July 14, 2008: Return to the U.S.

Although I had been enjoying my weeks of sloth in Istanbul, it was time to head back to the States for family and friend obligations. And I figured I was pushing my luck after getting my passport back with additional pages from the US Consulate in Istanbul the day before the shootout (thank goodness I chose not to procrastinate for once in my life!). I didn't really want to leave Turkey, though, and apparently the feeling was mutual because Turkey almost didn't let me leave.

For starters, I had not really considered what kind of effect my baggage would have. The closest thing I had experienced to airport security in nearly a year was making sure my lunch cheese was sufficiently hidden at border crossings in preparation for the occasional cursory locker inspection. Nobody cared about my knives, or battery packs, or laptop, or solar panel, or all my other miscellaneous electronic equipment that, when properly configured, probably could have powered a small town and supplied them with Internet. Add the electronics to my binoculars, multiple cameras, and telephoto lens and I'm starting to look like someone of interest. Now add in the camping gear, first aid kit, and water purification systems and I'm starting to look like a self-sufficient someone of interest who might be a mule for at least one military industrial complex. My normally innocuous climbing gear suddenly seems to be capable of far more than ordinary sports equipment. A quick flip through my passport reveals stamps for Syria and Sudan and Zimbabwe and now I'm hearing "Come with me, Sir" in a tone that will not be argued with. Not to mention that my visa was within days of running out and I couldn't really recall the exact day when I had entered Turkey. Then come the questions about me (Are you a soldier? Do you have additional ID?), about my travels (You've been rock climbing???! Uh-huh, where, exactly?), about my gear (What is this? Will you take this apart/put this together/show me how this works?). Let's just say I went straight to the head of the line.

With so much special treatment you would have thought I was flying first class. But no, I was back in cattle class, next to a U.S. high school student who asked me to order another bottle of wine from the stewardess and give it to him in return for his Coke. Apparently he thought I was joking when I responded "Only if that Coke comes with a bottle of rum," because he tried three more times to convince me that his lukewarm Coke was a worthwhile trade for cheap wine. I put on my earphones and began watching movies.

About the time I finished with movie number five (All About Dave), we started our descent into Chicago and I started to get a bit excited at the prospect of being back in the States. Finally, food I wanted, when I wanted! With 2 hours and 45 minutes to catch my domestic flight I figured I could probably sample my way through at least the C Terminal. Until, that is, I saw the lines for Immigration. Both receiving halls were jammed with people such that one had to push their way off the escalator. I started to feel panicky. In Botswana I could have thrown elbows and pushed my way to the front while pretending nothing was happening like everyone else does. In Sudan I could have joined a throng of people waving money over their heads at the front of the line. In Lesotho I could have simply passed through a hole in the fence. But this! This was positively British. The Queen Mother of all Queues, if you will. 2 hours and 31 minutes later, resigned to missing my domestic flight, I finally handed my passport to the immigration official who asked "What did you do that allowed you to travel for a year?" while eyeing me suspiciously (Did I look that rough? And I had actually showered only two days before!). Welcome to America.