Postcard from the American West

It was Monday 3 March. I stood nose to desk, rucksack on my back, rucksack on my front, peering up at the American immigration officer. My passport was tucked away in one of my many forgettable pockets and I wore a tired but excited little grin; partly induced by my smugness in checking in late and somehow bagging the extra leg room seats at no extra cost, but mostly at the thrill of a whole new big old adventure in America.

‘How long are you staying in the States for?’ the officer asked.

‘A month,’ I replied with an aggressively friendly smile and as much confidence as I could muster.

Head down, eyes up she probed: ‘Where are you staying?’

I replied, pulling out my phone to check the details, ‘A… umm… hotel in Vegas,’ which was very understandably met with, ‘For the whole month?!’