How did you get into the country?

As some of you are well aware, I’ve done a bit of traveling now and then.  Often on these trips there is a mild adventure, a quirky situation, or at least new learning experience encountered.  Something that makes the trip a bit more memorable.  Of course, returning back to the States is always an experience in itself.  After a long plane ride, I haven’t slept or shaven and until they install shower facilities on planes I evidently look like….well…a gypsy – at least according to the certain authorities.   Thus, a question (if not the FIRST question) I’m routinely asked by the border control is never “Where have you been?”, but instead “Do you speak English?” I used to find this interesting years ago, but has time goes on; I find this more as an annoyance and rather insulting.   I have provided them with a US passport and therefore MUST speak English even at a rudimentary level.   Which brings me to passports…

Everyone complains about their passport photo and for good reason as it looks nothing like the bearer.  Seriously, NOTHING like you when it was taken.  I wouldn’t have been surprise if Osama Bin Laden entered the US numerous times and no one knew him at the border because of his damn photo!  The problem is that either you’re not fully prepared for the photo to be taken by the “one shot state approved photo” process as in the Untied States (think of your DMV photo) and have a look of drug induced bewilderment
(or defiance) in the eyes or as in some countries people are allow to bring in the photos that they want used, which are touched up with computers.  For example, I knew one man in Tbilisi, Georgia who was bald and received a photo with an unrequested full head of hair added by the photographer.  My wife had a wonderful passports photo taken for two of her previous passports until the government stopped allowing “computer enhanced photos” and implemented the “one shot state approved photo” process.  As a result, her current passport photo looks like a just finished running the “iron woman decathlon” in makeup and heels.

 Plus, it doesn’t matter if it is in a booth or against a wall and despite the little mirrors that they have for you to check your hair before the photo, there is always a slight, yet strong gust of wind that hits you square in the face or someone asks you a question right before photo is taken.  The lighting makes a tanning bed look like a night light in comparison and reveals EVERY blemish on your face.  The blinding flash of the photo. The end result is that all people receive a DUI mug shot on an official document; as though there is a special government program to deflate you ego and destroy any pretentiousness of travel “hey I’m off to see the world! Yeah? Well this is what people see when they see you!”) In the movies, the hero never had a photo like yours. I am convinced that if you know an alcoholic and are trying to get them to stop, have them take a passport photo when they are sober and tell them “This is what we see when you drink!” and they will be cured.
 

But the real question is why? Why does this happen? Why do these photos look nothing like the subject?  At first, I used to think this was a joke on behalf of the passport authority.  Border control guards have a pretty boring job and so checking demented photos would be a good way to give them a chuckle. Something to kill time really.  Perhaps make small wagers among themselves on who gets the ugliest person.  And then the more I thought about this (I’ve had A LOT of long layovers mind you); I have come with the answer to this question.  This is actually what you look like when arriving after a long flight.  You see passport photos are photos into the future.  They don’t show you what you look like now, but instead what you will look like after crossing the ocean in a small, metallic, flying box trapped with screaming children, heavy food, nauseous adults, obnoxious boors, etc.   This is the only way that passport control would actually recognize you.

Now this explanation seems plausible enough, until one sees my passport.  I can honestly tell you that I do NOT have such a passport photo with the “one eye half shut and Elvis sneer” look.  On the contrary, my passport photo makes me look very much like a drag queen.  But not just any drag queen mind you.  Nay, I look like a drag queen “extraordinaire”!  My face is pale with bright red lips and a bluish hue around the eyes.  This is a photo that screams “Divine’s younger brother starring in a worldwide tour revival of “Pricilla – Queen of the desert” the musical”.  I cringe when giving my passport to the border guards as they do a double take and make that sucking in the air sound once they open it.   

Now, getting back to the stories.  Four particular occasions stick out in my mind of returning to the States and situations with the border control.

