The customs office is a long, narrow building with a concrete foundation, wooden walls, and a reed awning that shades a row of “ticket windows”, only one of which isn’t boarded up. One by one, we slide our passports through a slot in the window, then wait while a uniformed man behind the glass flips through the booklet’s pages, asking any questions he deems appropriate.
“How is California?” he asks while studying the holograms on my photo.
“It’s nice.” I reply, surprised that his first question isn’t about my occupation, or destination, or purpose of travel.
“Have you been to Hollywood?”
“Yes, I’ve been to Hollywood, but I don’t live there.” I’m amused by his interest in Tinseltown, can’t help smiling.
“Where is your home now?” he asks in a flat tone.
The question is unexpectedly awkward, replaces my amusement with uncertainty. “I don’t really…well, I’m just traveling now. My mom lives in a town called Camarillo, and my dad lives near there, so I guess that’s where my home is.” I can’t even remember the street address printed on my passport. Is it Dad’s house, or Mom’s? Maybe it’s my old apartment in Santa Barbara? What was the name of that street again? Theresa would know. Dammit. My gut knots in fear of the man’s next question, of how I’m going to explain that I don’t even know my own address.
“Your mother and father are divorced.” he states, meeting my eyes for the first time since he opened my passport. “Okay” the man concludes, “welcome to Cambodia!”
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)