American Life

I feel somewhat guilty, as I've put down America quite a bit over the years. Well, I stand by the things I've said (this country is a mess in many ways) but the comfort of being home right now overrides any flaw.

America is close to being perfect for me, based on three factors: money is not an issue at the moment, I have time to burn, and I hold a US passport. The first two may have something to do with the comfort I'm now experiencing. The last one was crucial in a welcoming return.

My passport was never checked while leaving Britain (I had overstayed my visa by 27 days). Nobody cared that I was leaving. The first immigration official I encountered was in Amsterdam, and he was American. They were checking everyone's passports before boarding the plane. Anyone without the proper documentation was turned away. This, to me, is immigration control on a whole different level.

As I wielded my passport, I felt I had special powers. I had the authority to board that plane. Sure enough, the official took a look and gave me a smile and a very gentlemanly "Have a nice flight." I have found that US immigration officials are some of the most friendly, respectful, dignified individuals that you could ever meet. But only if you hold a US passport.

I admit that I got a little misty-eyed when the plane touched down in Chicago. My first time on American soil in nearly three years. My experience on the plane had left me cranky and worrisome. Surrounded by loud, crass passengers, it was my first exposure to Americans in a long time. The lady behind me even asked me (and not in a polite way) to move my seat back up, as it was cramping her space. Really? I thought the airlines had somehow worked out the whole spacial proportions on a plane. The way to avoid cramped spaces on a plane? Buy a frickin 1st class ticket, you stupid bitch. Did I tell her that? Well, in so many words. In the end I moved my seat up, but seethed for the next hour or two.

Okay, back to the misty-eyedness of it all. Yes, I was still feeling this (what's the word?) power as I stood in the US resident line. In screens above the immigration desks there played videos depicting American Life. Smiling farmers holding ears of corn, yellow school buses cruising through friendly suburban neighborhoods, and yes, even a soaring American eagle (which as we all know is part our daily American experience). For me, it was entertaining, if not amusing. To the ones standing immobile in the non-resident line, it must have been like a raspberry being blown in their face, like the US government was sticking out their tongue and wagging their fingers around their ears. Nah nah nah, we don't have to let you in. They were showing this life above their heads, not as an invitation, but as a tease.

My passport was stamped in under a minute. And yes, I got my customary "Welcome home," which never fails to make my heart stir.

So I re-entered American life. I didn't see many smiling farmers or soaring eagles, but I did get to see yellow school buses almost immediately. What impressed me (as I had predicted) was all the space. The sheer size of everything. Oh, and the billboards. My god, the billboards (these petered out as we drew closer to the cornfields). I was in awe.

But it lasted for about a day. The awesomeness of space had to contend with the overtness of consumerism. Though they both had an effect on me at first, I soon got used to them. I quickly slid back into the American way. I renewed my driver's license and hit the road in ecstasy. After being shackled to passenger seats (whether in a car, train or bus) for years, I now had the freedom to drive. This raging power was back. But then I got used to that too, and started huffing at red lights.

There is one thing that I will never take for granted again, no matter how long I live. It shocks me every day, in a very good way. And this is the fact that Americans have sidewalk etiquette.

I've been telling my husband about this the entire time I was in Britain. I'd be like "Brits have no sidewalk etiquette." And it really affected my experience over there. It didn't matter where I went. Even if I took a train, I still had to do a fair amount of walking (which makes me wonder how I had gotten so fat over there). I don't think a single day went by without me grumbling about one thing or another, either to Chris or myself.

Because I mean business here, trying to convey the displeasure of walking in urban areas in Britain, I'll break it down for you:

There is no flow of foot traffic: In America I've noticed that most people walk on the right hand side, much like our roads. In Britain they drive on the left, but that has no bearing on sidewalks. People tend to walk in the middle of the sidewalk, and you have to move your way around them. In the city it's just a mess, especially after coming off the train. People walk in the center and they oftentimes walk incredibly slow (if they're your typical slag in stiletto heels then they will be even slower). This is beyond frustrating. On a residential sidewalk, you have to do a silly dance with the person who is coming at you. There are no rules (there may be no rules over here in America either, but sidewalk etiquette is something we must be born with).

There is no regard for pedestrians: In theory there should be, seen as how there are so many. Things had improved by the end of my stay (perhaps my constant whining got into the right set of ears) but very few train stations that I frequented had a pedestrian crosswalk outside. This meant you had to make a mad dash across the street, dodging cars with mean shouting people inside. Everyone hates pedestrians. Even pedestrians hate pedestrians, and try and make your walking experience as annoying as possible.

Sidewalk hopscotch: By this I mean, hopping around various substances on the sidewalk. It could be anything, from used condoms to smeared kebab remains, but more often than not it was dog poo, human vomit, and giant wads of slimy spit. I'd like to add that these items were daily deposited on the sidewalk right outside of our house (then again, we had four pubs on our street).

Mothers with prams: Prams are the British version of a stroller. No, I take that back. Brits don't use strollers as much as they do buggies. Like from the olden days. Huge honkin buggies that take up nearly the whole sidewalk. Now, generally I have nothing against mothers. They are a wonderful breed. I probably wouldn't have this complaint at all if it weren't for the fact that I had to walk past two schools on the way to work in Mossley. If it wasn't the kids running into my shins (they definitely had no sidewalk etiquette) it was the mothers coming down the hill loaded with these sidewalk-hogging devices. There was no sidewalk etiquette here, and they made no room for me, even though I was the one huffing it up the hill. I either had to step out onto the street or risk getting barreled down. And there was no connection, not even the faintest whisper of a smile from these people "sharing" the sidewalk with me, which brings me to my last complaint

People are miserable: Okay, maybe not miserable. I don't know what's going on in their personal lives. But nobody makes eye contact. And if you make the mistake of locking eyes, it is oftentimes a sour face you'll be gazing into. This is a generalization, as there are many lovely people I've crossed paths with in Britain over the years. I actually preferred working in the city, as people are a tad more professional there (coming off the morning train). It's okay not to make eye contact; we all understand that we're in the same boat, heading to work. But in Mossley, in my little village in the hills, you'd expect people to be friendlier. But they weren't. I've been driven off sidewalks by people who laugh in the face of sidewalk etiquette more times than I can say. It's a shame. A damn damn shame.

Alright, to wrap this up (as I think I've gone on a bit long) I've been out walking nearly every day now that I’m back home. This is an exercise I enjoy at the highest level. First of all, well, nobody's around (nobody really walks around here), so I have the sidewalks all to myself. In the occasion that I do cross paths with somebody, they do not spit in my presence. Rather they move over to their right (the proper position) and pass me by with not only eye contact but (I'm not making this up) with a smile and greeting. This blows me away, every time. It's like that immigration official telling me "Welcome home," again and again. I feel appreciated here, I feel welcomed and loved. And as long as I continue to go out walking through America's fine neighborhoods, I hope that this feeling stays.