While talking to a friend the other day, our conversation turned to my citizenship status, prompting me to name specific reasons for finally completing the process I had begun three or four times before. I didn't remember this right away, but there was one particular moment that had the greatest impact on my decision to become an American citizen. It was a typically gray and dreary day in Krakow...
I had traded in the warmth of sunny Southern California for the cold October days of Poland after a particularly disappointing period of time in my life – that apparently left me in need of being coddled by my native land. (Had I come from a different background, I would probably have spent this time living it up in Paris, Madrid, or even Stockholm. My relatives, however, without the foresight to move to more colorful countries, left me no choice but to visit them in Poland.) The trip itself was not particularly unpleasant (keeping in mind that the plane ride is a combined twelve hours one way). And in some ways, I did find what I went looking for. (Psychologically? Emotionally? Maybe both.) But it was one day in particular that suddenly, in one instant (actually, more like several grueling hours, but it seems more dramatic to me this way – more likely to bring about an epiphany, so I'll stick with instant) clarified for me the true meaning of "home."
One day, sometime toward the conclusion of my self-imposed exile, I had finally decided to look into a matter that I—up to now—had considered a "non-issue." When my family originally came into the United States, the green cards that were being issued had no expiration dates. Since then, however, the whole system has changed, and the new green cards (which, by the way, are not the least bit green) do have expiration dates, and therefore need to be renewed. I had thought about getting an updated version of my card anyway, since mine had the picture of a seven-year-old and no fingerprints on it, but the thought of waiting in lines for hours just to get the necessary paperwork dissuaded me from ever pursuing the idea any further. So, for the third time since I turned 18, I decided to go the citizenship route – not wanting to encounter any problems while traveling abroad. The entire process, however, can take several years. And, since mine was a spur of the moment sort of trip, I had no time to wait.
So, I flew to Poland. There, I spent a couple of months visiting with friends and relatives, riding busses, shopping at tiny little grocery stores where they don't provide bags for the purchases, and the tax is already calculated into the price, and in general getting to experience the lifestyle that we left behind fifteen years earlier. Then, I was ready to come back.
I decide not to take any chances, and go to the Consulate General of the U.S. to make absolutely certain that I won't have any problems with reentering the country on my outdated green card (I flew in on a Polish passport). The first woman I encounter takes a look at my card and says it shouldn't be a problem, but to go see the woman upstairs in visas, just to be sure. Although the room is completely empty, as I approach the window, I am told to "wait in the waiting room." So, I take a few steps back and await the announcement over the loudspeaker to report to window A (the only window with someone behind it). The woman there, a short, plump, newly-red-haired middle-aged smoker—unfortunately, a rather typical description of Krakow women (at the time of my visit, anyway)—takes one look at my card, and in true Polish customer service oriented fashion proceeds to badger me as to why I hadn't renewed the card before I came. Completely taken aback by her response to the situation, I point out that since there isn't a way for me to correct this grave mistake now, it would be helpful if she could suggest what I should do at the present moment. After taking a few minutes to think it over and going to the back offices to consult with others, ending up with my having to return to "the waiting room" (clearly, it would be inappropriate to actually allow me to stand at the window, instead of three feet away from it), she comes back with the solution – a strategically placed phone call. One that only she can make. One that will cost me either five dollars, or fourteen zlotych, whichever I prefer. Easy enough. Except that just minutes before coming to this place, I had spent my last zloty (I'm not used to carrying cash around). Digging through my pockets, I come up with 3.50 in dollars, and 9 in zlotych. I ask about accepting a combination. No. One or the other. No exceptions. Thoroughly frustrated by the old woman, I run down to look for the nearest currency exchange place.
Luckily, the shopping center of Krakow is overrun by currency exchange places. So, I run into one and figuring (with my brilliant math skills) that I'm short $1.50, I ask how many zlotych would one-fifty cost me. Of course, the man helping me thinks I asked for $150, so I repeat - one dollar, fifty cents, and he strains not to laugh out loud as he explains that he doesn't carry anything that small. Aren't there any banks around here, I ask, growing more exasperated with every minute, and really beginning to hate this city. There's one across the square, I'm told. But as I start off in its direction, I decide to take one more shot, and turn around. I ask the man how much I can get for $3. About seven zlotych, he says. Combined with what I already have, it's enough to pay for my curiously expensive phone call, so I take it. Running back to the visa woman—who, I am now convinced, holds the key to my returning home in her hands—I pay for my phone call, and am told to come back after 3 p.m., two hours from now.
I spend the two hours with one of the friends who owns a store in the shopping center. Even though she is great company, it is the longest two hours in my life, as I try to imagine not being able to return home. Having spent two-thirds of my life in California, I can't imagine having to readjust to the very different lifestyle I had recently experienced in Krakow, a place that some (deranged fundamentalist extremists) could argue is my "real" home.
Well, I obviously "checked out" paperwork-wise, wherever it is that mysterious phone call was placed to. And I experienced no hassles at the airport. And, knowing I would be okay traveling abroad, I took a cheesy, week-long bus tour of Italy before I flew home.
But it was this experience – the uncertainty of my status here (due to my laziness with paperwork) that convinced me to follow through with my citizenship application, because I want to be able to travel all over the world. I just want to be able to come back.
And so, I've come to this conclusion Рwithout meaning to sound like a movie clich̩. For me, home is where there are coffee shops on every corner, 24-hour supermarkets, fewer one-way streets than there are cars Рand for that matter, streets wide enough for cars, and almost no balding red-headed women with bad dye jobs intent on ruining your day through their general lack of understanding of the words customer service.
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