My American Adventures at O’Hare Airport

When the night turned out unusually foggy and my taxicab died in the middle of the road on its way to the airport, I should’ve guessed that the trip was going to be anything but usual. However, being by virtue not inclined to superstition, and due to the time of the night uncommonly prone to little thinking, I took ‘the signs’ as nothing special.

After all, I was safe. My ticket was NOT through O’Hare airport, which meant I’d get into the states all right, read this as with no more emotional traumas.

You wonder what I mean? Well, experiences can be wounding not just in the gastronomes of Kiev, but also in the airports of America. Especially if you are coming as an immigrant, whether temporary or permanent, and the officer examining you has a historic Northern-American last name of Rodriguez.

That’s exactly what happened the previous time I came to the States, invited to be an interpreter for an Israeli friend who was visiting the Country.

- “So… Where are you coming from and what for?” – was the first question of a little stocky guy at the customs desk of the airport, as he was hastily looking through my passport and invitation letter.

- “I am a Ukrainian,” – said I: “and I am coming to interpret for an Israeli friend”.

I am not sure which the noun or the adjective it was, exactly, “Ukrainian” or “Israeli”, that pressed some secret button in this officer, but as I said that, he lifted up his eyes from behind the desk, shot a quick glance at me and out came the following:

“I am so sick of you pigs!”

That ‘greeting’ put me in a temporary stupor, disabling my reason or ability to react in any sort of a pulled-together manner. Of course, things like that should be addressed and brought to light, but I was not able to do that. He then announced that I had the wrong type of visa and took me to the office in the back for some dealing with immigration officers. Those people turned out to be not a bit nicer than the guy at the immigration desk. As they were yelling at me one after another as if I was a criminal. For a split second I thought they were literally barking. At the end they luckily let me go, but told me that my 5-year multi-entry visa was reduced to
a single entry one. For the next couple months I mourned the loss of the document, until someone skilled in these matters assured that my visa was fine, and what the officers told me was a untrue.

Naturally, I did not want to encounter the humiliation and intimidation or any other such “ation” of Chicago customs anymore.

So, I made sure that my ticket for my most recent visit would be through any port other than Chicago’s O’Hare, and managed to arrange for a flight through Washington DC.

Little did I know about the upcoming fog. Even less would I have anticipated that the power in the plane would go out just before take off. But it did and so we all spent another forty minutes on the ground sitting in the dark.

Naturally, the plane came to Munich an hour later than scheduled. I, along with many others, was late for the connecting flight. So, I was offered a new route. And, oh jeepers, it was through Chicago!

As we landed in Chicago and I was standing in line to be interviewed along with other visa-holding foreigners, I nervously went through intense self-training of polite talk with an immigration officer. My heart was pounding, hands sweating, eyes twitching, but I made sure my face exuberated calmness and dignity! Sometimes the masks we pull on are so rigid, that they make an unquestionable impression of reality, but like “new wine in old skins”, it’s only a short period before they burst and let go of what’s inside.

The girl interviewing me was rather nice this time. She seemed to be willing to let me go, until she noticed that I didn’t have the slip about my first extension of stay from the trip before. I got two extensions and was told that there was no need in keeping the first one once I received the second one.

“I’ll take you to the back office. They will quickly check if you had a first extension and let you go. It’s a quick procedure,” she said while getting up to escort me to that scary back room hosting the horrible memoirs of my previous visit.

After sitting on a bench with multiple other ‘prisoners’ of the immigration officers, I started to notice that my passport was being tossed from officer to officer. That is, until one of them held it longer than all the others. Another half an hour, and I was called by him for my interrogation!

The officer started out rude, distrustfully mocking almost everything I had to say.

However, by amazing grace only, I kept being polite with him, and kind to him, and did not give in to his intimidation.

Hours of interrogation went on, before I noticed Mr. Martinez (another American last name) softening towards me. The transition was obvious. He was beginning to believe that I was not a terrorist. Moreover, were I in a nightclub and not in his airport office, he would probably have offered to buy me a glass of Mohito by then.

