American pie

While visiting the United States from any part of the Middle East, Africa or Asia, one has to get accustomed to a number of things, for instance: undergoing two security checks at the airport, over 10 hours of flying time, long queues in front of the luggage carousal, probing inquisition at the immigration counter and so on and so forth. You have to also train your ears to the American drawl, which can stretch normal sentences into long monologues. 

These are some of the challenges that can make you hesitant about going there but once you overcome them, it is a delight to be in the land of milk and honey. Incidentally, I have now discovered why it is called that, literally too, because in the US, everyone calls everybody “honey”. 

The Americans are very friendly people. They are very factual people too and love printing the most obvious details like, “if you put a plastic bag on your head you might get suffocated” labels on, well, plastic bags. Or “not suitable for persons who are allergic to nuts”, warning on a pack of peanuts. This might be considered common sense in other parts of the world but in a highly litigious society like America, everything is clearly marked in black and white. 

Walking on the paved streets of Lower Manhattan, close to where catastrophe struck around 15 years ago is an eye opener. The One World Trade Centre is the main building of the rebuilt complex. It is the tallest structure in the Western hemisphere and has the same name as the North Tower of the original World Trade Centre, which was completely destroyed in the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001. One interesting fact is that the height of the building, complete with its spire, is 1,776 feet. This is a deliberate reference to the year when the United States Declaration of Independence was signed. 

Tourists throng this area round-the-clock and you have to crane your neck to look up to its full height. A few families, with the pleas of, “honey, can you click our picture?” besiege me. Their cell-phone selfies, even the ones planted on a long stick, cannot encapsulate the grandeur of the place. I comply, and soon become an expert at capturing the perfect snapshot. “Maybe I should switch professions and become a photographer,” says the voice in my head. 

With the Memorial Day weekend approaching, all the department stores in the country go on sale. This day, originally called Decoration Day, is marked as a federal holiday in America for remembering the people who died while serving in the armed forces. Over two-dozen cities and towns claim to be the birthplace of Memorial Day. In 1915, Moina Belle Michael, a professor at the University of Georgia, started selling silk poppies to raise funds in order to provide occupational and financial support for disabled servicemen. Her efforts resulted in The American Legion Auxiliary, and later, The Royal British Legion, adopting poppy as a symbol of remembrance for war veterans. 

Queuing up at the “Sweet Tooth” café I am daunted by the huge size of the apple pies in the display counter. 

“You want something honey?” asks the gentleman at the till. 

“A cupcake please,” I mumble. 

“What’s that honey?” he queries. 

“Cupcake,” I clarify pointing at it. 

“That’s a muffin honey,” he insists in a slow drawl. 

“I will go for the apple pie,” I drawl back.