Despite the early hour of our flight from [home] to [layover], I was unable to sleep. I started a book that I'd just picked up from the library called Spycraft: the Secret History of the CIA from Communism to Al-Quaeda. It's primarily a history of the technology that the CIA has used from WWII until... well... as recent as they are allowed to talk about. I'm finding it a fascinating read.
The elderly, distinguished-looking gentleman sitting next to me on the plane leaned over, about half-way through our flight, and asked "So, are you a spy? Or do you just like to read about them?" I assured him that I just liked reading about them and he eyed me suspicously. "Have you ever been to the spy museum?" he asked. No, I haven't made it over there yet. "They have a pretty interesting section on women spys," he continued. That's nice. But of course, I'm not a woman spy. And even if I were, would I let him know that he just blew my cover?
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