Customs

Thousands of people suffer from Pteromechanophobia everyday. As serious as this sounds, the term is merely a synonym for aviophobia, or fear of flying. I am lucky enough not be one of these sufferers. I do, however, have a high anxiety of going through customs.

There is no rational reason for this fear (but then again, a phobia is an irrational fear). Customs officers in the UK are almost always friendly and simply want to keep the lines moving. It’s not unusual for an officer to tease me about coming from Texas (“How many oil wells are in your back garden?” “Do you get tired of riding horses back and forth to the grocery stores?” etc.), or even assert superior knowledge by challenging my familiarity with US state capitals (I have to study up before every trip now). So, besides lacking US geography skills, I have no real reason to dislike customs. But I do. Typically the lines wind around and around endlessly, and as you are lugging your heavy carry-on, completely jet-lagged in a zombie-like state, customs officials are shouting constant directions. “Passports out NOW! Be sure your landing cards are complete! No mobile phones or else you shall be quarantined and possibly drawn and quartered if we so choose!” At least, that seems to be the gist of the yelling. Thick accents plus exhaustion may lead to slight exaggerations.

Once you and the hundred in front of you have been herded to the front, you then must face the customs officer and suffer their interrogation. What entertains later and frustrates me then is the randomness of the questions. One occurrence a few months ago went like this:

“Where are you going?”

“Glasgow. As it says. Right there. On my ticket.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Umm, pleasure then.”

“What are you planning to do in Scotland?”

“Just visiting friends.”

“How many?”

“Are you asking how many friends do I have?” By now I’m sure they’re just playing Taunt-the-American, a fun game for all Brits, I’ve discovered.

“Nevermind. Who are you staying with?”

“A friend.”

“Oh, right, a girlfriend then?” She arches her eyebrows and looks at me over her paper. I’m wearing a baggy t-shirt and a baseball cap, which in Texas means it’s Sunday afternoon, but apparently in London means lesbian.

“I’m visiting my boyfriend, actually.”

“Oh!” She actually seems surprised, and quickly stamps my card and shoos me away, lest I create anymore awkward situations.

When you’re pushing 24 hours without sleep, this long and arduous process is stressful every time. No amount of Starbucks helps. I’ve tried. Still, the anxiety is irrational, as I’ve said. When you look at it, going through UK customs is a learning experience. You define yourself to the world, and you often learn random information. What’s the capital of Florida, you ask? Tallahassee, and I can spell it, too.