs, these groups organized educational forums in many villages in the Third World nations, where local doctors came and spoke to the women of the villages in the local languages.

There was, of course, the whole series of challenges presented by Mother Nature: a 7.1 earthquake in the Mojave Desert, a flash flood in Brisbane, Australia, the extreme heat (120° F in India) and the sleet and blizzards of an Iowa December.

There were also the language barriers, of course, the cultural head-butts, particularly when it came to very male-dominated cultures. The biggest challenge was walking through a Muslim country during and immediately after 9/11 as a Jewish American woman talking about breasts.

I’ve been told many times that after hearing me speak or hearing my story, women would book a mammogram. As a motivational speaker, I talk about breast cancer, in particular the importance of early detection and second and third opinions. But the take-away of my speeches is more about perseverance and breaking down those daunting journeys in our lives into very small manageable increments, and taking it step by step.

The first time I had to buy something, I walked into the store and asked the owner in Hindi, “Are shoes in your direction?” They were indeed, and after some negotiations, a pair was then in my direction. The whole exchange seemed delicate, courtly. It took a while before the philosophy embedded in the phrase — material things are never truly ours — began to sink in though.

But there came a time, a few months on, when I looked around the room in the Indian house where I’d moved — a room that before would have seemed uncluttered — and suddenly felt ashamed at having so much stuff crammed in there. The other rooms in the house were all so spare and beautiful. Worse, the maid kept returning my trash to me. I’d try to discard a bum pen and it would land back on the desk. “Madame, you can refill it for three rupees,” the maid finally explained. She’d use my trash — discarded newspapers, crinkled wrappings — to line my shelves: a practical consideration but a nightmare look to a Westerner, until I thought about it. In a place where you’re not invested in your stuff, you don’t express yourself through decorating. All the same, I snuck it out.

I vowed that once I got back, I’d keep my rooms spare and beautiful, but I didn’t. Language shapes the way we think and now that I’m back in English, my things are once again possessions — I own them. Alas, they’re no longer transitory.

Photo credit: Adrian Kinloch

My story begins ater my birth in the Carpathian Alps of Hungary during World War II. I was hidden as an infant as the Holocaust swept Europe. At the end of the war, I was taken to Canada where I was raised, married and had six children, and in 1971 entered the jewelry business. My determination to forge a new career was uncommon at the time, and I was shunned by local businessmen as I attempted to learn about the industry. With a strong interest in the pearl market, I took matters into my own hands and went directly to the source.

Armed only with a guide from the Japan Pearl Exporters’ Association, I traveled to Japan and immersed myself in learning about pearls and visiting wholesalers in an attempt to forge relationships. Later, I expanded my expertise in the pearl industry by studying at the GIA (Gemological Institute of America). Since then, clients from around the world have commissioned me to design and craft unique pieces of jewelry. My jewelry design skills have also been tapped by Mattel to create a line of jewelry for the toy maker’s legendary Barbie collection, which received the prestigious Innovation Award for design.

In 1999, my family launched Ice.com, which has become a leading jeweler on the web committed to providing customers with the best value, quality, service and selection to consumers who enjoy jewelry as both a fashion essential and a fun part of their everyday lives. I couldn’t be more content to know that my vision has thrived into a flourishing business and will be a legacy for my family. Each one of my children plays a pivotal role in the running of Ice.com and my 42 grandchildren (and counting!) know that if they choose, they can work for our homegrown business.

So, I buried my nose in the books. I didn’t fear being a geek! I was going to be Mary! Graduating with a triple major from Stanford University, I was on my way — a stellar education that would, I knew, put me on my course (if not in the poorhouse first).

Where else to move but the land of glittery dreams: Hollywood. A gig with B-movie producer Roger Corman gave me credits (writing, directing and producing). And opened doors. Eventually, Francis Ford Coppola named me his producing partner. One day, while cruising down the Hollywood Freeway in my newly purchased BMW convertible (well, more owned by BMW Financial Services … but you get the gist), heading to a meeting with the president of ABC, I wondered, “Hey Mary, have I taken the town?”

A few days later, the question became inconsequential. I knew of too many people rushing into their New York offices to start another hectic day one fateful September morning. And when, a few months later, my new husband’s young nephew plunged to his untimely death, mortality became all too real. How could I turn the world on with a smile, when I no longer felt like smiling?

