Culture Shock

Korean flight attendants hold employment of prestige in their culture. With glossy black hair, flawless crimson lipstick smiles, and sharp turquoise suits, they give off the brisk aura of a CEO--or perhaps some type of royalty. In their sovereignty, with gracious voices and meek requests, they attest the greatest among all shall be a servant. But we left behind the Korean attendants fourteen hours ago.

As my husband and I exit the doors of our plane, the heat waves of Georgia, USA, seethe outside the windows of our terminal. My ears only recently started perceiving sounds again after the pressure pop from descending, and they find the clamor hailing us to this country unsettling. A throng of weary travelers mob the lone uniformed worker in sight, asking, pulling, and competing for her assistance. The worker lifts her hands. “I can’t help y’all.” Her answer rebuffs half the crowd, but some others and I persist with a measure of desperation—we have a transferring flight to catch. Obtaining vague directions, my husband and I eventually discover the line appearing to lead to customs. Another uniformed worker, equally as brash as the first, waves people from our line into various other lines. Only one couple, a Korean man and woman, now stand between us and the next level of lines. One tier to go. My momentary thought of progression gets paused as the Korean travelers in front of us, politely and in broken English, deliver a query to the worker. She glances at their paperwork. Without reading the papers, she lifts her eyes back to the Koreans and sighs.
“Pick a line, people.”
Startled, the Koreans nod uncertainly. They continue to stand in place.
I nudge my husband. “They don’t understand her.” He smiles.
“Pick a line, people,” he whispers, imitating her deep Southern accent with good-natured humor.
When she notices the Koreans have not moved, the worker repeats her original demand. This time she raises her voice, but otherwise the words fly from her mouth in the same unintelligible manner as before. Hesitating, the Korean man takes a few steps away from the yelling, toward a new set of diverging lines. Seeing his walking go unchecked, his partner joins him and the two of them hurry to a line marked “immigration.” I helplessly wonder if it is the line they need.
My husband becomes separated from me when another worker directs us to diverging customs booths. Shrugging as we part, I continue forward and hand my declaration form to the agent on duty. He narrows his eyes at me.
“How long was your trip?" Was it ten days or fourteen?
"Why did you travel there? How long have you been married? Where is your husband from? Why isn’t he with you now?” I flush, stammering over my answers, and in my nervousness give abundantly more information than is necessary: “Our anniversary, because we were married a year ago, and visiting family, plus also vacationing, because school starts tomorrow for us—we go to BYU, in Utah, and that is where we are going now…and my husband is with me…” I trail off as I notice the agent’s attention no longer needs me. He is staring at the booth next to us, and my eyes follow his line of vision.

“My husband is over there.” I see my husband backing away from his customs booth as the agent there gestures toward me. Apparently my husband and I should declare as one unit. Of course, the paperwork states it right here. I keep prattling to the agent but he ignores me as he scrutinizes my husband’s green card. When the agent finally lets us pass, my husband and I laugh together, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and shaking heads: nope, no Korean attendants here. We find our luggage and join another queue.