Before 9/11 getting into the United States was never relaxed. Now, it can be tense. Immigration officers are rarely caught with a smile on their face as they ask for details on the nature and duration of your visit while scanning the magnetic strip on your passport. Frequent visitors soon learn the rules. Stay behind the yellow line until called and once at the desk, speak when you’re spoken to, speak up, answer straight and show respect. By the time an officer reaches for the red stamp and hammers through the paperwork laid out before them you know you‘re in, unless, that is, you get pulled over by the customs officials, the final obstacle between you and the baggage carousel.

Some years ago, this is precisely what happened to a colleague of mine. Safely through immigration on a business trip we were making to New York City, Mike was taken aside by customs officers and subjected to fifteen minutes of vigorous questioning about his relationship with a certain Tony Lombardi, a gentlemen who did not feature under ‘L’ or ‘T’ in his address book. The fact was Mike had never, in his recollection, had as much as a nodding acquaintance with anyone of this name. But, according to his questioners, the two had met in Austin, Texas some sixteen years previously. Mike agreed to having been in Austin at this time, while on holiday with wife, but had not been back since and had not, to his knowledge, run across any Tony Lombardi at the time.

Seemingly satisfied with Mike’s denials, he was finally allowed to enter the country, shaken and a little stirred. During the cab ride into Manhattan, he was subject to some good-natured banter about his possible relationship with the mysterious Mr. Lombardi. Every black limo with smoked windows was seen as a potential ‘tail’ or, even worse, a mafia hit wagon. Being the easy-going chap that he is, Mike took it all in good spirits, although remained a little disturbed as to how the allegation arose and what other repercussions there may be. But the potential for jokes at Mike’s expense were quickly exhausted and during the course of the evening the topic was soon dropped.

Early the next morning just as I was about to step into the shower my phone rang. It was Mike. Could I go up to his room four floors above? He had just put the phone down on a female caller giving him a message from a Mr. Lombardi. Within minutes I was dressed and knocking on Mike’s door. He let me in, appearing pale and disturbed. The anonymous caller had said that she was calling to say how Tony had heard Mike was in the city for a few days and was anxious to meet up. Despite Mike’s protestations she insisted on leaving Tony’s contact number for him to call to arrange a meeting. This was now getting spooky.

Over breakfast, joined by remaining colleagues and the client, we decided that Mike was the victim of a clumsy attempt at entrapment by the US authorities. The consensus was that he should play it straight and ignore any future calls or approaches made by so–called friends or colleagues of the now infamous Tony Lombardi. And that was to be the last we heard of him. Mike received no further telephone entreatments to ‘hook up’ with any shady characters and to this day, has never discovered the reasons for the federal agencies interest in any alleged relationship or the nature of Mr Lombardi’s business activities. But the episode was to have one last twist.

Our final evening in the city had found us in Little Italy and in need of a place to eat, we spotted a pizza house across the street. Just as we were about to enter, I looked at the sign over our heads. It read ‘Lombardi’s, New York’s finest oven baked pizzas’. We went in anyway. Hey, what were we, pussycats or wise guys?

Now recalled as a tale to tell, it’s never far from my mind when I approach any kind of authority in the US, especially now, when the increase in security also includes the process of leaving the country. Once no more than an easy-going formality - Americans in uniform never seemed to fret about people leaving their country – the checks on passengers boarding aircraft, now that they’re all potential flying bombs, are a lot more thorough. It’s not until I’m the other side of the scanners and magnetic devices do I begin to slip into airport limbo, the state of nothingness that exists when you’re stateless, between countries, not quite gone and not yet arrived. I find a seat facing the window in a quiet spot and plug into my i-pod. Through the glass the rain is still falling, sweeping in sheets across the empty aircraft stand.

I close my eyes and drift away, lost in transit.