1st October 2001
America – Land of the free and home of the brave
California – Land of the weird and home of the stoned. Not that I was here for any of that. This was Stanford University, home of the future leaders of the world – American rich kids and Malaysian nerds. It’s an hour south of San Francisco, and I’d been told that the weather was much better than in the city. As we landed at San Francisco airport, the pilot announced:
‘It’s a perfect sunny day and the temperature is approximately 80 degrees.’ I was still trying to work out whether there could be any possible weather better than that when I found myself being quizzed by a scary looking customs official.
‘Have you ever been a prostitute? Have you ever been a drugs trafficker? Have you ever been a terrorist? Have you ever been a member of the communist party?’
‘None of those, but I did once spend a few weeks at an Afghan training camp as the guest of a mysterious guy with a beard?’
‘Did you learn about explosives?’
‘Yes’
‘Firearms?’
‘Yes’
‘Chemical warfare?’
‘Yes’
‘Perfect. You’re just the kind of guy we need to help us fight our war against terrorism. Welcome to the USA.’

In truth, I’d been most worried about the security measures that might have been in place at Heathrow, but I need not have worried. Extra measures were non-existent.
‘I guess you’re giving the cavity searches a miss’, I remarked to the fat guy with a security badge.
‘We are with you. We only do those to attractive young women.’ I smiled back nervously, hoping he was joking.
The only difference I noticed was that we weren’t given metal cutlery on the flight, on the basis that they could have been used as a weapon.
‘How am I supposed to cut up the chicken with a plastic knife and fork?’, I asked the air-hostess.
‘Chicken?! Heaven forbid. Those bones could be used to pierce an artery’
‘So what are you serving?’
‘Pureed spinach. The only known health risk is jaundiced-eye if applied directly to the eyeball for more than 3 days. As such, have some complementary safety goggles.’

At the bus-stop to Stanford I meet an attractive girl who’s also just flown in from Heathrow. She’s not atypical of the sort of people around here – a father who works for the World Bank, schooled in Paris, university in Oxford and a couple of homes in Mexico just for fun.
‘And now I’m here at Stanford going further into debt.’
Yes, I reply, scratching my chin. ‘Did you get through Heathrow security okay?’ I ask.
‘It wasn’t too bad, but they could have used a bit more lubricant for the cavity searches.’

Next installment – Meet the flat-mates, the search for soccer, and possibly something that I didn’t make up. But I doubt it.