PSA: Go to America via Longship.

Don’t fly to America, if you have the time and resources, get a boat. How marvellous it would have been to see a distant shore on the horizon, to get up from my dank cabin and see the promised land stretched before me. That singular moment of sighting land, passed down from Leif Errikson, to Columbus, to the 12 million that arrived at Ellis Island, and finally to me.

Instead I was greeted by the strange shuttles at Washington Dulles airport. These behemoths are not the brazen colossi promised me by Emma Lazarus, a label which aptly describes some of the natives barging past me. As you press your nose against the plane glass three rumble towards you, looking like the bastard spawn of the space shuttle and dustman’s lorry, tottering and lurching in defiance of all that is holy. They press their suckers against the belly of the plane, and in you shuffle. The intended name for these creatures were “mobile lounges”. The absence of anything resembling leisure within has led to the more commonly used name “plane mates”. These pregnant shuttles, after some bump and grind,  spew you into the terminal, as myopic and damp as the day you were born. 

"The bastard spawn of the space shuttle and dustman’s lorry"

Far from the windswept shores of early America, your first steps on this rarified soil squeak against a puce linoleum. Quickly you are sorted into two queues. These, at last, I understand.  As a son of the British isles queuing is in my blood, to stand behind your fellow man and wait your turn, happy in the equanimity that comes from the gentle nudges and sidelong glances of shuffling towards a common goal. My Dad an I know something is amiss. The line for American Citizens proceeds in a brisk disorder, they shove and push their way around each other, suitcases are used as barricades, rescuing a wayward child turns out to be cunning ploy to advance your family a few places ahead. We notice that eight of the ten surly TSA employees have been earmarked to process the naturalised rat race unfolding next to us, while we orderly foreigners make do with the remaining two.  The injustice of this has my Dad’s hackles up, positively frothing, staring like a pointer at a wounded hare. 
“Matty look there, I mean what the fuck is going on here. Look at the diplomat line, I’ve never seen less diplomatic people in my life. They’re absolutely taking the piss. I told you we should have pretended to be Americans” he barks. 
I look across at him, then back at the line. He might well be able to pass, he’s wearing chunky Arcteryx trainers, cargo trousers and a faded t-shirt from a long bust coffee shop in New York. I know it’s hopeless, as soon as he joins the maelstrom across the cord his cover will be blown. The moment he refrains from elbowing past a man on crutches, or chooses not to tip an elderly woman in a wheelchair into a waste bin the TSA will spot and shunt him back. 
“Probably best not Dad, we’ve almost made it now anyways” I say half-heartedly, staring down the long line of perfectly spaced bags that occupy our lane. 
We are now one place away from out interrogation The pleasant Indian family that we had respectfully followed in line are being taken to task by a thug in wraparound Oakley sunglasses. He sits toad-like in his little booth, presumably squinting from behind his mirrored shades. 
“Are you importing any food or tobacco today” He drawls. 
“No” the matriarch replies politely 
“I’ll repeat myself, are you importing any food?” He asks, this time with a severity that is equal parts confused, and outraged. In his mind he stands as a bastion before his homeland, Chet Macho, TSA flunky by day, FBI agent by night, patriot all hours in-between. The family before him pose an unprecedented threat to national security. Clearly, they are seditious spice merchants, readying to pollute the homeland’s tastebuds with their Ghee, Garam masala, and fenugreek. Not on his watch. 

Chet Macho, probably 

“Ma’am I know you have food” he persists. 
“We have no food, I’m truly sorry” she replies, perhaps wondering if the poor man is hungry. 
“Ma’am I know your culture an ours have very different definitions of food, it is a federal crime not to disclose any imports. If you are later found with any undisclosed goods you will be returned to your country of origin” he menaces. 
A standstill ensues, the family cannot suddenly pull out a bag of keema naan as tribute, and Chet in his omnsience has declared he knows for certain that they have cardamon-based contraband. This is his chosen prandial pugilism, Custard’s last stand if you will. Luckily a supervisor steps in, waving the family through. 
“Welcome to the United States” she sighs, the phrase coming out equal parts apology, warning, and congratulation. 
We step forward, my Dad pressing his passport into Chet’s grubby hands. I tense up, my Dad is a humanitarian worker and has a passport full of visas that make Bin Laden look like eighteen year old on his gap year. Chet’s eyebrows rise to meeting his retreating hairline. He leafs past Syria, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, Sudan, and ten other countries he distantly recalls from his lecture on the Axis of Evil. He looks up in porcine perplexity, taking in my fathers tanned, but clearly British face.  He almost looks like he’s about to stand and salute him for his service, but settles for “sorry about your Queen”. We’re waved through and proceed towards our baggage.