There were happy moments. An unexpected surprise came when the EPT test showed not one, but two lines. And after Dash made his appearance March 31, 2004, my husband suggested living a dream we had playfully discussed: sailing the Caribbean for several months — just me, my husband and our infant son.

Could I do it? I didn’t know. What about my career, after all? I certainly had misgivings. But rest assured, Mary, I thought: I’m not giving up … just taking a break … and I will be back.

Soon after, we pulled anchor on our 41-foot sailboat, aptly christened Dirty Diapers. For eight months, we sailed 42 islands, learning about rich histories, distinct cultures and unbelievable plights. It wasn’t that long ago, after all, when numerous people of Montserrat lost their homes, livelihoods and lives to one angry volcano. And for the people of Dominica, earning enough money for dinner is their daily struggle. Yet all of these people seemed happy. All found a way to be content in simplicity.

And then there was the moment. As I lay on an 11-mile, pink-sandy Barbuda beach with my husband and son, making sand castles and no one else within view, it dawned on me that months had gone by without my checking the satellite phone for a call from a network bigwig. I couldn’t remember the last time that I practiced a pitch in the hopes of selling the “Big One.” I no longer desired to return to the rat race. Hollywood was thrilling, but for me, nothing compared to spending time with my family, cherishing every moment.

I stood up, walked to the water, threw my baseball cap into the air, and said, “Hey, Mary, I have made it, after all.”

But wait: There was a second moment. While in the Grenadine Islands, we watched Rastafarian ladies sitting under coconut trees, stitching away with needle and thread. Before our eyes, used flour sacks were transposed into sturdy market bags. Then and there came our inspiration to start a business — and WeBe Bags (“We be bags, mon!”) was born. Our eco-friendly totes are sewn and produced indigenously in the Grenadine Islands from used farm sacks, colorful local fabrics and authentic sail ties, and come in several styles. Our “Wholegrain Bag” and “Cream of the Islands” collections are sold in boutiques throughout the Caribbean and the United States; but being true to our home residence of Park City, UT (and borrowing from the Rocky Mountains’ cowboy history), we also now have a ranch sack collection, featuring bags such as the “Howlin’ Wolf” and “Little Big Horn.” Through WeBe bags, we hope to introduce agri-cool fashion to the masses — and make industrial chic obsolete! Check us out at webebags.com.

In actuality, we had many close calls that taught me things I still think about today. When I get into a difficult situation, I often remember one experience. We were in the remote hills of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo), staying in a little cabin and visiting the Mountain Gorillas (the animals).

We had befriended some of the local villagers who lived in nothing more than mud shacks, yet were some of the most wonderful and happy people I have ever met. We mentioned to them we were interested in going to Uganda, which was still in a civil war, and the one place our parents had specifically told us to avoid. Believing that the war was further north (we were near the south), we decided to take the chance. The villagers offered to take us to the closest boarder crossing. We spent the day walking through backcountry on little more than dirt paths and passing through tiny villages.

At one point we had at least 100 children following us, yelling, “Muzungu” (white man). They followed at a safe distance, and when the brave ones got close, we’d turn around and say, “Boo.” With fits of giggles they’d scatter and then quickly return to the game. It lulled us into a false sense of security.

Upon reaching a small shack on the side of a dirt trail, a clearly underused crossing, we faced a Zaire border official. After signing a book and stamping our passports, he allowed us to officially leave the country and we headed into the jungle, through this no-man’s land towards Uganda. Eventually we came to a large clearing with three half-blown up buildings and figured this must be Uganda — even though it appeared to be deserted.

We carefully walked to the seemingly empty buildings and when we came around the corner of one of them, we discovered three soldiers sitting on the old colonial-style front porch. A huge man with a machine gun, a tall skinny man (also holding a machine gun) and a kid who looked about 12 years old and bearing a large rifle all stared at us.

We approached, asking, “Customs? Immigration?” The big guy slowly stood up, shook his head, and said, “No immigration.” We asked again, “Customs? Immigration?” Again the big guy said, “No immigration.” John looked at me and said, “Let’s start walking.” We turned our backs to the soldiers and started walking into the country down the single lane dirt road surrounded by jungle.

Suddenly the soldiers cocked their guns and yelled something we couldn’t understand. I froze with my back to them looking at the jungle thinking, “Oh no, I’m going to be raped and murdered in Uganda and thrown in that bush over there and no one has a clue where we are.” We had already signed out of Zaire. In those days, backpacks had a metal plate in them, and I wondered if the metal would absorb the bullets. Unlikely.

