Having got back from my little holiday in New York City, I thought I’d jot down a few of the fascinating conversations I had there. This first one is with an Immigration Officer, so you may understand I don’t have a photograph of her and her gun.
My head was on 2:00am British Summer Time and feeling rather tired. Landing in JFK seemed straightforward but there’s never a moving walkway when you need one, is there? Consequently I felt as if I had walked, or staggered, for miles before I reached the Immigration Desk.
Locally in New York it was mid evening and the Immigration Officer was wide, wide awake. Only one person was in front of me in the queue and was quickly processed. I got beckoned forward by the Immigration Officer, hiding with her gun behind a perspex screen and face mask.
“Passport” she said. Opened it up, studied her computer screen.
“Look into the camera, yes take off your face mask” she said in a school teacher-ish kind of way as my photograph was taken.
“Finger prints. Put you right hand on the scanner, yes that’s right. No it’s not clear enough. Try again, take your hand off and try pressing a little harder” she said in an increasingly annoyed way. It wasn’t my fault it wasn’t working, I was being very compliant.
Again it didn’t work and I was ordered (i.e. instructions getting stronger, progressing from school teacher to Immigration Officer. And with a gun!). This wasn’t working to her satisfaction, so I was instructed to clean my hands with some sanitising gel. It seemed to work. Next was my left hand, followed by my thumbs.
“Well, what a t’do” I thought, thinking I was going to be on my way to the baggage claim area. Already I had visions of my bag whirling around the luggage carousel on its own, looking rather lost and unwanted.
Next flowed a series of questions. Where was I going to stay, how long for, did I have an outward return flight booked? I answered each question succinctly, not wanting to be smart, or sociable or anything which could be misconstrued.
She held up my passport, high above her head and caught the attention of a Police Officer who came over.
“Go with this officer, he’ll have your passport for now”
I was taken into a large room, with rows of empty waiting chairs. At the long side of the room was a slightly raised platform, running almost the entire length of the room. On top of the platform was a series of desks, computer screens and some very sturdy perspex screens with only a narrow gap to hear what was being said and to slide any papers. I was beckoned over to be grilled by the second armed Immigration Officer, while the Police Officer stood nearby. In addition to his gun, he had handcuffs and all kinds of other mean looking paraphernalia.
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m staying at three different hotels, the first is this one here” and I handed over a copy of my booking. “It’s in Manhattan”.
“Yes I can see that. Where else are you staying, hand those papers to me” she said and I duly did, sliding the papers through the little gaps.
“Hummmmmm. Why are you here, what’s the purpose of your visit?”
“I’m on holiday, sight seeing and so on”
“How much money do you have? Are you meeting anyone here at the airport, are you really travelling on your own?” in a quizzical tone, to which I thought she must be watching too many detective movies.
I explained as I was there on my own, I just had a little cash, about $200, as I tended to pay for things using my bank card.
“So you say you’re here as a tourist. Do you have anything booked, admission to things?”
“I have a theatre booked for Saturday night” and held up the ticket, quickly being snatched from me.
“Is that it, nothing else?”
She studied it closely, along with my three hotel bookings. She looked at her computer screen, it seemed as if it was a long, long wait. I wondered if she was looking at my Facebook and Twitter accounts, seeing as I had included these in my ESTA application (this is a sort of visa waiver). Maybe she was reading my blog!!!!! Had I been ranting anti-Trump stuff in the past?
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No, no I haven’t” and I thought this was now starting to stray into interesting territory. Why would she ask such a thing? Surely being arrested is meaningless unless you have been convicted of an offence and why would that matter, unless it was for something serious like drug trafficking or terrorism? I had given my answer and felt I didn’t need to add anything at all.
“What’s your job?” in an increasingly stern way, almost as if she was wanting to find a reason for denying me access. I explained I was retired and naturally this was followed by asking me what my profession was and for how long I have been retired for. I felt sure I had put all of this on my ESTA application, perhaps she was just checking my story.
Further flicking and scrolling took place, up and down her computer screen. The Police Officer was looking on and must have concluded he wasn’t going to be escorting me anywhere, so he sauntered off. After what seemed like an agonisingly long few minutes she said “okay Sir, you can come in for your holiday. Come with me so we can check her luggage”.
We walked over to the other side of the baggage reclaim hall where sure enough, my bag was on its own going round and round.
“Is this your bag?”
“Yes it is”
“Take it to the officer over there, desk 22, and he will check it for you. Here’s your passport. Have a nice day”
Part of me was wanting to take my turn in giving her a hard time. I must be the most straight forward, low risk visitor to America. Or was I? A middle age man travelling alone and independently of any organised tour. I was an unknown. I knew I was also incredibly tired and just desperate to sleep in a hotel room. I thanked her, slightly biting my lip as I said it.
The officer who then had responsibility for checking my bag asked me if I had any food. I explained I had an egg sandwich, which I had intended to eat in London, before getting on the plane. He wasn’t bothered by that, just needed reassuring that I didn’t have any meat. I said I was vegetarian and he chuckled and also wished me a nice day.
That was my welcome to America. My adventure had begun.