It takes so long that food carts appear halfway through your wait. At least you have a chance to eat as you shuffle forward, inch by inch, until you're at last beneath the marble loincloth of the son of Zeus.

Bored-looking guards in their golden uniforms lounge about, handling the paperwork. Everything is still done by hand here; you see no clacking mechanical adding machines, no pneumatic tubes. The guards check that your passport is stamped, then one says, "You, Mexihcatl," in insultingly slow Koiné. "What's your first name?"

Your personal name, he probably means.

The form helpfully contains the Byzantine interpretations of some common Mexihcan names. You can read "Cipac," "Mazatl," and "Tecolotl," among others. There is also a space to write your name.

"Don't mess this up," Alexius whispers. "A Turkman I know is named 'Comeagain?' in all the official records."