A first visit to UCI.
What do you do, as a writer, when your friend at UCI asks you to visit him? Well, a friend of mine was asked this question, and her first reaction was panic. She had never set foot in the US before, never mind a prison, so her first thoughts were to find someone who had. So that’s how she came to accompany me on my trip. This is her account of our memorable visit.
Someone to hold your hand: being a coward, I tracked down an experienced companion to show me the ropes and warn of the pitfalls. And, as it turned out, to share the ups and the downs, the laughter and the sadness
Getting there: the Obstacle Race. Visa and customs papers thrust upon us in the plane posed a problem. We’d recently had a cattle scare in the UK, so, should I confess to living on a farm and risk missing our connection? Or keep silent and bear the burden on my conscience of any subsequent epidemic that might devastate the agricultural economy of the USA? Well, what would you do? With so little time to change planes once we landed at Atlanta we had to race through snaking lines of passengers approaching security, customs and immigration. And I’d recommend a trial run through the acrobatics of balancing on one foot to take off each shoe while removing your coat with the other hand and watching your precious papers – passport, tickets and money – disappearing into the dark tunnel of the security scan.
Accommodation. Overall we did pretty well – comfortable rooms, friendly service, great coffee, food in abundance. Reception however was reminiscent of John Cleese and Fawlty Towers. With wise forethought we checked the existence of a hotel safe to deposit our crown jewels while out for our first visit the following day. All seemed in order. But not next morning when the relief staff feigned complete ignorance of any such service, but promised to put our valuables “in a locker”, from where it proved exceedingly difficult to retrieve on our return. Our valuables would obviously have been safer in the car boot!
Visiting: Which, after all, is what we came for. The first problem for us was that neither of us drives. Driving is not a prerequisite to living in London with its vast and busy transport system, so we made contact with someone also visiting UCI who agreed to take us. We made 2 visits of 6 hours, the first on a busy Sunday. Arriving early much of the time was spent shivering in the queue outside in a bitterly cold wind. The complex chain of security procedures – photographs, security numbers, handprints, search, stamp, passport, and gates clanging shut behind you – just knowing what to do next could be daunting: perhaps here more than any other time I appreciated the running commentary provided by my friend. The warm, relaxed atmosphere in the Visitors Park was, to me, a pleasant surprise. Maybe it can’t always be like that, but I enjoyed it immensely. Forget the awkward embarrassment of hospital visiting – the when-can-you-politely-leave syndrome. This was great. If you’ve enjoyed exchanging letters with your friend, then you are going to enjoy meeting him and the time will seem ridiculously short. And if you find it easier to talk-while-doing – well we had options of cards and dominoes, scrabble, connect four….
Day 2, our “special visit” as we’d travelled a distance, was very different. With only 3 of us going we made a later start, and were ushered straight in.
The staff and even security seemed more relaxed. In fact the days we visited, most of the staff on duty were friendly and helpful.
As one door clanged shut behind us we dutifully waited for the next to open and the next… Out in the open air once more we waited for the gate that leads us to the VP to automatically click open.
Suddenly a guard hollers out to us from his post across in Population: “Push – I’ve left it open because it sticks!”
|
So bizarre, but it makes us laugh and takes away some of the tension. But, as the others confirmed, something happens to the passage of time in the VP as the clock starts the count down through the final hour of your visit, and I can’t attempt to describe what it feels like saying good-bye, walking out and away as your last visit ends. My seasoned companions looked at me sympathetically. Will you come again? I shook my head in bewilderment. Ask me again later.
You have to unwind, so we went for a meal together and tension melted away. The slightest slip of the tongue reduced us to hysterical laughter; at the buffet we had difficulty distinguishing mashed potato from vanilla ice-cream. Normal conversation resumed: “Have you always come for a 2 week visit? No, I used to do my chips quickly!!***!! Chips? Not chips – TRIPS. We mused over episodes in the VP: At one point acrid smoke began to fill the room, and we heard a fire alarm. Ought we to be going out, one of us asked. No, replied the guard – it goes off all the time. ‘But’, she persisted, ‘Where should we congregate?’ The guard gave us a strange look and said, ‘Mam, we aint goin’ nowhere, the alarm will stop in a while’. The time flew even more quickly that day,
and before long it was nearly time to go.
What do you say to your friend in those final minutes? The usual platitudes are not sufficient. My friends warned me that for those who can’t visit often, the final day is very emotional, and then they have to adjust quickly to being without their loved one for another few months.
Then it was all over; our cases packed, just our taxi to book for the airport. The driver had given us his card when we arrived; we’d only to give him a ring he said. The voice at the end of the phone knew nothing about him – he didn’t work for their part of Gator Taxis. ‘Come to STARKE, STARKE?? But that’s hundreds of miles away…’. It can’t be, we say – he picked us up from the airport. OK. Someone will be there at 11.30 the voice said. Someone then rang our hotel to confirm it. Next morning, not one but 2 taxis arrived. We left them to sort it out as we finished packing. Our original driver started to converse to my friend. She says one of those inane conversations followed - the kind you can only have in a prison town when you don’t know which person is pro-DP or anti, so it’s safer to err on the side of caution and not actually say why you are there. So when the taxi driver asked, ‘Why are you here?’ You answer ‘Visiting a friend’. Driver: Do they live in Starke?’ ‘No, just outside’ ‘Oh, why don’t you stay with them’. ‘Cos they only have a small place’. ‘Couldn’t you sleep on their sofa?’ ‘I’d love to!’ ‘What do they do for work’. ‘They have their own business’. Driver: ‘What type’. ‘A bit of everything, art and crafts etc.’…It’s with some relief that you see your friend hurrying along tugging her suitcase behind her.
We duly arrived at Jax airport with hours to spare, which we easily filled. 15 minutes working out that we couldn’t use the automated check-in; half an hour drinking more strong coffee while tipping out the contents of my bag in an attempt to find the elusive immigration card; a call for my friend to return to check-in to retrieve a forgotten visa card and still time to spare for the pointless but irresistible inspection of airport shops. Having suffered from my ears on arrival I bought some earplugs. Directions for use: pinch nose and lift top of ear while inserting earplug. So, just how many hands does the average US air passenger have?
At last we boarded the plane at Jax . Could anything else possibly go wrong? You bet it could. Just as the seat belts were being checked an official boarded the plane in search of…..me – wanting to retrieve the return portion of my ‘waiver visa’ (safely tucked away – where?) Fortunately I found it and I was allowed to return home.
My friend says I’ve to be sure to write him, and I will. For my part, I had a wonderful two days that will stay with me always.
Back in London my friend asks me ‘Will you go again?’ What do you think? I reply.
Jo Gibbs and friend ‘B’.
|
Merry Christmas! I hope that 2006
brings us more Divine Mercy!
Oh, and I love you, you, you !!!!
kisses, hugs and more,
Love Your Muneca"
"merry christmas
