So it's Fall again and life is pretty slow at the moment. The only significant happenings was a trip to Montreal last weekend with Sven. Montreal is a nice city, not spectacular, but pleasant. Thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster that Sven is fluent in French though. He was even teaching me some, which I've mostly forgotten already.
Highlights of the trip were; seeing the spectacular autumn foliage on the way up and back through hilly Vermont, plus the awesome bridges over the lakes in upper Vermont; the Biosphere and environmentally related exhibits; the interesting architecture of the olympic stadium; our trip to the gay sauna....; staying basically above a gay bar; and just spending time away from Boston with a friend who I've quickly grown close to.
That's about it really, just wanted to quickly write this entry to remind myself of the Montreal trip. Work is OK, not great, although I've settled into my new position and things are slow but kind of progressing at least.
13 October 2008
31 August 2008
Ptown
It's Labor Day long weekend, which marks the last weekend of summer, and it's been a beauty. The weather is gorgeous, my mood is good, this is Boston at its finest. I spent today (Sunday) rollerblading with Sven on Memorial Drive (a busy road in Cambridge that's closed off each Sunday during August to allow people to enjoy a stretch of traffic-free road), and lying in a park enjoying the sun after Sven left.
Saturday was spent at Provincetown (Ptown) on Cape Cod (the Cape), a beach-side hamlet that's accessible by a 90 min ferry ride. Ptown is a mini gay haven. Rainbow flags line the quaint main street of shops and eateries, buff gay guys strut around in tight summer singlets casually mingling with lesbians, families and straight tourists alike. It's an idyllic seaside town with the promise of late-night clubbing and hedonistic parties. My Ptown trip was spent with Sven and Rahmat, a girl from Sven's department at the Picower Institute, MIT. They had their bikes and I rented one once we arrived. Sven was particularly grateful to escape the roiling ferry as he was sick due to the somewhat bumpy seas. The weather was slightly overcast but still warm, bright and pleasant.
It's been around 8 years since I last rode a bike, and although I fell a few times (once on the main street in front of dozens of people no less) and was swervingly unsteady on occasion, the old adage of not forgetting how to ride a bike came to fruition, and we spent the day cycling around town, along scenic seaside back trails to beaches, and had a brunch of cheese, crusty bread and beer on a man-made rock pier-like structure that streched into a calm and mostly still ocean. Between cycling and laying on the beach, the day passed quickly, which ended on a high note at an unexpected location.
Early in the day Sven mentioned that he heard of an infamous dock in Ptown with the sophisticated name of 'Dick Dock'. Neither he nor I knew where it was and exactly what purpose the Dick Dock served, although we made some pretty educated guesses. To completely solve the mystery, we drew straws (leaves actually) to see who would suffer the indignity of asking a Ptown local about the Dock. Of course I drew the short leaf. This was how I found myself asking the waitress serving our lunch at a terrible Thai place, what and where this elusive Dick Dock was. Although somewhat puzzled at my question, her reply was a crushing "Err, I have no idea".
Facing the inconceivable possibility of never finding what the Dick Dock was, we were amusingly dejected, with much laughter and praise at my bold questioning. However, we were soon delighted to find that the waitress had asked another server, a very gay guy, about my query. He was very adorable and cute, but not my type, and he explained to us that the Dick Dock was an area under a club right on the beach where guys would go after the clubs shut to, well, in his words "get whatever they wanted", wink, wink, nudge, nudge. The location of the Dock was revealed and we instantly knew where it was, as we had passed a club with booming music on the main drag and had joked that perhaps the Dick Dock was there. How prescient of us. We also learned that the Dick Dock was widely known and accepted in Ptown, and that free condoms and lube were handed out by an AIDS prevention charity to the deabuchered masses each night. Hooray!
We left the restaurant, dissatisfied with our crappy meal, but ecstatic that we had solved the Dick Dock enigma. It was a little after 6 pm, but the sun was still up and we still had around an hour before our ferry home was due to depart. After some deliberation and scoping of the mostly outdoors club from the beach, we decided to have a drink in the club in order to at least partially experience the Dick Dock fame.
