Buongiorno!

Rome was great. Getting to Stansted was a flipping mission at 3:30 in the morning, and then the bus from Ciampino to Rome central had problems (“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, I have a surprise for you! The bus is broken!” Perhaps, “surprise” was not quite the word he intended), but we finally got there.

We saw quite a lot – I even saw a few things I missed last time. Headed down to Piazza Venezia, walked through the Forum, did the Colosseum, went and checked into the hotel (had a little rest – it was very hot, and we walked a lot) went to the Trevi Fountain, had some snacks and drinks (you’ve got to love the toasted sandwich – even though it was such a struggle every time to get them to take the cheese out , “senza fromaggio! solo prosciutto! no mozzarella!”) some gelati (my big discovery of the trip – a place which had gelati made with soy milk! how happy was I!?!?!), headed over to the Pantheon, had some more drinks, went to the Campo dei Fiore for dinner at my favourite little wine bar and more drinks (mmm, the owner recommends the best wines, and I had smoked tuna with capers and oranges) then went back to the square for more drinks and people-watching.

Had a fuzzy head the next morning, but we got up early and got espresso at a little bar, then went out to the Vatican – saw the basilica and even caught the Pope giving his Sunday address from the window! (Being the polite people we are, we waved back) Then went to hit the Sistine Chapel, but the stoopid museum was closed, so we went down to Castel Sant’angolo and wandered around the other side of the river, had some lunch, then went to the Spanish Steps. Bought some limoncello, and then it was time to head to the airport!

The flight home was supposed to get in at 11:20, and got in at 11:40. The line for non-EU immigration was a 45 minute torture of waiting, and I am cranky, and know we have a hour’s drive home after this. J and I decided to go separately, as last time we went up together and the woman wanted to be a hardnose, and even asked J how he managed to qualify for permanent residency! I am nervous (as I am every time now) but am trying to make light of it. J goes up to one counter, I go up to another. I smile, hand over my passport, the woman glances at it, swipes it through the computer – and frowns. She starts paging through, and asks sternly, “Have you had any trouble with Immigration before?” I give the breezy version, “No, I was here on a blue card, and tried to apply for a work permit while I was in the country, only to be find out I had to go home and reapply, which I did.” I try to sound casual, but I can feel myself starting to turn red and sweat. She walks over to a supervisor with my passport. They examine and consult. She comes back to the desk after a few minutes. For a split second, I am hopeful she will hand me my passport and I’ll be on my way. Instead, she says, “We’re going to have to make a few enquiries. Please have a seat over there.”

My stomach hits the floor, and I stumble blindly over to the seats in horrified disbelief. Flashbacks of being detained, humiliated, and interrogated in Paris start playing in my head, and I half-seriously wonder if I am caught in some sort of bad dream. I can see J standing on the other side of the desks, looking at me with a question mark on his face, and it is all I can do to suppress the hysteria I feel rising up in me like a wave, as I start to remember being deported, summarily being forced to leave my job, my flat, my friends, my belongings behind, with no idea if I would ever be back. Being trapped back in Boston with no work, no place to live, no possessions, and no control over anything going on. I start to panic – what if they won’t let me back in? What if I have to leave again? What if I lose the life I worked so hard to get back? What if I am separated from J?

I’m sitting there for what seems like hours, praying fervently. These scenarios, which would have seemed so inconceivable, had I not actually already been through them, keep replaying themselves in my head, and all I can think is that I can’t believe this nightmare is happening all over again. I am fighting back tears and nausea and hoping I am not going to be sick on the floor. My hands are shaking, and everything is moving in slow motion, and there is a horrible sense of deja-vu, where I know something very bad is happening, but I don’t know exactly what, and I have no power to stop it, or even explain what a huge mistake this all is.

Time passes. 20 minutes roll by.

Finally the supervisor comes back with some forms and my passport, and huddles with the desk officer. I am summoned back to the desk. The officer says something amounting to my previous file coming up when my passport is read by the computer, and that since I’ve re-entered the country several times since my work permit was issued, it shouldn’t show up any more, and the file will be updated so this shouldn’t happen again. I mumble some words of thanks, and head through the clearance area, walk through customs, buy a pack of cigarettes at the news-stand, and head outside, where I light up, and immediately lose all control. I am absolutely beside myself, sobbing, clinging to J, blubbering nonsensically.

I seriously thought the worst was going to happen – again. And ironically enough, it’s almost exactly a year since the deportation.

I am never leaving the UK again until we are married.

In any case, the photos are here

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