I was fairly sure I reeked as I shuffled my way along the queue that wound back and forth through the rats' maze of bollards and tape that stood in front of the customs booths at Los Angeles airport. Tasmania was an hours drive, four meals, seven movies and four hours sleep behind me. There was no humanising shower anywhere in that twenty-odd hours of being crammed in various tin boxes. I'm certain I stank, but then, I'm certain everyone else around me did as well, but we'd all been breathing in the miasma of each others' stench for so long I think we'd all become immune to it.
That may have been a contributing factor to what I initially took to be a stern and superior gaze from the bloke sitting at the booth nearest me. Decked out in his blue uniform with all the obligatory shiny bits and badges of borrowed authority, I thought at first he was sneering at everyone who offered up their passports for the attention of his rubber stamp and highlighter pen. On reflection, he was probably just having trouble holding down his lunch in the face of such large concentrations of body odour.
Being the backwards, backwoods, bantering sort of bastard I am, and unaware of his need to avoid suffocation, I tried in vain to engage the fellow in conversation. I had about as much luck as he had had in trimming his moustache, which is to say, not a whole hell of a lot. My index finger and thumb made their own smears and smudges on the fingerprint reader, my eyes had a lovely portrait taken of their retinas, my passport was stamped, stapled and scribbled on, my entry permit decorated with luminous green swirls and I shuffled on in search of my bags.
I looked around at the barriers, the low ceilings, the fibre-board walls that spoke of on-going construction, glossy tiles on the floor and everything else made from brushed steel. Here and there, customs officers waddled past in full kit, seeming to struggle with trying to look menacing, disinterested, and approachable all that the same time, but only coming across as bored and not overly bright.
Somewhere in amongst bored uniforms and brushed steel was my baggage, and though it took me a while, I eventually rescued them from their dizzying journey along the winding conveyor belt. By this time, I was starting to tire of all the steel and just wanted some fresh air in my lungs and Next in my arms, but there were more rat mazes and bollards and barriers to go. Beyond those though, I could see a doorway that looked to open out onto something other than steel and tiles.
I shuffled onwards. I probably still stank to high heaven, but no-one seemed to comment. Maybe the higher ceilings in that section helped the smell disperse to less toxic levels.
Finally free of the paraphernalia and personel that buzzed and hummed and beeped and grimaced and sulked and scowled and occassionally smiled in the name of a nation's security I made my way through the gates and at last, felt fresh air moving on my face. Well, relatively fresh anyway. I felt a thump behind me, grumbled a little and turned to once more set my poorly stressed baggage on its wheels again.
When I straightened back up again and lifted my eyes up alongside the upwards-slanting walkway, a splash of auburn caught my eyes. Five steps. Ten. At thirteen I heard the excited squeal and at thirteen and a half felt the unmistakeable impact of a patented Next full body hug. At that moment, with her body against mine, her arms around me and her lips saying hello to every part of my face, I neither knew nor cared where I was standing. I was where I wanted most to be.
"Oh baby," she said between molestations, "I'm so glad you're here. And you smell so good!"
I couldn't help but laugh at that, so I did. And so did she.
I looked around us, at the bustle of people caught halfway between where they came from and where they wanted to be, kissed her again and took her hand in mine.
"I need coffee. Let's get some."
I was officially in America.
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