One deciding factor for me was that I spied a cute guy in the club from the beach, and Sven and Rahmat decided that I was going to speak to the cutie, whether I felt brave enough or not. What friends.
The club was really an outdoor patio (with the sandy Dick Dock underneath), there was a packed dance area inside. Being Labor Day, the "Tea Party" event was packed, mostly with older guys and the obligatory over the top aging drag queens. Feeling quite youthful, I grabbed a beer and began hunting for the stripey shirt guy, a young bloke, thin, short sandy hairy, nice legs. The speakers were pumping out faithful gay dance remixes, and we split up to locate my boy.
It was Sven who found him near the back, along the railing that overlooked the beach. Overcoming my initial shyness, I took the opportunity of his friend departing to sidle alongside him on the railing. Meanwhile, Sven was already immersed in a conversation with a slightly older but attractive bloke next to me.
First contact with the boy, James from NY, was made by a remark of mine about his prime position along the railing and having the fantastic view of the sun setting over the harbour. Unexpectedly, he seemed interested in me and we quickly spoke about our day and where we were from. He enjoyed my Aussieness and postdoc status, and just when everything was looking promising, his friend emerged from the crowd, saying that his friends were all ready to leave for a barbeque. It was such a sudden and quick death blow, that I was totally off guard, and we shook hands and he departed before a slight hesitation, leaving me kicking myself for not getting his details, despite him living in NY. Oh well, lesson learned, and it was a small ego booster that he seemed interested, so it was successful in that respect.
Sven had better luck apparently, as when I turned around he was having an embrace and a kiss with his guy. Later I found out he had gotten a proposition to stay in Ptown and forget the ferry Sven was insistent on taking. A wingman is not supposed to do better than the mate he's helping dammit!
Soon after, we were on the ferry home, glowingly happy at having had a memorable day in Ptown, and satisfied with our fleeting taste of the ripe pleasantries that are promised with the fabled Dick Dock.
Saturday was spent at Provincetown (Ptown) on Cape Cod (the Cape), a beach-side hamlet that's accessible by a 90 min ferry ride. Ptown is a mini gay haven. Rainbow flags line the quaint main street of shops and eateries, buff gay guys strut around in tight summer singlets casually mingling with lesbians, families and straight tourists alike. It's an idyllic seaside town with the promise of late-night clubbing and hedonistic parties. My Ptown trip was spent with Sven and Rahmat, a girl from Sven's department at the Picower Institute, MIT. They had their bikes and I rented one once we arrived. Sven was particularly grateful to escape the roiling ferry as he was sick due to the somewhat bumpy seas. The weather was slightly overcast but still warm, bright and pleasant.
It's been around 8 years since I last rode a bike, and although I fell a few times (once on the main street in front of dozens of people no less) and was swervingly unsteady on occasion, the old adage of not forgetting how to ride a bike came to fruition, and we spent the day cycling around town, along scenic seaside back trails to beaches, and had a brunch of cheese, crusty bread and beer on a man-made rock pier-like structure that streched into a calm and mostly still ocean. Between cycling and laying on the beach, the day passed quickly, which ended on a high note at an unexpected location.
Early in the day Sven mentioned that he heard of an infamous dock in Ptown with the sophisticated name of 'Dick Dock'. Neither he nor I knew where it was and exactly what purpose the Dick Dock served, although we made some pretty educated guesses. To completely solve the mystery, we drew straws (leaves actually) to see who would suffer the indignity of asking a Ptown local about the Dock. Of course I drew the short leaf. This was how I found myself asking the waitress serving our lunch at a terrible Thai place, what and where this elusive Dick Dock was. Although somewhat puzzled at my question, her reply was a crushing "Err, I have no idea".
