Summer Break, Flying to the United States
The plane approached Los Angeles from the Pacific, the eastern gateway to the United States. From above, the city’s grid looked like Chang’an’s plan in the Tang dynasty, neatly carved into small squares.
At immigration, the automated gates were unavailable, so I queued for manual inspection. The officer—Latin American in appearance—was annoyed that I hadn’t filled the paper arrival form. Seeing I had a 10‑hour layover in Dallas, he asked where I would stay. I said I’d sleep at the airport. He tossed back my passport. A nearby staffer who spoke Chinese quietly suggested, “Write down a hotel, just temporarily.” My first act in America turned out to be a lie—so I wrote “Hilton.”
Moving from the transfer area to the gate area, a Chinese woman with a suitcase was stopped. Only small carry‑ons were allowed; larger luggage had to be checked. She didn’t understand English and anxiously asked in Chinese why she wasn’t allowed through. The staff repeated, “Check your bag first.” They were talking past each other. I told her to go back the way she came to check the bag, then return to this checkpoint. She said “Oh,” and left without looking back.
After the checkpoint, several Chinese travelers searched the screens for their next flights. Different destinations, same result—no listings. We headed inward to try our luck. Thankfully, a staff member in his fifties used a third‑party app to find gates for transfer passengers. After a round of grumbling about the facilities and experience being far behind China, everyone dispersed.
In the gate area, I felt Americans’ freewheeling style: winter coats, business suits, shorts and T‑shirts, backless tops—everything, while it was 15°C outside. One common label might be “extremely overweight.” We joke about “swim rings” on a belly or a “beer belly,” but here it felt like “two elephant legs with another elephant leg grafted on top.” The large man next to me had to lift both legs and drop them hard, using momentum to lean forward—twice—before he could rise from his seat.
We took off from Los Angeles and arrived in Dallas, Texas after five‑plus hours, around 10 p.m. There were far fewer Chinese travelers than in LA. I saw just one Chinese student, stuck by a delay. Since I had a 7 a.m. flight to Mississippi, going to a hotel would leave at most three hours of rest after the commute, so I decided to sleep at the airport. After 11 p.m., takeoffs and landings decreased, and the crowd thinned. Past midnight, only staff and a few overnight passengers remained. The transfer area felt empty. The cleaning and cargo crews—mostly Black—were diligent, scrubbing the area and equipment every hour despite the late hour and little usage. The lighting ran 24/7; I wondered how much energy was being wasted.
Dallas has terminals A, B, and C connected in a ring. International flights use C; short‑haul domestic routes use A. Passengers can shuttle via the SKYLINE light rail or walk between terminals. Early in the morning, SKYLINE was down; the walk from C2 to A6 took about thirty minutes.
After a night in the transfer area, the earliest flights began at 5:00 a.m., with security opening at 3:30. Past midnight, the cleaning crew told overnight passengers to head to Checkpoint 3 early—it opens first. A face wash that passed at Shanghai Pudong and LAX was flagged in Dallas as over the volume limit and had to be discarded.
The plane from Dallas to Jackson, Mississippi was a small regional jet, with the cockpit open to the cabin and instruments in full view. Seating was three across—one on the left, two on the right. For many larger American bodies, the cabin felt cramped. Thankfully, it was only an hour. The flight attendant served drinks once; few wanted any so early. After about fifty minutes of turbulence weaving through low clouds, we landed at Jackson. The airport had just two runways, and the terminal façade was too small to fit “Jackson International Airport.” Carry‑ons for regional flights had to be gate‑checked; on arrival, passengers queued on the jet bridge to reclaim them. I didn’t fully understand the announcement and ended up queuing with people who had kept their bags, only to be sent to baggage claim. The airport has just two floors; I found my bag quickly, met my ride, and headed home.
Published at: Sep 10, 2025 · Modified at: Sep 10, 2025