The border control secret password

On one occasion, I was returning from a stay in Europe and again, I looked like hell on holiday: unshaven, tired, dark eyes, flower print shirt, etc.  I’m not only in a foul mood, but I am a bit acerbic to say the least to the point where even the most logical questions seem inane.  Upon arrival, I saw that they were inspecting luggage (“inspecting” being that they were ripping open the bags and dumping out the contents of those who thought that they had a smart answer after a long flight) looking for drugs, etc.  So when I approached the counter this time I tried very hard to keep a civil tongue while the little voice in my head (italicized) tried very hard to interrupt. 

“Do YOU speak English?”

 *sigh (Not only am I a native speaker of the English language, I probably speak better English than you!) – “Yes”

"How long were you gone?"

"A couple of months" 

"How long is a couple of months?"

(Well, to those of us vaguely familiar with English, it means “less than a year, but longer than one”) - "um…I don’t know…about six I think"

"What do you for a living?"

(I’m a transvestite gypsy who masquerades as a drug mule on holiday) - "I'm an Anthropologist" I didn’t have anything to say as I had just finished working in Europe on contract and was returning to the States without job and so I thought I would put that degree to use.   Interestingly enough, based on the reaction of the border guard, I can confirm that actually telling someone that you are an Anthropologist with a straight face IS LIKE telling them that you are a transvestite gypsy who masquerades as a drug mule on holiday.

"What organizations or university do you work for?"

"Uh...none" (well, so much for those credentials)

"So….you're….a "free-lance" Anthropologist?”

(eh? Freelance?!) "Uh...Yeah!  That's right!  I'm a "free-lance" Anthropologist" as I begin to mentally repack my bags that I’m sure will be systematically destroy while I’m being stripped search by a gangly man with long fingers and rubber gloves and a flashlight after that listening to that answer.

"O.K. you're clear.  Go through."

Go through?!!  What? People around me which far better stories were being detained and harassed, but I stand there clothes messed up, unshaven and with a flimsy story and get waved through. Evidently, “freelance anthropologist” something like a Freemason password at the border.  You need to remember that!  “Where were you? A tourist in France?  Put your bag over there and stand with your hands in the air! Against the wall! Against the wall!  On a business trip in London? Undress in the next room and don’t make a sound!  Freelance anthropologist?  Welcome to America!”

Too bad I wasn’t trying to smuggle anything into the country. 

Is that yours?

In the mid-1990’s my first wife and I were living in South Korea and decided to take holidays in Florida.  In general, traveling from South Korea to the United States at that time was a rather lengthy process.  You have to get to the airport early, the plane ride from Seoul to California is very long (something like 16 hours I think) and then there was layover in Los Angles and you hope that there are no delays.  Then you have a layover until your connecting flight departs, etc. 

Because my grandfather was a pilot, he always taught me that you never know what can happen along the way and you should always try to be prepared with your carry-on luggage.  Little things like toiletries, maybe an extra shirt, some food, etc. just the basics in case there was a delay.  So the night before we left, I pack my carry-on with the usual and purposely did not want to sleep at night so that I would be able to sleep on the plane.  I stayed up watching movies while packing, eating pizza and leftovers and what remained, I put that into zip lock bag and in the carry-on, soap – into the carry on, t-shirt – into the carry on, etc.etc.  This was far the best preparation before travel as I immediately fell asleep in the plane and don’t remember anything until waking up in California.  I felt refreshed and calm.   Fabulous.

We arrive in Los Angles and go to baggage claim to collect our bags and customs so that we can then make it to the connecting flight.  While waiting next to the luggage carousel we see the border police come out with a small beagle which is dutifully sniffing all the bags looking for narcotics and contraband. To be honest, it was cute.  Beagles are playful dogs and this one is jumping around the bags, walking on top of them and really seemed to be enjoying itself.  It gave you the distinct impression that this was his first day working and everything was so new to him.  It was enduring and lighthearted to watch and something welcomed to see after coming from another country.  I mean, a beagle conjures a different sort of carefree emotion in a person, whereas a German Shepherd is a bit more…strict or menacing…and brings up ideas of prison camps and World War II.  A beagle makes you think of “Snoopy.”

