Back to reality

We started getting a little weepy as we had our last glass of Prosecco at a wine bar at Fiumicino Airport. The last 2 weeks of vacation seemed like a dream, and the 9-hour flight ahead was a little too jarring a dose of reality. Usually after a vacation I'm content to return to my familiar surroundings. But in the past year or so, I have becoming increasingly restless and discontent with living in the US. This is not a new feeling--more like the reopening of an old wound from my 20s. I have always wanted to live abroad, but I never pursued opportunities, he said bitterly.

This trip was far beyond what I'd hoped for and once again reinforced my desire to live in Europe. I thought the trip would be a nice getaway, but I didn't think it would be so spectacular, so--I hate to use this word, but--magical. What made it great was, of course, having a companion with the same attitude to share things with. I'd done a lot of research on places to go and things to see, but in the end it was always the last-minute decision, the discovery of a new place, the adventure that made the lasting impression. Until a few years ago, I had never taken a 2-week vacation. I don't know why I waited so long.

The flight ended up being delayed an hour, and since there was sunlight all the way home, it was difficult to sleep. The seat was cramped, the food was fairly bad, and the loud, annoying Italian woman behind me accidentally dug her nail into my head as I slept. The plane finally arrived at JFK a little before 6:00 p.m. The immediate rush of people, noise, and smells was jarring, as it always is when I return to this frenetic beehive from elsewhere.

I got to Passport Control and was immediately yelled at by a Hispanic woman with impossible hair for not understanding which line I was supposed to be on. Once I found the line, I further annoyed her by not standing behind the yellow line to wait for the next agent. Welcome to New York.

I made it to baggage claim and waited for our bags. I looked over at Luis, who was with an Immigration agent. He seemed to be there for longer than the usual stamp and run. A few minutes later, the Immigration official shut down his station and escorted Luis to the Immigration office. I'd seen people being taken there in other places, and I always wondered what happened to them. Sometimes I even assumed they must have done something wrong. But in this case it was my partner being taken away, and I watched him go in that kind of slow-motion sort of way when your brain can't quite process what's happening.

As I waited for our bags, my knees started shaking a little. I hadn't eaten much in the past 12 hours, and I was very tired. Now my adrenaline started kicking in. Why on earth was Luis, a U.S. citizen, was being held by Immigration? I watched him the whole time as he sat there waiting. I didn't want to let him out of my sight. I've seen Sissy Spacek in "Missing"--I know how these things happen.

I finally got our bags off the carousel and looked for progress. Luis was still sitting there after half an hour. I was the only person left from our flight, and I was starting to get anxious. Luis kept looking at me and shrugging. He didn't know what was going on either.

I stood on the other side of the partition from Immigration and shook my head and muttered to myself about how much I hate this country. Just the kind of thing that would get me arrested as an enemy combatant. About an hour into his detention, Luis sent me a text message: "Watch me get deported to Mexico or arrested." I didn't know what he meant at the time, but I guess my muttering and glaring at the immigration officers wasn't helping matters.

Almost 90 minutes after we had arrived, Luis called me on his cell and said that I should go home because he'd been told it might be several hours or even overnight before he was released. Someone with his exact name and birth date, he said, was wanted for committing some violent crime, and Washington had to clear his name.

While being concerned for Luis, I started getting a little paranoid. What if the bureaucrats didn't clear him or shuffled their feet and decided to wait until Monday? Should I wait around, or should I go home and try to figure out what to do? I probably wasn't helping the situation by pacing around trying to get an answer out of anyone.

I went to the soda machine to get a water. The machine returned some cryptic error and gave me nothing. I hit the button hard and nothing came out.

"What's a matter? It won't give you anything?" I heard a voice say behind me. I turned around, and the Hispanic immigration lady with the impossible hair stood there. "Here, let me try." She slammed her fist against the button and the water came out.

"I'm just upset because my friend, who's a U.S. citizen, is being detained," I said.

"You were traveling together, right?" I nodded. "Don't worry," she said sympathetically, "he'll be out soon."

"I think they mistook him for someone else. He has a very common name." When I said his name, the woman looked at me as if to say "racist."

Almost 2 hours had passed, and I was still torn between staying and leaving. I decided that in the interest of preserving order it was best for me to leave. I saw the poster-size photo of George Bush hanging outside the Immigration office and started getting angry. It's all his fault, I thought, even if somewhat irrationally. I text-messaged Luis that I was going to take a taxi home, and he said that was probably a good idea. Still, I waited around a little bit before finally clearing Customs and getting in the taxi queue.

The taxi had just pulled out of the airport when I got a call from Luis saying he had been released. The official at JFK had just gotten clearance from Washington.

"The officer was very nice," he said. "She was yelling at everyone else in there, so I wasn't very hopeful, but she was apologetic that this had happened to me. She said she'd put a note in my file so that it doesn't happen again."

I'm not so sure it won't.