The Great American Drift
Beng and I are back in the US on what’s become an annual pilgrimage to visit our daughter Demi in San Diego, Beng’s sister and nieces in New York, and my mom and sister in Virginia. I like to think that these are more than vacations, although that’s what they really are and what we want them to be. These three to four weeks of October — corresponding to our semestral break — are always a welcome opportunity to reacquaint myself with Arby’s roast beef sandwiches, plush toilet paper, college football, thrift shops, and late autumn’s nippy weather, but I never quite forget that I’m the Pinoy incarnation of Alexis de Tocqueville, observing America being America.
A few surprises, not all of them pleasant, greeted us this time. The first came at the airport in San Francisco, where we had come in on a CX flight from Hong Kong. (I don’t get to fly it that often, but every time I do I’m reminded why Cathay is my favorite airline, from the food to the entertainment and the layover in HKIA, with its sumptuous food-court offerings and free Wi-Fi.) I was expecting to breeze through immigration, where we fielded the usual questions about our reasons for visiting and how long we were staying, and indeed we got the six-month stamp they customarily extend for such purposes.
But along with the stamp was a big red “AH” the immigration officer wrote with a felt tip pen on our customs form. I’d never seen that before, and my mind ran quickly through the possible meanings and permutations of “AH.” Did it mean “Ah” as in “Ah-a!” or “Ah…” or was it immigration or customs shorthand for “suspected drug mule” or “likely bagoong and balut carrier”? I got the answer not long after recovering our luggage when we lined up in the “nothing to declare” column, only to be shunted aside for baggage inspection.
We were met by a lady customs inspector who had that unmistakable tomato nose and watermelon smile of a fellow island-born Filipino. “Kumusta?” she said, immediately putting us at ease, even as we were prepared to profess all innocence, as we honestly didn’t think we had brought in any contraband. “Do you have anything to declare, any food?” I remembered the two cans of corned beef that Beng had tucked into our suitcase — a padala of my brother-in-law to his two daughters — and boldly declared “Two cans of corned beef — in my wife’s suitcase!” At the same time I gave Beng the cold glare of customs death, reminding her that I had warned her against bringing food, any kind of food, into the US, the paranoid, law-abiding global citizen that I am.
I thought my vocal declaration had put me in the clear, but our friendly interrogator then asked: “Anything else? Diretsuhin ko na po kayo, ano po? Do you have any chicharon?” I blanched, marveling at her paranormal acuity and realizing that, alas, I had bought four small, foil-wrapped packets of chicharon bituka at the airport in Manila, thinking of munching on them between meals across the Pacific, or even in San Diego, when I’d had enough of salads and other salt-free gut fillers. But I’d stowed them away in a bag that went into the overhead bin, and forgot about them until this critical moment. (Brain wave: “Does AH mean ‘Ating Hulihin’?”)
“Uh, uhm, opo, yes, I do! Four packets of chicharon bituka, very small packets, all foil-wrapped,” I squawked. “They’re in my backpack. I was going to eat them but I forgot.” The lady fished out the offending merchandise, shaking her head. The packets’ ingredients seemed even more delectable by the second. Surely, I imagined, my honest profession of the truth would spare these innocent stowaways? “I’m sorry, but new regulations can’t allow these in. Also instant noodles. You have any instant noodles?”
Now, as Penman regulars know, I hardly ever travel without a cache of chicken ramen, my comfort food, in my bag. This was the exception — Beng and I had decided to travel light, and I knew I could find ramen easily on the shelves of any grocery in California. “No!” I said with righteous certainty. “No noodles, no noodles.” Another inspector went through our bags and let the corned beef through, raising my hopes for the chicharon, but no dice: the Pinay picked up the packets and tossed them into one huge trash bin. “You just saved yourself a $300 fine by telling the truth,” she told me, and I breathed a sigh of relief. As Mark Anthony (Cleo’s, not J Lo’s) put it, not that I love chicharon less, but I love $300 more.
And so we entered the United States, divested of deep-fried pig’s guts and whatever else we may have had to threaten the security and well-being of America. Some more unsettling discoveries lay ahead of us — it now cost $25 to check in a piece of luggage versus absolutely free not too long ago — but once Beng and I got into the groove of things (meaning, for me, wolfing down a huge hotdog for lunch and then finding a 1931 Hamilton for $5 at an antiques shop in Ocean Beach), all unpleasantness was forgotten and forgiven.
That’s sadly more than I can say for many Americans I met this year. Seriously now, there’s a palpable sense of anxiety and uncertainty about the economy and about where American society is headed in general. In contrast to the euphoria that swept many US-based relatives and friends when Barack Obama stormed his way into the White House three years ago, no one seems to know for sure where to go or how to get there. My Democrat friends feel somewhat let down by their hero’s compromises with the Republicans; my Republican friends also feel dismayed by the weakness of their presidential wannabes. There’s a shrillness to the voices that try to rise above this Great American Drift, from the Tea Party to the Occupy Wall Street movement.
Given the recessionary mood, the most popular shows on TV are understandably those that deal with making money out of next to nothing: American Pickers, Pawn Stars, Auction Hunters, Storage Wars. I love junk, and I’m going to be here for only a few weeks, so I’m resolved to enjoy my vacation and not let the somberness spoil my fun.
But America being as long-armed as it is — economically, politically, and culturally — I shouldn’t be surprised if some of that gloom soon makes its way across the Pacific, as if we didn’t have troubles enough, making me want to dash back here for a break, sans chicharon and ramen, same time next year.
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E-mail me at penmanila@yahoo.com and check out my blog at www.penmanila.ph.
