An Englishman in New England

After 5 years of dealings with the INS, I view our relationship as a castaway on a desert island views the sea. I am surrounded on all sides by it as far as the eye can see. Our interactions consist of me sending out little messages in a bottle, and occasionally, after months of waiting with no word or confirmation of receipt, they reply with bits of floating detritus with which I might build a fire to keep me warm for a little while, or some rope with which to repair my crumbling abode. Or, they send angry storms that flatten all I have built, forcing me to start from scratch and curse the gods that allow them to exist.

Today's particular interaction, submitting my Green Card application, fell snugly into the 'message in a bottle' category. Up at stupid o'clock in the morning (as Lump would say), a few hours' wait in the sub-zero pre-sunrise temperatures, and a strip-search at the door, all for the priviledge of meeting for less than five minutes with a dismissive customs officer who glibly informed me that "I'll have to wait a while" for them to reply.

No shit, I thought.