His amateur machismo was fading, however it did not erase those first couple hours, when he went through all of my stuff, read through my journal, my checkbook, my business cards. Everything that was in my carry-on was scrutinized and examined by this Sherlock Holmes wannabe.

Now the time came for asking the questions to complete the file. Things he wanted to know were along the line of reasons for my coming, why there was money in my checkbook, etc.

As he asked his last questions, the officer rolled from behind his computer, looked at me with an apologetic shade in his eyes and said:

“You seem to be a nice girl,” – there was a pause in this monologue, as he gathered some breath: – “I don’t believe that you told me the whole truth but I won’t fine you for fraud. Also, I won’t give you a charge of deportation, after which you wouldn’t be able to apply for a new visa for five years, but we’ll make it look like you chose to cancel your visa yourself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Martinez!” Well, of course, until this moment I was still hoping he’ll let me in the country, but the news did not come as a surprise.

After this all my possessions were temporarily confiscated and I myself was locked in an airport jail cell until the flight back to Ukraine, which was supposed to be in the afternoon of the next day. On the way to the cell I met a Bulgarian family of three that was being deported, for no obvious reason. But they were less fortunate than myself, each of them was charged for deportation (even though these guys has previously been to the states three times, never breaking any law, in addition, one of their sons was studying in a U.S. university).

“Hmm, good thing they allowed me to take my book in,” I thought as the heavy iron door of a barrack-looking cell was locked behind me with a loud crusty squeak. I tried to get some in-bed reading but because this was my third night without sleep I dozed off before it got opened.

I think a couple minutes later someone knocked and brought me an orange juice and a turkey sandwich. The only thing that signified this wasn’t a dream was an empty bottle and a sandwich wrapper found in the morning.

The next day was fun. Not only did they allow me to make phone calls, but also they were bringing me treats every half an hour (I thought I’d have an overdose of orange juice and turkey sandwiches by the time I had to leave for the flight). Each time an officer would come by my window, he or she would give me an understanding look, or a smile, some even waved and winked, as if to say: “We know you must think we are all jerks, but there is quota we have to fulfil. Sorry, little Ukrainian girl. Here, maybe this turkey sandwich will make you think we are not as bad as we look…”

My plane was supposed to leave at 4:00 pm. Sometime around noon, looking through my small side-wall window, I witnessed what I had only seen in the movies before… The doors of the cell next to me opened. Two angry looking officers stumbled in. Despite nice soundproof doors, walls and windows of my temporary dwelling I could hear bangs and squeaks and barks in the neighbouring one. A couple moments later the officers went out, this time with a quiet Chinese man in a brown striped business suite, in handcuffs!

I immediately started thinking of phrases to say when they came to lock up my freedom in those little round pieces of iron, just like they did with my ex-neighbour. My favorite scenario was this:
The doors open. I am sitting on the couch, reading my book. I look up and welcome the visitor in my cell with a warm “Hello, officer. How is your day going?” He is honored by such kindness, handcuffs-to-be-mine jangling around his belt. “It’s your time to go to the flight, but we have to put handcuffs on you to make sure you don’t attack anyone, or run away into the expanse of our big country and we never find you again.” I take a pause to give him a sweet look, then, with a calm and comfortable voice I say: “C’mon, officer, do I look like a criminal to you?” He suddenly wakes up from his horrible mistake, and asks his last questions: “Ok, ma’am. But do you promise to not run away or attack anyone?”

Not doubting that this is exactly how the things will unfold I made myself comfortable and was waiting for the next serving of an orange juice and turkey sandwich. It had been twenty-seven minutes before that I had my last one, so it was about time.

Around 3:30 pm a young girl in an officer’s disguise ran into my cell, hair in different direction, out of breath. “Katya,” – she knew me by name, because her working space was just outside my cell’s door, so we exchanged some mutually supportive comments about everything that was happening: “Those Lufthansa people are so STUPID (she made sure the last word was emphasized)! They gave us a wrong time! We need to be running! Get dressed, let’s go!”