Facing the inconceivable possibility of never finding what the Dick Dock was, we were amusingly dejected, with much laughter and praise at my bold questioning. However, we were soon delighted to find that the waitress had asked another server, a very gay guy, about my query. He was very adorable and cute, but not my type, and he explained to us that the Dick Dock was an area under a club right on the beach where guys would go after the clubs shut to, well, in his words "get whatever they wanted", wink, wink, nudge, nudge. The location of the Dock was revealed and we instantly knew where it was, as we had passed a club with booming music on the main drag and had joked that perhaps the Dick Dock was there. How prescient of us. We also learned that the Dick Dock was widely known and accepted in Ptown, and that free condoms and lube were handed out by an AIDS prevention charity to the deabuchered masses each night. Hooray!
We left the restaurant, dissatisfied with our crappy meal, but ecstatic that we had solved the Dick Dock enigma. It was a little after 6 pm, but the sun was still up and we still had around an hour before our ferry home was due to depart. After some deliberation and scoping of the mostly outdoors club from the beach, we decided to have a drink in the club in order to at least partially experience the Dick Dock fame.
One deciding factor for me was that I spied a cute guy in the club from the beach, and Sven and Rahmat decided that I was going to speak to the cutie, whether I felt brave enough or not. What friends.
The club was really an outdoor patio (with the sandy Dick Dock underneath), there was a packed dance area inside. Being Labor Day, the "Tea Party" event was packed, mostly with older guys and the obligatory over the top aging drag queens. Feeling quite youthful, I grabbed a beer and began hunting for the stripey shirt guy, a young bloke, thin, short sandy hairy, nice legs. The speakers were pumping out faithful gay dance remixes, and we split up to locate my boy.
It was Sven who found him near the back, along the railing that overlooked the beach. Overcoming my initial shyness, I took the opportunity of his friend departing to sidle alongside him on the railing. Meanwhile, Sven was already immersed in a conversation with a slightly older but attractive bloke next to me.
First contact with the boy, James from NY, was made by a remark of mine about his prime position along the railing and having the fantastic view of the sun setting over the harbour. Unexpectedly, he seemed interested in me and we quickly spoke about our day and where we were from. He enjoyed my Aussieness and postdoc status, and just when everything was looking promising, his friend emerged from the crowd, saying that his friends were all ready to leave for a barbeque. It was such a sudden and quick death blow, that I was totally off guard, and we shook hands and he departed before a slight hesitation, leaving me kicking myself for not getting his details, despite him living in NY. Oh well, lesson learned, and it was a small ego booster that he seemed interested, so it was successful in that respect.
Sven had better luck apparently, as when I turned around he was having an embrace and a kiss with his guy. Later I found out he had gotten a proposition to stay in Ptown and forget the ferry Sven was insistent on taking. A wingman is not supposed to do better than the mate he's helping dammit!
Soon after, we were on the ferry home, glowingly happy at having had a memorable day in Ptown, and satisfied with our fleeting taste of the ripe pleasantries that are promised with the fabled Dick Dock.
21 August 2008
Wow. Racecar. Wow.
Never odd or even.
Go hang a salami, I'm a lasagna hog.
Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas.
Go hang a salami, I'm a lasagna hog.
Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas.
16 August 2008
12 pennies for my thoughts
It's Saturday evening and I'm in the lab, procrastinating and wasting time before dinner with Sue and Till. Sitting here, I just realized that someone stole 12 cents off my desk! On Friday, I had 12 pennies stacked neatly on my desk to remind myself to go to the post-office for stamps. The day was hectic, partly due to a four hour meeting with my boss, and I totally ran out of time for stamp shopping, so the pennies remained desktop bound, ready for their future fate at the post-office. Well, not anymore, bastard thieves (probably the cleaners). Seriously, who the hell steals 12 cents, it's not enough to buy anything... except stamps I guess. Sigh.
Speaking of money matters, I'm totally broke after my trips to Chicago last week and Rochester, NY the week before for Fari's wedding, so it was a nice surprise that last night for restaurant week at Mantra my share of the bill was 64 cents -- they totally botched the charge on my card, it should have been around $50. I was hesitant to sign and bolt, but the rest of the table thought it was a good deal and bailed on me. In the end I left Emre to sign my docket and fill in the tip, a generous 40%!
