Immigration UK-style

I'm back. In London. At my new little house. Which I love.
It's sunny, and quite warm for London. Amazing.
So much has happened since I last wrote. I'll tell you about it slowly.
Or risk losing you altogether.
We got back yesterday from two weeks in the States. Went home for awhile.
Although the longer you're away from home, the less like home it feels.
Funny that.
And didn't really go home. Didn't go to Washington. Went to South Carolina and Florida. Not sure Florida counts as anybody's home.
Anyway. Want to tell you about the amazing differences between landing in the US and landing in the UK.
Going home now -- to the US -- has become fraught. Landing has anyway.
With my British husband. Who was completely cool as long as we lived in the US.
Now, we're hanging onto his green card for life.
Who knows when we might need it again -- like soon, even?
Immigration officers quiz him mercilessly on arrival now -- how long has he been out of the country (less than a year, sir), have we filed our taxes (seriously. And the answer is YES.) -- especially in a big southern airport like Atlanta, where there are some SERIOUS immigration officers.
My husband has been held in a little room at Atlanta airport for up to an hour.
We get in eventually, but it's getting scarier.
At least for me.
No, please, I beg you. Can we keep his green card, please?
It took us forever to get it, those dozen years ago now, even though we've been married as long as a moss strand in Charleston.
Don't make us give it back. Please.
We don't know what the fuck we're doing.
Arrived back home (as in here) at Heathrow at the crack of dawn yesterday.
Was nervous at London arrivals for a few reasons.
Lack of sleep.
The experience we go through now every time we land in the US.
And then: I've got this stupid Yemeni visa now, which takes up an entire page of my new Italian passport, a visa I never used, because I didn't end up even going to Yemen. If you don't know, Yemen's been in the news a lot lately as the new Al-Qaeda hotbed.
So, might get some questions from the nice British immigration officer as to why I had an unused Yemeni visa, I thought.
Paranoid? Dunno.
Truthfully, I've always felt like a bit of a fraud, although I'm not, speeding through the EU line at Heathrow on my Italian passport.
Since I am American.
But here, I'm definitely Italian.
Born in Italy.
Love that.
Love being Italian here.
Daniela Iacono.
Back to Heathrow.
Got a Muslim immigration officer, a young woman whose head and body was covered in black. Like in Yemen.
Although not like in Yemen, because the woman's face wasn't covered, only her head, and she spoke in a crisp British accent and had a friendly, open face.
She smiled at me. Checked that my passport photo matched my face.
Didn't open the passport beyond the photo page.
Handed it back.
Another smile.
Ten seconds tops.
How did it suddenly become easier to get in here?