Never have I put on my coat so fast! (Wouldn’t you be thrilled and anxious to leave such a dwelling place?) I ran out, the girl-officer behind me, giving me directions. She reminded me to get my confiscated possessions back. I did. I also ran to say ‘bye’ to the officer-interrogator. (I grew to love him in some sort of grateful way) As soon as I was ready to leave the customs office once and forever behind in my life, the Lufthansa people hurried in to correct themselves: the original time of my flight was right and there was no reason to rush.

Both of us, the girl and I, took a deep breath and smiled at each other. She called another young officer to join us and both of them took me to the gate of my destination. We had to ride in a van, because that was the fastest way to the gate. While sitting in the back seat I suddenly realized that no one had offered me handcuffs! “Hmm, they must think I’m not that bad of a criminal, after all!”

We arrived early. There was another half an hour before boarding. Looking at the people around me, remembering phone calls to only few of my American friends, thinking of weddings that were coming up that I was invited to in the States, people I couldn’t wait to see, adventures I was excited to live through… I grew a little sad about leaving this little American dream of mine behind without ever tasting the sorrows and joys of its coming to reality.

Thankfully, the couple of young officers that were with me turned out to be much fun! “Ah,” – they said in one voice: “those customs people are the biggest jerks, never mind that we are on their team! We stay in the back of the office, cause we are the only ones nice there!” I noticed that.

Since we were early the two ‘guardian angels’ of the Chicago airport took me shopping. There was nothing I needed, I thought, until a Starbucks stand, decorated in red and green, with light brown snowflakes painted on its surface, appeared on the horizon.

“Starbucks!” – I was excited. I could not miss the sip of something that epitomizes, even though so incompletely, my full American experience: the warmth of the Southern hospitality, the loneliness of the wild-wild Midwest, the surrealism of New York down town, the romanticism of Charleston’s piers and the “California dreaming in the winter days”… So, the three of us ran into the coffee shop. In a good Ukrainian manner I rushed in front of a blond tall American guy, who was studying the menu. Poor thing, I did not notice him until Starbucks personnel nodded uncomfortably as if to make sure I understood that there was a customer before me. Thankfully, he was nice and indecisive. He didn’t know what he wanted to order even when I was already sipping on eggnog latte, my favourite Starbucks Christmas Special.

Christmas was coming. The first wet snowflakes were clustering around airport windows. Hot coffee, steaming out from the little hole in the white Starbucks brand lid, was undoubtedly adding to a rather romantic airport atmosphere.

“Flight LH 3034 to Munich, Germany is beginning to board”. Yep, that’s mine…

As I walked into the plane I was hoping that I was not saying the final goodbye to this second home of mine. The couple of ‘angels’ waved to me. They felt like friends, meant to be with you for a very short time, and though soon to be gone irreversibly, were sent to turn a hard moment into a bittersweet memory.

“My name is Lucy. I will be your flight attendant. I would like to welcome you on board of Lufthansa coach flying to Munich, Germany. It is 23 degrees outside, weather conditions are good and the plane is about to fly. In a minute my colleague will present… blah-blah-blah…”

Goodbye, America. God bless you! I will surely miss you, but how exciting it is to have one season of your life over, not by any will of your own.

P.S. My luggage got lost during the trip back to Ukraine. Once it was found, my favourite American Tourister bag came with a broken zipper. I got a 50-dollar receipt for it from Lufthansa, but then “permanently misplaced” it before having a chance to get my deserved cash. It all would be sad were it not so funny! It would have been surprising did it not fit so well as an ending to a foggy series of my unfortunate events.

 

By Katya Pilipiuk

Blog cell, emotional traumas, everything, Experience, hour, immigration officers, interrogation, invitation letter, israeli friend, Katya, Mr. Martinez, officer, Orange, sandwich, secret button, time, turkey, U.S., ukraine