Visa, what visa?

Man what a whirlwind stay it's been . I came with high hopes of exploring two great, summer, European destinations, and instead just saw the inside of the hotel room, and of the office. The work was interesting though, and since medical devices is a field that I know little about, I'm looking forward to the new learning experience in the coming year.


But the regret I feel at not having taken advantage of this travel opportunity has far been overshadowed by the joys of having an American passport. This was my first trip abroad as a US citizen, and the difference in treatment I received from the days when I had to travel with a Pakistani passport has been indescribable. But old habits are seared into my brain – before I left home I went into a panic attack when I wasn't able to find copies of my German visa, as well as a letter from Abbott verifying employment, and a letter from my bank verifying the presence of funds, and a letter (lots of letters) from my manager stating the purpose of my travel, and a copy of my wife’s passport, and a copy my previous US visas (H1-B, student, etc.), and a copy of my travel documents containing numbers and addresses where I could be reached at all times, and a urine sample (ok, not that last, but you get the idea). Then Saeeda would step in when she would see things were getting out of hand, and remind me that I had a US passport, and I would start to calm down.

Still, during this trip I was nervous when I approached German immigration on flight into Europe, and US immigration on flight into Chicago. In both cases I handed over my passport knowing the drill – the harsh questions that would follow, the convincing job that I would have to do, the skeptical looks that I would receive. But these did not come, as the officer just gave a cursory glance at my passport. Nevermind, I told myself. The secret red button under the desk had been pressed, “Code Red” was probably flashing silently across computer screens in a control room somewhere, and Chuck Norris and the Delta Squadron were already en route to ferret me away.

But none of this happened. Instead, I looked like a complete idiot as I stood staring at the immigration officer, while the officer stared back at me with a “what else do you want?” look. The next person in line behind me coughed politely, and I realized that I really truly was being allowed to go through. I clumsily shuffled my way through, mumbling to myself in a daze of confusion, not sure how my world had changed so drastically.

But I wasn’t complaining.