From: harwell@TENET.EDU (Anne Burton Harwell)
Newsgroups: bit.listserv.words-l
Subject: Coming to America
Date: 10 Jan 93 14:51:01 GMT
Reply-To: Anne Burton Harwell <harwell@tenet.edu>
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We left the flat four hours before the plane was due to take off--a little
excessive, I thought, but GT and Fizzy had both emphasized the need to
allow three hours for all their security stuff. Turns out they were right
because not only was I subjected to the routine impertinent and rude
questions, but I also managed to be selected for a random search where
they opened my bag up and felt around inside (ohhhhhhhh). But the English
are so damned civilized and proper that they almost make you feel as if
you're doing them the greatest favor by not putting up a fuss. I began to
understand something of the English national spirit, the wilingness to
sacrifice for God and Country, their unswervable belief that this
particular plot of land is worth everything to preserve. Of course the
other side of that is these people are really scared of the IRA and
terrorism...

Chicago's Customs entrypoint was like Ellis Island--huddled masses. You
are deplaned out in the middle of the tarmac, Entebbe-style, and then
taken on a special bus that has no seats, only grappling straps, to the
customs house. A couple of Englishmen were standing in the bus in front of
me and were not amused at this barbaric treatment. "So welcome to
America," one of them said. I said, "Don't worry, it won't be this bad
again." The first Englishmen asked, "What have they got in store for us in
there?" I replied,

        "Oh, not much, a bunch of pushing and shoving, plus the
        searches."
        "Searches?"
        "Yeah, squat searches. But just relax and try to go with it and it
        won't be so bad. In fact, after enough of them, you'll come to
        wonder how you ever got on without them."
        "Bli-mey!"

The two guys looked panicked for a split second, then burst out laughing.
A couple more comments about that being why we're called the land of the
free and the home of the brave, and then it was like pigs through a chute
into the house.

I stood for an hour in a line that did not appear to be moving, but when I
got to the front, I was processed by a official who took one cursory look
at my declaration, stamped it, and said welcome home. O'Hare's method of
handling baggage for incoming international travelers is equally
baffling--you are made to pick your bags off one belt and personally place
them on another belt. Then you follow some green arrows painted on the
floor (which you were just told onboard the plane were green *stripes*)
and go into a terminal.

Jim Thomas and Tushar were waiting for me at the terminal. Tushar was on a
roll, waxing rhapsodic on every imaginable subject. We got beers and sat
down in a waiting lounge. Jim, although he had taken great pains to
describe himself to me, looked NOTHING the way I had imagined. He's tall,
with a runner's physique, but has nearly shoulder-length hair and a
moustache. Twinkly eyes and a demonic grin. Jim is in person just as he is
on the list: maddeningly intractable on subjects he feels passionately
about, stubbornly willing to beat a detail into the ground for the sake of
proving or disproving something, but also capable of great sensitivity and
feeling. Jim is the boy who would go into a fistfight knowing he was going
to get his ass beat just for the opportunity to get a few licks in before
he passed out.

We talked, and drank beer, and talked a little louder and rowdier. We
argued at length about ProjectH, drank more beer, laughed a lot. And
suddenly it was time for me to get back on the plane. I did, and fell
asleep almost immediately, not waking up until we were in Dallas airspace.

Dallas was under de-icing protocol, which meant more delays. I had no
trouble sleeping in the airport and on the plane, which was good, because
we had to wait almost an hour to be de-iced. Slept most of the flight
home, hit my bed at midnight--it had been 24 elapsed hours since I had
woken up at GT's.

Got up this morning and was startled at how much brighter the sky was than
London's, even though it was a gray overcast sky. Walked out into the yard
and picked up the paper which the delivery boy had precisely tossed on a
fresh pile of dogshit. Welcome home, Anne.

-abh
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