So I and everyone else casually watched “Snoopy” furiously sniffing the bags.  Some people and their children tried to pet it as it walked by only to have the handler gently say in a sweet voice “no, no, she is busy.  Don’t distract her!  Come on girl, come on!  Find the bad things!” and the dog would continue on its merry way from bag to bag.   

I eventually collected my bags, put them on the trolley and see that “Snoopy” is gleefully hoping over to me.  I smile and wink (I’m not really sure why I would wink at a dog, but I did) and give it the kissing noise that we all do when we see a dog even though I know I’m not supposed to and it comes over and….FREAKS OUT!  I mean it truly went wild.  This once cute and adorable little pup has channeled its inner Rottweiler and transformed into a snarling, howling wolf with rabid like drooling fangs and goes completely ape over my back pack.  So to paint you a mental picture of the situation.  I am standing in the middle of baggage claim and mind you, everyone – including my wife- has stepped away from me forming a circle and is staring at the situation. The conveyor belts have halted providing everyone with ample time and opportunity to witness and partake in “the show”.  The handler with the sweet, children’s television host voice has now become a marine drill sergeant screaming “STEP AWAY FROM THE BAG!  STEP AWAY FROM THE BAG!” as she is trying to restrain the dog with two hands which is foaming at the mouth trying to get at my bag.  

Now I am standing there in shock and horror. First of all the Jekyll and Hyde transformation of the dog completely stupefied me.  In less than 5 seconds my pal Snoopy transforms from “man’s best friend” into a tiny, flea bitten, version of “Cujo” for no apparent reason.  Second, as the guard screams “STEP AWAY FROM THE BAG!  STEP AWAY FROM THE BAG!” the first thing I did was of course is panic, bent down and tried to open the bag.  This was not to defy the lovely security, but was a natural reaction that I couldn’t resist myself from doing.  I mean, I wanted to find out myself what the dog was freaking out about and try and explain my innocence.  Obviously this only made the situation worse.  “I SAID STEP AWAY FROM THE BAG!!” she continues to scream as Cerberus the watchdog of hell with eyes bulging with rage, almost strangling itself on its’ collar while dragging the handler inches closer to me.  Still hovering over my bag, convinced this mutt will rip it to pieces, I hold up one hand in protest and told them “wait, wait” while I searched for the zipper of the bag.   

By now a team of security has leapt out of hiding and is also screaming “SIR, STEP AWAY FROM THE BAG!  LEAVE THE BAG ALONE!”  Looking around, I came to my senses and realized that holding my fingers extended, not leaving the bag alone, etc. has only upset the dog to a point where it has whipped itself up into a frenzy of bouncing and unbridled anger as well as upsetting the nice officers was not the best idea.  Once calming the dog down, they told me to slowly take my bag for inspection.
 

So I bring it over to the examination counter where another guard is waiting.  He puts on his gloves and just stares at me.  No movement.  I have no idea what is going through his mind, what he is thinking about, what is going to happen and the impregnated pause in this situation becomes more and more unbearable.  My mind begins to race with scenarios and possibilities.  “Stay calm” I tell myself “You’ve done nothing wrong and this is a big misunderstanding” Continuing to stare at me, he opens his mouth to begin the interrogation and asks

“Sir, do you SPEAK English?”

*sigh

“Yes, yes I do”

“Then why didn’t STEP AWAY FROM THE BAG WHEN WE TOLD YOU TO?” he demanded

“Well…I was…confused…I mean…the dog…and the…” I began to stammer

Holding up his hand and cutting me off in mid-sentence “sir, let’s just get through this now” and began to slowly and methodically unzip the bag as though he was defusing a bomb. 

You could see the tension in the man’s face as he concentrated on every move.  And while watching him there was this little voice in my head that tried to convince me that it would be funny to scream “Oh God! Don’t touch THAT zipper!” and fall to the floor just to watch the reaction, but then thought I was probably already in enough trouble as it was and would be lucky if I wasn’t arrested and beaten.

As he opens the bag, without looking up he asks me “Sir, did you pack this bag yourself sir?” 

