“Why don’t you know that?” said a flight attendant, “You need ESTA(Visa Waiver Program) to enter America.” “What?” I stood gaping in front of the check-in counter at Fukuoka Airport. “You might still make it,” she said in a hurry, and started to register for ESTA on my behalf. Three attendants had gathered around the PC.
“What’ the matter?” whispered one of them. I was staring absent-mindedly at them. It was not unusual for me to make such a blunder: in Thailand I failed to withdraw local currency at ATM and in Morocco I got pickpocketed. With a bitter smile, I pretended that I was not bothered by that.
On the plane, suddenly it dawned on me that the transferring from Taipei to San Francisco was only thirty minutes―I was likely to miss it. I came to my senses at this point, in the stirring of desperation, signaled for an attendant and asked her if there were any Japanese because of no skilled English.
After a few minutes, a young Japanese attendant, who seemed to be adept at customer support, crouching low, came out of the blue. As soon as I explained that, she grasped my situation. Light on her feet, she ushered me toward the entrance door so that I would be the first person to get off the plane.
Soon after she and I sat across from each other, a Western man came right up to her; there was a very short talk. Impressed by her quick wit and command of English, I was being oblivious to what happened to me. Not showing her emotions on her face, she said to me. “He is going to San Francisco too, you would follow him.”
When I stepped off the plane, a Taiwanese attendant already waited for me. Anyway, I scuttled after her and saw her get into the small open vehicle. Just as I climbed into the backseat, it started suddenly, and though she said something to me, her voice was drowned out by the blast of sirens. Moreover, I was a little taken aback when the vehicle moved with tremendous speed; she seemed to enjoy the headwind that fluttered her hair out behind ears.
I got off the vehicle with her at the point, where I saw the long straight road to the boarding gate; in no time, we raced for it at full speed. No passengers around the gate, but I made it just in time to get on the plane and said to her, “Thank you. Really thank you, all of you.” “You are welcome,” she was panting and puffing.
America was the first time for me. I was able to get through the passport control with no trouble. With a leap of my heart I went down a few escalators to the baggage claim where there were people awaited their baggage. When I saw them catching their own disappearing from my view one after another, I paced back and forth around the carousel.
After a while, the carousel slowing to a halt with a click and there were a few people left―I was in silence. Soon a sturdy man on a heavy machine started to clean the floor. So confused, that I searched for my baggage in every corner of the area. Eventually, I took my book, “A correction of phrases in travel English,” out of my backpack. The excerpt words: “My baggage hasn’t come.” I recited.
I showed my claim tug to the airport staff. He told me my baggage was in Taipei, and that I would get it in my hotel; however, I was not sure if it would be arrive during my stay, because I was suppose to leave San Francisco for Los Angeles in three days. And then, as I was at a loss how to respond, how to ask, and what to do next, I missed my chance that I kept talking to him, for he had left his seat. I was paid no attention and solitariness engulfed me. I remembered how I behaved at Fukunaka airport, and that in spite of my blunder, they did the best for me.
It was late evening that I walked in food court in the airport. At the restaurant several Japanese people in business attire sat around a table laughing and talking boisterously. A man with a few buttons on his white shirt open put his arm on the woman’s shoulders―she seemed to gave him a flirtatious smile. Another drunken middle-aged man spoke eloquently to the others as if to boast his glory days. It was such a sight, so awful and absurd, that I made me think I was superior to them: I could act independently, but he could not do anything on his own. I walked with a swagger by the restaurant.
At dawn when I exited from Powell Street Station, cold air sucked my anxiety―a black man lingering around the corner of the exit, a white woman with her blonde hair tied back walking her dog and traffic lights making simple sounds I had never heard. Having come to want warmth, I passed a middle-aged couple with Starbucks cups peering through the glass into a miscellaneous shop. I bought coffee at 7-Eleven―the clerk put small change with a bang in front of me―whether his behavior is common or not, I sensed I was about to enter a new life.
In Aquatic Park in Fisherman’s Wharf, I lay down and gawked at people walked by, so obsessed with my baggage, that I could not enjoy the moment. I recalled the young attendant, who I met on the plane to Taiwan―beauty and brains―if she were me, how would she handle this? The next second I pulled myself together, rose to my feet and started to walk along Jefferson street.
When I ate Shrimp & Crab Sandwich on the bench, my phone was vibrating. I answered the call. “Hello … Is that K … ?” I got agitated extremely and felt like escaping somewhere so far, even though she went on and on about my baggage; I could not get what she said at all, hovering around the bench restlessly.
“Ah, I … I waited … Iugga … baggage. Tomorrow tomorrow (I didn’t know how to say ‘’day after tomorrow’’ in English) I go to Los Angeles.” The more I spoke, the more embarrassed and discouraged ―my own uselessness with poor English―I became. After the call, I finished off seafood that had gone cool.
