A warm welcome
Saturday 29 October 2011 Soon I will be leaving for a few weeks stay in de States, America, my "second homeland". I'm looking forward to it. But the only thing I dread, is the journey. Not so much the journey itself, as the waiting at airports, the lines at customs, and the so often blunt behavior of the customs officers. Last year I got a bit cranky about it. The fear of terrorists was deeply engrained and the check at the gate at Schiphol Airport wass correspondingly thorough. The military policewoman let her hands slide over my body in an experienced routine and asked my travel partner and me what our destination was. “Florida,” I responded, “To the sun.” “Right you are,” she said, and once more her hands moved down and up again. Three times I felt her hand push up against what’s generally known as my “intimate zone.” Stay calm, I urged myself, although I was sure that this is not the normal process. After one check, and perhaps one other to make sure, it should be clear that I did not have not hidden anything in that area. No drugs and no explosives, no, nothing would explode or catch fire there, but I didn’t want a hassle so I didn’t make trouble. I wanted to board the airplane, I wanted rest, and maybe watch a movie. And I wanted to doze off. I was tired and irritated because of that hand between my thighs. Irritation amongst so many people in uniform is not a good thing, so I kept my mouth shut and sympathetically looked over to a girl who apparently also had fallen victim to the fear of terrorists. Three officers were taking her suitcase apart and she herself was checked further in a small dressing room. It wouldn’t have surprised me if a drugs and explosives sniffing canine had been brought to the scene. But no, the officers didn’t go that far. Later, I saw the girl board the plane. I wondered if security officers would be waiting for her in Washington, because all our personal information was being checked while wewere in the air. If there would be any suspicion about anyone, that person would be stopped and interrogated upon arrival, in spite of the fact that we already had been given approval to enter the USA via the ESTA (Electronic System for Travel Authorization).We were sitting in the plane and the trip was going well. We dozed, I watched the Disney movie “Beauty and the Beast”, we ate chicken and rice, and the purser announced that we would land on time at Washington Dulles Airport. I was looking forward to coming back there. The last few times we traveled via Atlanta and that airport is too big for my taste. Moving masses of people via trains and escalators, the haste, the hectic environment. I had better memories of Washington. Geniality. No yelling like the employees in Atlanta when you’re directed to the line for customs formalities, no suspicious looks when a man or woman asks you questions. No, Atlanta is no Washington, I always said. So we landed at Washington Dulles. We walked along an almost empty corridor to the customs counter, customs forms and passport in hand. How quiet it was here! No long lines but, to my dismay, a very blunt customs officer. Of course, my travel partner and I were not allowed to stay together. We were questioned separately, a picture was taken, and prints taken of all fingers. The officer was suspicious and did not want to tell me what I should do with the filled out customs form, but we found out ourselves a bit later on: It was taken by his just as blunt colleague. Afterwards, we retrieved our luggage, which we then had to put on a conveyor belt. The man who assisted us was the first friendly person we saw since we landed. “Watch your back,” I warned him. My suitcase was heavy and I felt sorry for that man. What an awful job he had, putting heavy bags on that conveyor belt all day surrounded by frustrated travelers and cantankerous customs officers. Meanwhile, it looked like more airplanes had landed. This hall, where the last check takes place, was very busy. Lines of tired people who, after waiting a long time, finally could take their shoes and coats off. Bags on the belt, small personal items in baskets. We were being yelled at and chased along. “It feels like we are cattle,” I said, bewildered, to the lady behind me in line, and she agreed with a sigh. This was awful! Was this genial Washington Dulles? Was this America? “My” America, which I always loved to visit? What had happened? Where was the friendliness, the humor, the hospitality, and the warm welcome? This was many times worse than Atlanta. “Hurry up!” it was called out. And again someone said that we had cut the line, but that was not true because we were forced to change lines. This was not fun, all those angry faces, those evil eyes without a bit of understanding or a small sign of humanity. And that’s how it felt, as if we were not human…
Why do I still want to go to America, I asked myself while a beagle sniffed my backpack. I had no idea what the dog was looking for but he didn't smell anything that’s forbidden so his handler took him to the next bag. In the meantime, we approached security control and I put my shoes in the basket, quickly, quickly, coat, bag, backpack on top. Around me I heard yelling and snarling. “This looks like the vestibule of hell, I think”, the woman behind me mumbled in my ear. “You are so right,” I whispered back. Take the high road, I admonished myself; people who work here are probably close to a burnout. Defeated I looked up to the controller, but he didn't even take note of me. I wasn't a human being, I was one of the many faceless beings who walked through the security booth every day, fast, fast... The security booth didn't make any sound and we could take our things off the belt. Shoes back on and we ran like the devil from this place of horrors. Quickly, we trotted through the long corridor. No one walked behind us – apparently, things had stalled in the customs hall.
I had lost my enthusiasm. America was no longer appealing to me. This was the last time, I decided. It was over and done with my love for this country. No ESTA Form, no undesired intimations at Schiphol, no blunt customs officers at any airport whatsoever, no masses of people, no suspicious questioning, no discourtesies, no yelling for me anymore. Enough is enough. The long corridor ended at a door, and then there was another large hall. Now we had to find out where the gate was for our next flight. An information screen was hanging next to the door. Right beside was an elderly man in uniform. He looked up and smiled at me. “Good afternoon! May I help you honey?” he asked. He was the man who made everything all right again. He’ll never know but HE opened the way for the next trip to America. He and a bit later another pair of his compatriots made that I will want to make the long trip to the States again to marvel at this immense country of contrasts. The land of majestic nature and lots of cement. From eagles soaring high in the sky to the tiniest little birds chirping me awake at my window in the mornings. America, the land of great richness and deep poverty. Yes, there are vast contrasts in this country, also among its people. But there are friendly and annoying people anywhere and I remembered an almost forgotten lesson from long ago: “Forget misery, appreciate the good.” So I decided to forget all misery and surrender to everything I appreciate about this country.
For this thought I received a reward in the form of a big hug. At our gate I had a chat for a while with an American woman and as we took leave I received a big hug as a welcome to the States. Actually, it was not she who hugged me; she was the personalization of the warm part of her country. It was the beautiful America that embraced me. The country put its arms around me, held me tight, hugged me close and never let me go.
Text: Dini Commandeur, Translation: Maria O’Neill