If any of my readers has been following my tweets or plurks, you will know that I recently went home to visit my family. The trip back to American soil was long and arduous. It went well until we arrived at Chicago O’Hare airport where we had to get our passports examined, answer a few questions, which required nothing but a yes or no reply.

I am not complaining of the sheer size of ORD. I like big airports – so much to see while waiting for your connecting flight. I have a problem when the people working at the airport are less than friendly or welcoming. They act as if we are such a bother. It was as if they were paid to just sit on their arses, stand on their feet talking to each other, or get lost in their little petty thoughts about their little lives.

I made my way to immigration with my two American kids who are underage. Immediately I saw that I was supposed to be on a different lane than them but I decided sod it, I will go to “American passports” line. Upon reaching the end of the line, a sour woman was standing there directing us to various available windows. She told my 8 year old to go to window number 27 and directed me to go to window 25 and my 13 year old was to go to yet another window. I was in awe as she was directing traffic with not a hint of smile or friendliness about her. Of course, I went to window 27 right behind my 8 year old and directed my 13 year old to do the same. At window 27 where we met Border Patrol Officer Swiatek, I was greeted with yet another soon to be formed scowl. Mind you, it was not yet 8 in the morning. I handed him all of our passports. He saw my foreign passport and rudely asked of my relationship with the two children. You know you should not assume anything but in this case, is it not safe to say you should assume that under aged children are travelling internationally with at least a guardian if not a parent? I told him these are my children. He looked upset that a person carrying a foreign passport is in front of him, jumping queue. As if to punish me, he looked away as he told me to put my right hand, thumb, left hand, thumb, on the scanner. At this point, I was thinking, dude; would it kill you to be pleasant? Does your life suck so much that you have to be sour to strangers? As if his insolence meter has no limit, he sourly brushed us off with his hand as he pushed our passports to the edge of the counter with, “you can go.” The last time I had my passport examined at JFK, I was greeted with, oh, you have updated your passport. I like it. After he was done with my passport, he said, welcome back to the U.S. I hope you had a pleasant vacation.

The customs was a tad less sour only because he could not be arsed to suspect a mother of two with four luggages would smuggle any exotic animals or live plants. He began to question if I was carrying food and I replied yes. He asked what type of food and I told him supermarket type foods. He paused and said, you can go.

While waiting for my final connecting flight, I decided to wander into one of the very few DFS scattered at ORD. Immediately, someone rushed to me and asked if I was an international traveller. It was as if SHE would be arrested if there should be any non-international traveller in the shop. I looked at her and said, yes, I am but I am not buying anything, I just shopped at Narita airport in Japan. I had to tell her Narita is in Japan in case she had no idea where that was.

Needless to say, I am now gun shy about flying into or spending money at ORD. I shall tell my relatives and friends to avoid the place like the plague if they come to visit America.