Well gotta go, Japanese dinner awaits.
Update: Mantra ended up charging me the full cost of the bill. Bastards.
Speaking of money matters, I'm totally broke after my trips to Chicago last week and Rochester, NY the week before for Fari's wedding, so it was a nice surprise that last night for restaurant week at Mantra my share of the bill was 64 cents -- they totally botched the charge on my card, it should have been around $50. I was hesitant to sign and bolt, but the rest of the table thought it was a good deal and bailed on me. In the end I left Emre to sign my docket and fill in the tip, a generous 40%!
Well gotta go, Japanese dinner awaits.
Update: Mantra ended up charging me the full cost of the bill. Bastards.
10 July 2008
An update
It's 4 minutes to midnight on a school-night. I have to get up early tomorrow morning, but that's OK because I'm totally drunk. It's been a while since I last updated and what better way to break the blogging drought than while pissed. So, what's been happening? Well...
... my mum and brother came to visit last month for a few days. It was fun having them around. I took them to my favourite restaurants, we ate ourselves silly, and I showed them around Boston a bit. It was very weird seeing them again after a year apart; I've certainly missed them. They had a great time by all accounts.
... I started my new job at MIT. My boss is nice (thus far) and the Broad Institute is something else. It's very high-tech and fancy, and I feel absolutely out of my league. It's my last chance at making something out of my postdoc, so we'll see how it goes. The commute sucks and a girl in the lab hates me, but that's another story....sigh. I miss the people in my old lab...
... because of my new job I'm quite stressed out and very insecure about everything. Often I have no idea what the hell I'm doing here and whether it's worth it or not. I want to return home constantly.
... my turtle Fetch is growing up and quickly filling his little tank.
... Eli my plant (a Lily) is not faring so well and is barely clinging to life, although he has sprouted two new leaves recently, therefore giving me hope that he'll survive through the summer at least.
... summer is in full force with 30 degree days, very humid and frequent thunderstorms, but no fucking cold winter bullshit thanks be the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Ramen.
... I'm in a state of bewilderment regarding Sven, the cute MIT postdoc who I'm not seeing, but would like to. It's messed up and totally messing me up.
... have started/trying to rollerblading! Kind of fun in a falling over making ass of oneself kind of way (Sven's fault).
... looking forward to my friend Fari's wedding in upstate NY and the reception in Chicago early August. I'm so excited for her!! I've been there from the beginning when she met her future husband, and to see her happy and hitched is a real buzz.
... I was planning to visit Sydney this December but don't think I can make it, so am very sad about that :-(
... my gym regime is fully screwed because of work and laziness. I fear that I'm turning into an obese blob.
So that's it, too drunk to write more. Later.
... my mum and brother came to visit last month for a few days. It was fun having them around. I took them to my favourite restaurants, we ate ourselves silly, and I showed them around Boston a bit. It was very weird seeing them again after a year apart; I've certainly missed them. They had a great time by all accounts.
... I started my new job at MIT. My boss is nice (thus far) and the Broad Institute is something else. It's very high-tech and fancy, and I feel absolutely out of my league. It's my last chance at making something out of my postdoc, so we'll see how it goes. The commute sucks and a girl in the lab hates me, but that's another story....sigh. I miss the people in my old lab...
... because of my new job I'm quite stressed out and very insecure about everything. Often I have no idea what the hell I'm doing here and whether it's worth it or not. I want to return home constantly.
... my turtle Fetch is growing up and quickly filling his little tank.
... Eli my plant (a Lily) is not faring so well and is barely clinging to life, although he has sprouted two new leaves recently, therefore giving me hope that he'll survive through the summer at least.
... summer is in full force with 30 degree days, very humid and frequent thunderstorms, but no fucking cold winter bullshit thanks be the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Ramen.
