February 14th, 2007
I eyed the selection of Immigration Officials: one of them looked relatively human, so I positioned myself in front of his line. I had been rehearsing what I'd say the entire flight, and had vacillated between honesty and artifice for the past twelve hours: standing in front of him, I found myself explaining with a sheepish grin that, for some reason, I'd been denied a visa—his initial alarm seemed to fade as I explained it was just a failure to include bank statements, and we somehow established a friendly rapport. I felt dizzy with anticipation as he raised his stamp, and then a look of dismay crossed his face as he spotted something. How long, he asked, had I spent in the UK in the past year? I felt my heart sink, told him the truth, and resigned myself to being put on the next plane back. He seemed to consider this for a minute. ‘That'll be why they denied you, then,' he said, but he didn't put his stamp down. I felt a glimmer of hope return, and said several things in quick succession, regarding this being the last trip for a while, a return flight I was waiting to book, etc etc, but I don't even think that mattered; he stamped my passport and I walked, dreamlike, through baggage claim, feeling the urgent need to get out of the airport before someone realised the mistake and forced me back. Before I did, though, I went to the payphone. ‘Are you sitting down?' I asked, when he answered. I could feel my voice well up then, and said, ‘I made it back in. Happy Valentine's Day.'
-- Diana
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