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I was the customs check-in earlier today (yesterday) after a 2-day business trip, and the immigration officer asked me: "What's the purpose of your visit here?"
Maybe it was partly because of my lack of sleep, but I was completely disoriented and confused. What was she talking about? I was coming home, and very much relieved to be back too.
Then it hit me: she thought I was visiting the UK. (yeah, einstein) I have a foreign passport after all.
I replied: Oh I live and work here.
Oh, sorry about that, how long have you been living here?
Six, seven years?
Oh that's a long time, you're practically part of the furniture now.
It's funny, that I completely forgot that I'm foreign. The more I travel in and out of the country (and that has become fairly frequent for work and pleasure), the more automatic the entire process is for me: the filling out of the landing card (I brought a small stack home intending to fill them in and carry them around for convenience) - and that's the only time I fill in "banker" under occupation - to avoid the need for explanation, the effort to exit the plane quickly to avoid long queues in the "All passports" lane, walking straight past the baggage belts onto the heathrow express back to town - the easier for me to see the coming and going as just taking a train out of town, and the greater the relief at each successive home-coming (although there is the tempering effect of the spectre of work).
And so, sometimes I forget that I am crossing borders, and that I don't have a permanent right to be here, and I am baffled by questions that challenge me. I don't understand why they ask me if I am visiting, who I'm staying, how long I am here for. I live here, work here. I may not have a passport, but my life is here. For better or for worse, for now, this is my home.
Maybe it was partly because of my lack of sleep, but I was completely disoriented and confused. What was she talking about? I was coming home, and very much relieved to be back too.
Then it hit me: she thought I was visiting the UK. (yeah, einstein) I have a foreign passport after all.
I replied: Oh I live and work here.
Oh, sorry about that, how long have you been living here?
Six, seven years?
Oh that's a long time, you're practically part of the furniture now.
It's funny, that I completely forgot that I'm foreign. The more I travel in and out of the country (and that has become fairly frequent for work and pleasure), the more automatic the entire process is for me: the filling out of the landing card (I brought a small stack home intending to fill them in and carry them around for convenience) - and that's the only time I fill in "banker" under occupation - to avoid the need for explanation, the effort to exit the plane quickly to avoid long queues in the "All passports" lane, walking straight past the baggage belts onto the heathrow express back to town - the easier for me to see the coming and going as just taking a train out of town, and the greater the relief at each successive home-coming (although there is the tempering effect of the spectre of work).
And so, sometimes I forget that I am crossing borders, and that I don't have a permanent right to be here, and I am baffled by questions that challenge me. I don't understand why they ask me if I am visiting, who I'm staying, how long I am here for. I live here, work here. I may not have a passport, but my life is here. For better or for worse, for now, this is my home.
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