... I'm in a state of bewilderment regarding Sven, the cute MIT postdoc who I'm not seeing, but would like to. It's messed up and totally messing me up.
... have started/trying to rollerblading! Kind of fun in a falling over making ass of oneself kind of way (Sven's fault).
... looking forward to my friend Fari's wedding in upstate NY and the reception in Chicago early August. I'm so excited for her!! I've been there from the beginning when she met her future husband, and to see her happy and hitched is a real buzz.
... I was planning to visit Sydney this December but don't think I can make it, so am very sad about that :-(
... my gym regime is fully screwed because of work and laziness. I fear that I'm turning into an obese blob.
So that's it, too drunk to write more. Later.
3 May 2008
Quality of life
We all want "quality" in life. We're all guilty of aspiring to the finer things in our brief, fumbling existence on this globe. Whether it's in materialistic goods (a nice car or fancy technology), or on a deeper level (meaningful relationships, finding the perfect life-partner), wanting "the best" threatens to consume us all. It blinds us to the fortunes we already possess, whatever those may be.
We all want quality living and we convince ourselves that we deserve a quality life. But are we simply deluding ourselves about what we can really attain in life? When should we "settle" with what we have? How do we reconcile ourselves in accepting that the less than desirable facets of our lives may well be the best that we'll ever get? It's not easy. It requires a re-examination of our own sense of worth and a brutal acceptance that maybe we aren't as good as we think, or that those close to us tell us that we are.
Lately I've been ruing the fact that I haven't found a quality guy. Sure I get to fuck the (very) occasional guy, but it seems all I ever get is "quantity". My definition of quantity is someone who scores less than 5 (out of 10) on the looks scale, who may not be the greatest conversationalist or thinker, and who is not overall "put together"; basically the majority of single gays in Boston. A quality guy would be the opposite of course. Wherever I turn, it seems that quality is everywhere, but nowhere around me. Of course I want the smoking hot, at least semi-intelligent, unpretentious, passionate boy who is as keen about me as I them, but maybe it's time I re-evaluate my prospects and realise that the sexy, cute boy of my dreams may never materialise in my lifetime. This mentality is not about giving up the search for a quality partner, but rather, tempering my expectations with reality.
As the big three-zero looms on the horizon, the possibility of finding the ideal soul-mate becomes a frightening prospect. Maybe it's time to settle after all...
We all want quality living and we convince ourselves that we deserve a quality life. But are we simply deluding ourselves about what we can really attain in life? When should we "settle" with what we have? How do we reconcile ourselves in accepting that the less than desirable facets of our lives may well be the best that we'll ever get? It's not easy. It requires a re-examination of our own sense of worth and a brutal acceptance that maybe we aren't as good as we think, or that those close to us tell us that we are.
Lately I've been ruing the fact that I haven't found a quality guy. Sure I get to fuck the (very) occasional guy, but it seems all I ever get is "quantity". My definition of quantity is someone who scores less than 5 (out of 10) on the looks scale, who may not be the greatest conversationalist or thinker, and who is not overall "put together"; basically the majority of single gays in Boston. A quality guy would be the opposite of course. Wherever I turn, it seems that quality is everywhere, but nowhere around me. Of course I want the smoking hot, at least semi-intelligent, unpretentious, passionate boy who is as keen about me as I them, but maybe it's time I re-evaluate my prospects and realise that the sexy, cute boy of my dreams may never materialise in my lifetime. This mentality is not about giving up the search for a quality partner, but rather, tempering my expectations with reality.
As the big three-zero looms on the horizon, the possibility of finding the ideal soul-mate becomes a frightening prospect. Maybe it's time to settle after all...
14 March 2008
A life of breaks
'Break' is such a useful word. I like it. It's a harsh and abrupt sounding word and not pleasant to say or hear, but still, I like it. It's short and to the point. It's a word that covers so many emotions, outcomes and actions. Look it up. Type "define: break" in Google and look at the definitions, there are many.
