Immigration

Since being issued a passport in May, 2005, I have gone through immigration 57 times in 8 different countries. Though I have considerable experience negotiating my way through immigration in countries with varying levels of corruption, I never fail to feel some anxiety each time I present my passport to an official. On Thursday night we flew to Hawaii to visit my mom, and the following conversation transpired:

Immigration Agent (with a thick, southern drawl): Why are y’all headed to Hawaii?
Teachingchris: My mom lives there.
Immigration Agent: And just why does she live there?
Teachingchris: Because she’s extremely fortunate, I suppose.
Immigration Agent: Yes sir she is. (to my wife) You’re going to have to be on your best behavior, miss.
My Better Half: I always am. Actually, I think she likes me more than him sometimes.
Immigration Agent: I could see that.
Teachingchris: It’s true. Why deny it?
Immigration Agent: You two enjoy you’selves.

We walked on through, remarkably impressed with the ease at which we passed. I guess a couple Canadians going on vacation don’t raise too many red flags.

By the time we left Cambodia, we were very comfortable with the process required to get through immigration. After our last trip into the country, my wife might argue that I was a little too comfortable. When returning from Bangkok on an Air Asia flight, I filled out our forms while my wife slept on the plane. I handed her the paperwork as we waited in line. Soon we cleared immigration, and walked through customs, handing in our final forms as we passed. As usual, the agent didn’t even look at the forms. And it was a good thing, for on the line labeled “occupation” I had written mine as “superhero” and my wife paid dearly for her sleep; her vocation was listed as “sidekick.”