The Arrival

Practically all the events described below are almost completely accurate in nearly every detail. Only some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

The Arrival

Well I finally made it back out to the good old U S of A and quite an eventful journey it turned out to be. First I was stricken with nerves at Uncle Richie’s house, my previous blasé attitude being replaced with a gut churning sense that I was heading off into the [relative] unknown with very little actual money. I was in turn interrogated and complimented by various members of the airport authorities on both sides of the Atlantic. And then finally my cab journey from JFK to Brooklyn felt like a scene from the sadly never released Speed 3. You know, the one in which Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock get taken on a terror ride in the back of a yellow taxi while their agents chase them trying to apologise for sending them the scripts.

The main cause of the aforementioned nerves was the nagging suspicion that, despite all the information to the contrary, they may not actually allow a near penniless ‘Brit’ into country for three months. This fear was swiftly reinforced by the uncomfortable interrogation I received from the quite lovely Delta Airlines rep at London’s fashionable Heathrow Airport. Who had packed my bags? Where had they been kept? Had anyone else had access to them? Well, I’ve known Rich for over 15 years but I still wouldn’t have put it past the bugger to stitch me up, for a ‘laugh’ like. However, the main focus for their nosy questions was the length of my stay. Three months? What about money? What about a job? I made some noises about credit cards and money owed and thankfully was on my way. At this point the young ladies tone changed somewhat and she sent me on my way remarking that I had “a very nice height”. ?.

There were, however, no such compliments regarding my physical stature from the shaven headed oik at U.S Border Control eight hours and 14 double gin and tonics later. Traditionally getting into the U.S. has never been the proverbial ‘barrel of laughs’ but this guy must have got out the wrong side of the bed, lost a pound and found a penny and then shat himself on the way to work because he was Moody (with a capital M).

How long are staying?

Just under three months.

Three months? (incredulous).

Yes about 85 days.

There then followed a long conversation where I was forced to explain the tricky concepts of ‘staying with friends’, wages that were, quite astonishingly, paid in lieu and finally credit cards. This entire conversation was conducted with my shakes ever worsening and my tongue becoming fatter and harder to control. Finally with my whole being in absolute tatters I was allowed into the fabulous city of New York.

Apparently this place never sleeps; well I can’t wait to see the bags under its eyes!