Coming to America — My Story, Not Eddie Murphy’s
By Sarala Vasudevan
My dear friends, this is not Eddie Murphy’s Coming to America.
This is my Coming to America story.
A story stitched with hope, courage, innocence, and one beloved pressure cooker.
Almost three decades ago, I married my wonderful husband, Vasu, and together we boarded a plane to New York — my first time on any aircraft, let alone one taking me halfway across the world. I was filled with hopes, aspirations, promises, excitement, and a thrill so new that I could barely breathe.
This was a land I had never seen.
A place I had only read about, imagined, and dreamt of.
And now, suddenly, I was on my way there.
One Suitcase and a Lifetime of Dreams
Let me draw a little contrast for you.
Me, three decades ago:
A newlywed with one VIP suitcase, which I thought was the largest suitcase ever built.
My daughter, going to her freshman year at Virginia Tech:
A full van packed to the brim with bedding, décor, appliances, organizers, snacks, and things I didn’t even know existed.
My entire life fit into one suitcase.
Her one dorm room needed a mini-truck!
Inside my tiny-but-mighty VIP suitcase were:
- A few outdoor clothes
- Some salwar outfits
- Two sets of home PJs
- Toiletries
- A couple of cookbooks I still cherish
- And of course… the South Indian girl’s priceless treasure: the pressure cooker
(with idli plates, mind you — never separate a Tamil girl from her idli plates!) - A couple of tiny steel utensils I still use today
That was my whole world — packed, zipped, and ready for a new life.
Landing in New York — The Cold, The Chaos, The Wonder
When we finally landed in JFK, it was a freezing January morning.
I was dazed, overwhelmed, and had no idea what I was looking at. Everything seemed too big, too fast, too foreign.
Back then, connecting flights weren’t as frequent.
We missed our flight to Dubuque, Iowa, and the airline put us up in a hotel.
That night, something magical happened:
I tasted pasta for the first time.
Creamy, cheesy, herby pasta.
My taste buds went into shock — the good kind.
The Italian herbs danced on my tongue.
The buttery richness felt like a warm hug in that cold foreign land.
To this day, I remember that pasta more vividly than the hotel room.
The Suitcase Scare in Detroit
From New York, we caught another flight to Detroit.
As soon as we boarded, we were informed that our suitcases had already been sent ahead on another aircraft.
My heart stopped.
Everything I owned — my clothes, my certificates, my precious cooker — was in that suitcase. I sat with my fingers tightly crossed, whispering small prayers.
When we landed, the airline staff calmly pointed us to where our bags had been kept safely aside.
And when I saw that VIP suitcase….
I ran to it and hugged it like a long-lost friend.
It held my identity.
My memories.
The things that would help me build my new life.
Losing it would have shattered me.
The Final Hop to Dubuque, Iowa
From Detroit, we boarded a small charter plane — the kind whose wings rattle like steel sheets in the wind. I looked down and saw a blanket of white snow covering the world below.
It was breathtaking.
It was terrifying.
It was my first glimpse of America.
We finally reached Dubuque, Iowa, where Vasu’s friends warmly opened their home to us until his project start date arrived. Their kindness became the very first welcome we received on American soil.
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And just like that, my journey began.
My First Day in America — And the Famous Sandal Story
The next morning, I woke up bursting with excitement.
I was finally in America — and I wanted to experience every bit of it.
Never mind that it was Iowa.
Never mind that it was January.
Never mind that everything outside was frozen into one giant white snow globe.
I wanted to step out immediately and “see America.”
My friend Viji — sweet, calm, and far more sensible than I was — gently warned me:
“Sarala, you are not equipped for this weather.”
She was right.
I had no warm blankets,
no snow jacket,
no winter shoes,
and certainly no concept of “non-skid footwear.”
But I was determined.
So Viji offered me her jacket — but she was tiny, and it didn’t fit.
Thankfully, my husband had a spare one, and that became my armor.
Next problem: shoes.
Her shoes were too small.
His shoes were too big.
My own shoes?
Just a pair of Indian sandals perfect for Chennai, not for Iowa-level frostbite.
But stubbornness is a great motivator.
So out I stepped — in sandals — into the great icy American outdoors.
Meeting Black Ice for the First Time
The wind hit my face like tiny needles.
The snowflakes raced across the air.
My lips began cracking.
My toes went numb.
And in my head?
Still the same excitement:
This is America! This is magical!
I felt like I had walked into a Disney movie.
Everything looked surreal.
Sparkling.
Beautiful.
I took maybe five steps.
And then I met black ice.
I didn’t know what black ice was.
I didn’t know it was invisible.
I didn’t know it was slippery.
I didn’t know it could ruin a sandal and your dignity in one second.
My sandal folded into two pieces —
the top part stayed with my foot,
the bottom sole went skating away like it was auditioning for the Winter Olympics.
And I?
I went skidding with it, arms flying, legs in the air, landing with a dramatic thud on the hard pavement.
There I lay, in Iowa, in January, in sandals, learning my first American lesson:
Watch where you place your feet.
Excitement is good.
Wisdom is better.
The Barefoot March of Shame (and Courage)
Now I had a new problem.
I couldn’t walk on bare feet — the ground was biting cold.
But I also couldn’t walk on the concrete — it was too icy.
Viji called out, “Walk on the grass! It’s safer!”
So I stepped onto the snowy grass.
It was still freezing.
I bit my lip from the cold and shuffled like a penguin toward the house.
Step by step, inch by inch, praying my toes didn’t fall off.
And when I finally entered that warm home, the heat wrapped around me like a hug.
I felt grateful — deeply grateful.
Grateful for warmth.
Grateful for Viji’s wisdom.
Grateful for that ridiculous sandal.
Grateful for the lesson.
Grateful for the laughter that came later.
And grateful for the beautiful, unpredictable journey ahead of me.
A Love Letter to the Country That Became My Home
That day, something changed inside me.
I realized that a new land teaches you in its own ways:
Courage takes you far.
Humility takes you further.
Since that day, America has given me friendships, opportunities, growth, and memories — some warm, some cold, but all unforgettable.
I came to this country without winter boots…
but with a broken sandal, a borrowed jacket, and a heart full of dreams.
And somehow, that feels like the perfect beginning.