Now panic sets in again.  I did pack the bag myself, but I fell asleep on the plane and anyone could have gone to the overhead compartment and put something in my bag.  This could end up as a scene from “Bangkok Hilton.”  If I answer “yes” I admit my guilt to a crime that I know nothing about, whereas if I answer “no” I am an idiot for not watching my bags and to be honest, do they actually believe you when you say “no”? I think not. I don’t think that border security actually goes on the “honor system” when interrogating people – “Is this your kilo of heroine yours? No? Well then, alright you’re free to go and enjoy Disneyland.”  It just doesn’t happen that way. 

“Why yes, yes I did”

He looks in the bag and looks up at me with a quizzical look, looks back down and looks at me again, but with a disbelief as he pulls a zip lock bag out with a slice of pizza and a piece of chicken.   

 “Is this YOURS?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm

“Yes, yes it is”

“What is this?"

“It’s a slice of pizza and a piece of chicken” obviously

“I know that, but why is it in your bag?”

“Uh…well, I packed it for something to eat”

“Don’t they feed you on the plane?” again with the sarcasm

“Yes, they do, but this was in case I was hungry again or there was delay, layover etc.”

“You CANNOT bring this into the United States.  It is considered contraband”

“Pizza and chicken are considered contraband?  But they’re cooked”

Enunciating every word “They…are…considered…contraband”

“Ok, ok, what happens now? What do you want me to do?” imagining the worse

 “You have to get rid of them”

“Ok. Here you go” handing the bag to him “take it away”

“We can’t do that sir”

“Alright, where’s the dog? I’ll give it to him” freakin’ mutt- I hope he chokes on the chicken bone

“No sir, you can’t do that.  You’ll have to eat it yourself or throw it away”

Now we had a flight to catch, but I was raised to believe that throwing away food was bad.  My grandparents lived through the depression and had instilled this rule in my parents, who properly passed it on to me.    

My wife standing next to me, completely mortified by the incident looks over and hisses “just throw it away and let’s get out of here!”

“No, it is just wrong to throw good food away!”  By the way, this will come back and haunt me in a later story about dining in South Korea...

And so as I ate there in customs while the guards looked on, I kept thinking to myself that next time I’ll just pack a Snickers candy bar (and some dog treats)   

How to deport your wife

Because we had such a good experience at the airport on that first trip, it is now time for another trip.  Actually this time, we decided to go the States and look at graduate schools while there as it was time to grow up and become professionals.  Good plan, good idea.  The only difference from last time was that my wife was 7 months pregnant.

Now for those of you who don’t know, my first wife was not an American - she was from Kazakhstan.  This is important to note, not because she was from Kazakhstan, but because when going through US passport control, there are lines for “foreigners” and lines for “US citizens.”   Obviously the lines for US citizens go much faster as they look that the passport, ask one or two questions and then you go through.  Considering my wife’s situation, I didn’t want her to wait in line too long so I asked the guard if she could come with me. 

“Of course” he smiled and waved us over.  Looking at the passports the guard and I make the usual chit chat about where we were traveling to and from and casually asks me

“So is your wife a citizen?”

“No.  Well, not yet” I replied with a big smile on my face

“Uh oh” he says as he closed the passport WITHOUT stamping it

“Uh oh? Why “uh oh”? Is there something wrong?”

“You said that your wife isn’t a citizen “YET” and to us that means that she will become one while in the States”

“Well…perhaps…I don’t know…so what?

“She has a “tourist visa” and not an “immigrant visa””

“So what?”

 “That means that we cannot allow her into the States on a “tourist visa” after you have just declared that she might be an immigrant”

“Which means…?”

“Which means that she will have to be deported now”

“You’re joking!” as the blood drained from my face and a shock of horror set in

“No sir, please step over to the detention area to process her trip back”

My wife looks over to me and asks “you’re having me deported?”

“No..Wait…” was all I could get out

While we sat in the detention area in disbelief I kept going over the situation in my head.  I was just stupefied (no, no..I was just stupid).  How could this be happening?  So when it was our turn, we walked up to the counter like zombies and the woman looks at my wife and then at me and asks

“Do you speak English?”