Even though Spring has yet to arrive temperature-wise, it's Spring break here in Boston. College students take this time to flee the months of nasty Winter by celebrating the end of class in exotic, sunny locations: Cancun, Mexico and the like. See, breaks can be good.
We all want to take, get, hope for a break in life. Breaks are the keys to success, happiness and new adventures, or so I've been told. I've had a parade of significant disappointments recently. "Give me a break" has become my new motto.
When breaks are bad, they can be devastating. To be broke, broken down on the side of the road, broken-hearted, or to have a break-up, are all very bad. The negative power of "break" is presented to us beautifully in Brokeback Mountatin, which is one of my favourite films. By telling the story of a tragic romance, the movie captures and distills the breaks, both rewarding and tragic, that we all share in life to expose some harsh realities of love and consequence.
Even in a seemingly bad context, breaks can be good. We say "Break a leg" to someone for good luck. Odd, huh?
Overall, we all cop our fair share of good and bad breaks. At the moment, I'm just hoping to break even in life.
Even though Spring has yet to arrive temperature-wise, it's Spring break here in Boston. College students take this time to flee the months of nasty Winter by celebrating the end of class in exotic, sunny locations: Cancun, Mexico and the like. See, breaks can be good.
We all want to take, get, hope for a break in life. Breaks are the keys to success, happiness and new adventures, or so I've been told. I've had a parade of significant disappointments recently. "Give me a break" has become my new motto.
When breaks are bad, they can be devastating. To be broke, broken down on the side of the road, broken-hearted, or to have a break-up, are all very bad. The negative power of "break" is presented to us beautifully in Brokeback Mountatin, which is one of my favourite films. By telling the story of a tragic romance, the movie captures and distills the breaks, both rewarding and tragic, that we all share in life to expose some harsh realities of love and consequence.
Even in a seemingly bad context, breaks can be good. We say "Break a leg" to someone for good luck. Odd, huh?
Overall, we all cop our fair share of good and bad breaks. At the moment, I'm just hoping to break even in life.
9 March 2008
Le Petit Prince
The Little Prince (by Antoine de Saint-Exupery) is a kids book, of sorts. The book is illustrated and easy to read, but carries a profound message about love, innocence and self-discovery. The writing is simple and elegant, and the story is childishly captivating. It's a classic piece of literature that you must read! (You can finish it in one sitting). To really appreciate the beauty of the novel and its message, check out these SparkNotes.
Read The Little Prince and maybe you'll never look at the stars the same again.
Read The Little Prince and maybe you'll never look at the stars the same again.
21 January 2008
17 January 2008
A welcome back
"What's this?" sneered the immigration officer behind the desk. I looked at my crisp, neatly typed documents that had just been cast onto the counter before returning my gaze at the imposing uniformed figure in front me. The officer maintained his disdainful glare at my presence. Confused at the unexpected question, my brain fought to formulate a coherent response. The 2 week long holiday in Great Britain and Spain, combined with the just completed 7 and 1/2 hour flight from London had deadened my senses and I struggled to comprehend my unexpected situation.
The room at Boston airport that I had found myself in was fairly large, with several rows of seats facing a counter where 6 immigration officers presided. Resplendent in their black uniforms and gold badges, they formed an intimidating human barrier for entry into the US. A two-way mirror spanned the length of the room, and security cameras maintained a silent vigil over the proceedings. Save one other Middle Eastern looking individual I was the sole foreigner in this 'Secondary inspection' area of US immigration. I had been led to this room after alighting the plane and presenting myself to immigration, a process that had been a mere formality during my numerous other entries into the States. Since I have a valid work-visa and am an Australian citizen, I had no idea why I was being so intensely scrutinized this time around.
Even though several officers were unoccupied when I was escorted into the secondary inspection room, it was several minutes before I was called up to be questioned.
At the counter, after a few routine questions including what did I do ("medical scientist") and whether I had a valid working visa ("yes I do") I was confronted with the sudden, angrily toned question of "What's this?", in reference to my document that had been thrown in front of me like trash. The paper was not trash, but was extra documentation from my workplace that further supported the validity of the visa in my passport.