John slowly turned around and asked, “What?” (I had learned as a woman here not to speak in these situations unless absolutely necessary.) The big guy put on a huge smile and said, “Customs.” Great. Now the shake down, I thought. The first thing they did was separate us. The big guy took John inside the building. I wondered if I could take on the tall skinny guy as well as the kid. Physically, I didn’t have a chance — but I went into complete survival mode and every possibility zoomed through my head.

They spoke broken English and French. Since I speak a little French we were able to communicate. They pointed to my backpack and told me to open it. They went through everything and discovered my small ball of safety pins, useful items when backpacking for a year. They picked it up and said that I was a spy, that this was a dismantled bomb, and that I was going into the country to blow it up.

I tried to explain what the pins were, but they didn’t understand. Carefully, I took one of the pins and slowly moved to one of the millions of holes in their tattered uniforms. I opened the pin and gently pinned together one of the holes in the kid’s shirt. Suddenly, they started to laugh. They thought this was the greatest thing. I still don’t know if these guys were laughing because they had never seen a safety pin or because they thought a ball of safety pins was a bomb. I didn’t really care. All I could think was that laughing is good. As I periodically glanced over to the front door, praying that John was okay and would soon return, I pinned their shirt holes shut.

After about 20 minutes, John and the big guy finally came outside. The big guy was ogling me and I could tell he was saying very derogatory things as he nudged John with his elbow. John appropriately laughed at the distasteful humor and walked over to me. He quietly whispered, “Just start walking.”

We slowly waved goodbye and once again headed down the dirt road. It took only a few minutes before we rounded a corner but it was the longest few minutes I had ever felt. As soon as we were out of sight we collapsed with relief; however, we were now illegally in a country at war. We were NOT going back the way we came, so we spent the next four days hitchhiking through war-torn Uganda to Kampala, the capital city. There, we caught a train to Kenya.

We saw some frightening things. Fortunately, we were ignored at all the checkpoints as, sadly, the locals fought each other.

Now I work in the movie business and over the years have been presented with many challenges. When I find myself face-to-face with a belligerent or angry actor, studio executive or crew member, I calmly think to myself, “I survived being held at gunpoint in Uganda. I can survive this.” (Of course, I do not recommend this as a way to develop strength for business but as we all know, any type of travel can be an educating experience!) I am grateful for my travels and being able to use the things I have learned along the way.

As a writer the most amazing moments are those when I sit down at the keyboard to think about what to write. And then I “awake” hours later to find stories that flowed out of me with minimal effort (effective, creative channeling). As a director my most amazing moment was the first time I did it (directed, I mean) and realized that it was innate (and not just because I’m bossy).

Several months ago, I was on day 13 of a 14-day shoot in Sierra Leone. It was my first trip to Africa and I had with me a crew of nine and several escorts. I was the white girl running the show — doing a damn fine job of it. We had been upcountry and were finally back in Freetown. On this night I had the opportunity to get more than three hours of sleep for the first time since we had arrived.

Packed, showered and nursing a bottle of whiskey, I decided to go to sleep. But the balcony of my hotel room overlooked the ocean. And the most startling, beautiful storm I had seen in years was rolling the seas, blasting thunder across the heavens and moving the furniture around the pool below with long fingers of lightning.

Like any crazy white lady from the States I took my chair and my whiskey out onto the balcony to watch and let the turbulent atmosphere wrap around me like a blanket. It was one of those moments of purity and contentment in which I didn’t wish to be braver or thinner or different in any way. I was just glad to be me.

The security officer was yelling at a tiny, young Quechua woman with a baby strapped to her back. She did not speak Spanish. As we had Quechua and Spanish interpreters with us I stepped up and asked if we could help.

The guard readjusted his gun and stared at me. He finally relented when they told him that I was a doctor and I would look at his eyes! The whole disagreement was about not letting this woman through security because she did not have the $3 fee. I gave it to the man, shined a flashlight in his eyes, and told him he looked great. I gave him a sample of tear lubricant drops and we were all let through security.

The Quechua woman later approached me with tears in her eyes. She had found someone to write me a note in English. She had traveled for weeks and spent all of her money and anything her family would give her to take her baby to the hospital in Lima. She didn’t have a penny left to pay the fee to get back through security and home. She was so grateful. It is an understatement but we are incredibly lucky. Now that I have children, thinking about his experience always makes me cry.