We left Warsaw this morning an hour late, after the pilot reported “a little thing wrong with the plane” that necessitated returning to the gate. Later, he announced that the plane was “doing very, very well,” so we took off. When we arrived at Chicago-O’Hare Airport, it looked like I would probably miss my connection, but I hoped I could get through immigration and customs in time to make my flight.
I presented my passport to the officer, and he asked where I’d been.
Poland and Israel.
How long were you in Israel?
About two weeks.
How was it?
How was it?
Yeah, like how was it there?
It was pretty great.
So what, it was like a vacation or something?
No, research.
Yeah? What do you study?
Religion.
Okay, cool. So welcome back!
And that was it for getting back into the United States. Next I claimed my luggage and waited in line to go through customs. Earlier this morning, I had tossed an apple into my backpack at breakfast in case I wanted a snack, and then forgot all about it. While I stood on line, I listened to the announcement drone on and on: “To prevent the spread of foot-and-mouth disease in the United States, please report to customs officials if you are carrying any food, plants, or livestock in your bags.” Oblivious to my contraband apple, and confident that I had absolutely no livestock in my bag (does that really happen?), I kept moving through the line.
When I reached the front of the line, I saw that the luggage scanner was high off the ground. I had been flying for about sixteen hours at that point, and the bag was heavy, so I asked the customs official, a balding guy in his fifties, if he would help me lift it onto the conveyor belt. He was just standing around, and I asked very sweetly. But instead of grabbing a handle and helping me out, he looked over my documents.
Well, you’re thirty-three years old, so you should be able to handle your own bags.
What?
You can lift your own bag.
You’re seriously not going to help me?
Well, I would help you if you were pregnant.
(I just looked at him. He walked around the scanner, leaned over, and looked me up and down.)
Nope. You’re not pregnant.
I can’t believe how rude you are being to me.
Look, I only help old people and pregnant women. You should be able to carry your own bags.
By that time, I was livid. I mean, really. I'd rather be politely interrogated for an hour. I hoisted the bag up, threw my backpack on the belt with it, and walked through the metal detector. On the other side, I wanted just to grab the bags and try to make the connection. But then they discovered the apple. After scanning the bag, the customs girl asked me with raised eyebrows if I had any food in my bag. I suddenly remembered the apple, and tried to avert the situation by telling her, “Oh, the apple! I forgot about the apple, I’m so sorry, please just throw it away.” She wouldn’t just throw it away, though. She had to take the apple, along with my passport, to a special office at the other end of the security terminal. She was gone forever. I was still stung from the earlier customs guy. Now the clock was really ticking on my connection, and this apple was keeping me from going anywhere at all.
Finally, she came back, sans apple. Before she would give me back my passport, thought, she had to give me a little speech about how important it is to declare food items on the custom form. She paged through the passport and looked at every entry and exit stamp. “You’re a frequent traveler, right?” she asked. I nodded. “Then you should know better than this. It’s a $100 fine, but we won’t make you pay the fine today, but don’t do this again!” She reluctantly handed back my documents and let me go through.
By that time, there was no question that I had missed the connection. Fortunately, there was another one leaving in two hours, so I had time to check in for that flight, and then go back to the customs area and speak to the supervisor about the rude agent and his lewd pregnancy inspection. I don’t think that customer service is high on the agenda for the U.S. Customs Agency, but I thought someone should know what he had done. I told the supervisor that having been in the Middle East, I had encountered a lot of rude men, but none with the audacity of this guy. Apparently, he has some kind of history, because the other agents who were listening were shaking their heads and trying not to crack up. The supervisor apologized to me, pointed out that there were indeed designated agents to help with bags, and told me she would “look into it.”
So, after three weeks of security scrutiny, the final straw in the U.S. is one illegitimate Polish apple. I had been looking forward to being home, in a familiar culture, and able to understand signs and announcements and passing conversations. Then I passed a guy in the airport terminal whose t-shirt read, “If I gave a crap, you’d be the first person I’d give it to.” That was the end of my nostalgia for being able to understand everything in sight. Walking from one terminal in Chicago’s huge airport to another, I passed a stunning four Starbuck’s locations, finally giving in and spending $5 on a coffee drink. It was a good one, though.
After twenty-one hours of flying and waiting, flying and waiting, I finally arrived in Nashville. My mom was waiting there for me with smiles and comfort food, and that was the real welcome home. And also the end of the trip, and the story of the trip I've been piecing together here. As I do the formal work on the project with Tova, I'll continue to post writings and reflections in this space. To new friends in Israel and elsewhere, please stay in touch. My thanks to everyone who has followed along and kept in contact over the journey. Shalom, shalom.
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