The first thing that you see when you land is the 1970's Ford pickup truck with ten young soldiers in the back, carrying large caliber fully automatic weapons.
That was the first thing I saw, at least, when I first took an airplane to the United Nation of Mexico. When I first registered the foregoing armada of Mexican policemen, I didn't think anything of it. I didn't think anything of it when the policemen (whom I had thought to be the Mexican National Guard), got out of their vehicle on the far side of the airstrip and formed two marching columns of men, succeeding in their vain efforts to quell the invading forces of disaster.

I am not one who claims that travel is fun, or that going new places and seeing new things is always a pleasant experience. Unlike the numerous grammatical  marauders occupying all ranks within the Val-Talk Armies of the world, I am not going to lie to your face by telling you that getting there is half the fun. Getting there is a fucking drag. Travel isn't really all that nacreous that everyone hypes it up to be.

There are things in this world, scary things, that you may have never been exposed to - and when you step out of your perfect little solitary confinement that you like to call your house, those frightening and terrible things can come out to bite at your ankles. If you have never been to the snow, you might not know about the eating habits of the mountain lion. If you have never been to the desert, you really won't know how to handle a rattle snake.

It is more than that, though. On a more intellectual scale of the meaning - what it means to be human.