The man standing in front of me looked like a good bet. "Excuse me, sir. Do you have a pen I can borrow?"
How had I managed to spend nearly 12 hours on the plane and not fill out my customs card?
"Just check 'no' for everything." He grinned a little too widely and offered me a blue pen.
"Next," the line-monitor croaked. It would have been impossible to say a word with any less enthusiasm. She sounded like she had suffered under the fluorescent lights, tending lines of incoming American citizens, for a few too many years.
The man looked at me expectantly. He was next. "Oh, sorry. You probably want this back." I had only managed to fill in my name. For a fleeting second I considered what would happen if I tried to keep his pen anyway. These are the things you consider when you have been awake for too many hours.
It was my turn.
"How long were you abroad for?"
"Since August. Ten months about."
"What countries did you visit since you were last in America?"
"Jordan, Egypt, Israel." I was tempted to say "Palestine" and see how that turned out, but I decided to only list the countries that show up in my passport with visas. Inshallah (God-willing), it will be possible to have a "Palestine" stamp on my passport someday.
"Where did you spend the most of your time? What was the purpose of your time abroad?" He rattled off a few questions hardly waiting for my responses.
"Which country did you like the best?" I can't help but wonder what weird extrapolations were made of my answer to this seemingly irrelevant question.
"Were you paid when you taught English?" I laughed, realizing too late this might not be the best course of action when a Passport Control worker is asking you questions. "No. It was volunteer."
"So did you live on a kibbutz when you taught English?"
"Not exactly."
He didn't wait for further explanation. "Oh, OK. Well, welcome back." It seemed deceivingly easy in contrast to my recent travels in Palestine and Israel. No hassle? No restricted room for me to sit in and await further questioning? I had forgotten what it was like to be an American in America.
I staggered under the weight of my bags up to the money exchange counter. The man behind the counter mistook my tired confusion and lack of American currency. "Welcome to America. Enjoy your stay!" Yes, thank you. I certainly will.
How had I managed to spend nearly 12 hours on the plane and not fill out my customs card?
"Just check 'no' for everything." He grinned a little too widely and offered me a blue pen.
"Next," the line-monitor croaked. It would have been impossible to say a word with any less enthusiasm. She sounded like she had suffered under the fluorescent lights, tending lines of incoming American citizens, for a few too many years.
The man looked at me expectantly. He was next. "Oh, sorry. You probably want this back." I had only managed to fill in my name. For a fleeting second I considered what would happen if I tried to keep his pen anyway. These are the things you consider when you have been awake for too many hours.
It was my turn.
"How long were you abroad for?"
"Since August. Ten months about."
"What countries did you visit since you were last in America?"
"Jordan, Egypt, Israel." I was tempted to say "Palestine" and see how that turned out, but I decided to only list the countries that show up in my passport with visas. Inshallah (God-willing), it will be possible to have a "Palestine" stamp on my passport someday.
"Where did you spend the most of your time? What was the purpose of your time abroad?" He rattled off a few questions hardly waiting for my responses.
"Which country did you like the best?" I can't help but wonder what weird extrapolations were made of my answer to this seemingly irrelevant question.
"Were you paid when you taught English?" I laughed, realizing too late this might not be the best course of action when a Passport Control worker is asking you questions. "No. It was volunteer."
"So did you live on a kibbutz when you taught English?"
"Not exactly."
He didn't wait for further explanation. "Oh, OK. Well, welcome back." It seemed deceivingly easy in contrast to my recent travels in Palestine and Israel. No hassle? No restricted room for me to sit in and await further questioning? I had forgotten what it was like to be an American in America.
I staggered under the weight of my bags up to the money exchange counter. The man behind the counter mistook my tired confusion and lack of American currency. "Welcome to America. Enjoy your stay!" Yes, thank you. I certainly will.