I was stunned by the sudden hostility of the officer. My treatment made me feel like I had no right to be on US soil. Everything I had endured and accomplished in order to earn the right to work in the US - my PhD, the job interviews, the stressful move overseas - were temporarily stripped away during this brief moment. As for the question, I finally replied that the person taking care of my visa at work had supplied me the letter and had said that I may need to show it upon returning to Boston. Satisfied with the answer, the officer abruptly dropped the stern demeanour, informed me that I was "all set" and proceeded to make some light banter as he stamped my passport. I stumbled out of the room to collect my luggage, feeling bewildered with the experience.
It was with regret that I had boarded the plane to Boston earlier that day, as it meant that my holiday had ended and the stresses of work were imminent. Being an acutely sensitive individual, my immigration experience had further soured my mood and after arriving home I just wanted to leave the States again and not return. Sure I understand border protection is necessary. What I don't understand is the requirement to treat people impolitely in the process of merely confirming an individuals credentials (it wasn't as if my visa had expired); I guess it's easy to do so when you're in a position of power. Well at least I wasn't in immigration for very long, unlike some of the horror stories I've heard about where people with valid visas were detained for several hours as their visas status was confirmed.
So that was my welcome back to Boston last week. Not a great start to my Boston 2008 experience, nor is this a very inspiring 61st entry for Status: +61, but hey, c'est la vie. Oh yeah, a very belated Happy New Year!
The room at Boston airport that I had found myself in was fairly large, with several rows of seats facing a counter where 6 immigration officers presided. Resplendent in their black uniforms and gold badges, they formed an intimidating human barrier for entry into the US. A two-way mirror spanned the length of the room, and security cameras maintained a silent vigil over the proceedings. Save one other Middle Eastern looking individual I was the sole foreigner in this 'Secondary inspection' area of US immigration. I had been led to this room after alighting the plane and presenting myself to immigration, a process that had been a mere formality during my numerous other entries into the States. Since I have a valid work-visa and am an Australian citizen, I had no idea why I was being so intensely scrutinized this time around.
Even though several officers were unoccupied when I was escorted into the secondary inspection room, it was several minutes before I was called up to be questioned.
At the counter, after a few routine questions including what did I do ("medical scientist") and whether I had a valid working visa ("yes I do") I was confronted with the sudden, angrily toned question of "What's this?", in reference to my document that had been thrown in front of me like trash. The paper was not trash, but was extra documentation from my workplace that further supported the validity of the visa in my passport.
I was stunned by the sudden hostility of the officer. My treatment made me feel like I had no right to be on US soil. Everything I had endured and accomplished in order to earn the right to work in the US - my PhD, the job interviews, the stressful move overseas - were temporarily stripped away during this brief moment. As for the question, I finally replied that the person taking care of my visa at work had supplied me the letter and had said that I may need to show it upon returning to Boston. Satisfied with the answer, the officer abruptly dropped the stern demeanour, informed me that I was "all set" and proceeded to make some light banter as he stamped my passport. I stumbled out of the room to collect my luggage, feeling bewildered with the experience.
It was with regret that I had boarded the plane to Boston earlier that day, as it meant that my holiday had ended and the stresses of work were imminent. Being an acutely sensitive individual, my immigration experience had further soured my mood and after arriving home I just wanted to leave the States again and not return. Sure I understand border protection is necessary. What I don't understand is the requirement to treat people impolitely in the process of merely confirming an individuals credentials (it wasn't as if my visa had expired); I guess it's easy to do so when you're in a position of power. Well at least I wasn't in immigration for very long, unlike some of the horror stories I've heard about where people with valid visas were detained for several hours as their visas status was confirmed.
So that was my welcome back to Boston last week. Not a great start to my Boston 2008 experience, nor is this a very inspiring 61st entry for Status: +61, but hey, c'est la vie. Oh yeah, a very belated Happy New Year!
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