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55 visit in Tashkent, none of which I saw. When you have just a few dollars in your pocket, any place that requires money is out of reach. A simple meal at a restaurant, a glass of wine in a bar or a coffee on a terrace with a newspaper before heading off to a museum suddenly turn into luxuries you cannot afford. I had to adapt to my new lifestyle: not home- lessness, but pennilessness. It had been a long time — 30 years — since I had been traveling without money. Since I was a student. I checked the time difference between Seoul and Tashkent. Business hours in Seoul. I called my bank to track down a clerk I knew. “I’m in Uzbekistan and my Visa card is not working,” I said. “Can you resolve it from your end?” I listened to her pounding the keys of her keyboard for an excruciatingly long time. I could also hear ticks every few seconds at regular intervals, like coins being dropped into a slot machine. “Yes, you have money in your account,” she finally said. I could sense the excitement in her voice. “But there is nothing I can do. It must be blocked where you are.” “What am I supposed to do, then?” She paused. Seconds elapsed. My meager funds grew more meager. “Come to my office,” she finally replied. “But I’m in...” I had wasted 20 bucks on the international call. Suddenly it felt the international banking world had turned against me. But I was not go- ing to fly back to Korea yet. I had a plan. Not far from my hotel there was an Internet cafe. After asking the clerk to switch the key- board from the Cyrillic alphabet to Roman char- acters, I emailed a friend in Seoul, asking her to deposit some money into my account, thinking a new deposit might trigger the computers to update my account status. She was online, and she replied instantly: “I’ll do it tomorrow.” The next day, I went back to the Internet cafe, which, according to a sign on the front door, opened at 11 a.m. I got there at 2 p.m. and it had not opened. It finally did that night. My friend had sent a message: “I sent $2,000, but it might take a couple of days to clear.” After leaving the Internet cafe, my thinking became irrational. “If it takes two days for 2,000 bucks, 1,000 would take...” Instead of doing useful things, like buying a train ticket or exploring the city, I spent my time visiting banks, different ones where I was not yet a pariah. The Central Bank of Uzbekistan, the Asaka Bank — all of them had the same answer: “card, no good.” I strode back to the Uzbek National Bank two days later with a swagger, purposefully, as if I had an appointment with the director. I was hoping my confidence might get me some- where. The same manager as before spoke to me, and gave me the same answer. “Insuffi- cient funds.” My confidence evaporated. I had to face reality. The silk rug was being pulled out from under me. I went back to the market, and bought my last meal. Inside the hotel, I passed by the desk clerk trying to hide the semi-transparent plastic bag that held my food: a piece of flat bread, a chunk of cheese, a red apple and a short can of Gam- brinus beer. Once in the room, I emptied my bag and my pockets, looking for hidden or forgotten cash. But there was not more than $30. I had to make the inevitable decision. I had to go back to Seoul. My trip was unraveling; the Silk Road was frayed. I walked down to the front office and asked the clerk to call Uzbek Airways so I could save a dime. “Yes, there is a seat on tomorrow’s flight, but you’ll have to pay the penalty,” the airline agent said. “How much?” “Twenty U.S. dollars.” It was painful, but I had to say it. “Please make a reservation.” The next day at the terminal, it was a relief to find that there was no airport tax. After landing in Seoul, I went to the Shinhan Bank’s VIP lounge. The clerk I had talked to on the phone from Tashkent led me to the ATM. She ran my card and, like a magic trick (“Just one small swipe of my hand!”), the machine spewed out money. She smiled. The next time I traveled, I brought $1,000 in old-fashioned travelers’ checks, and a few hundred greenbacks in small denominations. Just in case.