“Uh…yes”

“Do you know why you are being deported?”

My wife then looks over and almost gleefully asks “You’re deporting HIM?”

This is the point where I snap out my trance

“Whoa! Wait! I’m the American!  You can’t deport me!”

“Ok, so SHE is the one to be deported, I understand now.  Does she know why she is being deported?”

“Not really”

“Here’s the thing.  The passport control heard that she will be an American citizen and sees that she is only here on tourist visa.  That is illegal and she has to go back to the point of origin and that would be….South Korea”

 “But she isn’t Korean.”

“Well that isn’t really my problem now, is it?”

“Umm..Yeah I suppose it isn’t, but she is also 7 months pregnant”

“Again, that really isn’t my problem either”

“Correct” and “thank you” for your compassion and understanding, “but you and I both know that she has just traveled 16 hours with her American husband and if something happens to her or the baby (which will be an American citizen by birth right!) during the flight back or while in South Korea with the authorities that she will go to the Korean and Kazakh press and state that YOU caused this problem.”  This was a flimsy argument and pretty pathetic reasoning to try and guilt the passport control, but I was desperate at the time.

The woman sighed and looked at the passports. “She has a different family name then you”

“uh..yes, so?”

“Who spoke to passport control?”

“I did. She didn’t say anything to the passport control”

“I assume she speaks English?”

“Correct”

“And YOU spoke for her?”

“Also correct” I sheepishly responded while looking at the floor

“Do you normally speak for others?”

“I was trying to be helpful”

“Well, you’ve done a good job so far, haven’t you?  Is there anything else you’d like to say for her now?”

“No thank you”

Long pause

“Well, given that SHE NEVER made a claim about immigrating, will allow you to go through on the condition that she agrees to leave when the validity of the visa expires, understood?”

“Yes” we dutifully responded.

And we were free to go.

Now, the epilogue to this story is that my wife did have a hearing with INS (Immigration and Naturalization Services) and processed all her documents legally, but by the time we divorced, never became a US citizen and decided to return to Kazakhstan.

Now, having done such a wonderful job with my first wife, let’s move on to my second wife….

GEO

My second wife is a citizen of Georgia, but is now processing documents to become an American and again we decided to visit the United State on holiday.  Again, the port of arrival was not our final destination and we had to catch the connecting flight. 

Our original flight left a bit late, thus we arrived late in the United States, but still had time to make the next flight to Florida if we could get through passport control and customs in a hurry.  Waiting in line was taking too long and I saw that no one is standing in the “American Citizens Only” line and once again, asked the guard if I can bring my wife over to that queue.  He waves us over and we begin the procedure.

“Passports please”

Handed him the passports

“Where you folks traveling from?” without looking up from the passports and computer

“Georgia”

“No, I mean where are coming FROM not where are you going TO” explained very smugly

 “Yes, I know.  We’re coming FROM the “Republic of Georgia””

Clicking away on his computer

“Uh…good, good….where is that?”

“South of Russia”

More clicking…

“hhmmm…we don’t have “Georgia” in the system.  What is the code for “Georgia”?”

You’re asking me?!! “I…uh…don’t know. I suppose it is “GEO” as it says on the passport”

“No, no it’s not.  I tried that and nothing came up”

“Uh...well, how about “Republic of Georgia”, perhaps?” I suggested

More clicking

“No, still nothing”

And so we stood there thinking of possible alternatives for the code.  Minutes pass of more clicking on the computer pass.

I now look behind us and see that a long line is beginning to form.  Unfortunately, an irate “overseer” of passport control – a woman who would have made Himmler’s “Gestapo of the month” list several times over, also notices this and comes over to see what the delay is.

“What’s going on here?” she demands in a marine like manner

“Well, these people are from the Republic of Georgia…” he begins to explain

She then freaked out. “What?!!  What are they doing in THIS line?!  This is only for American citizens!”   Then, turning to me, yells “do you speak English?!  This…is…for…American….Citizens”

“Yes, yes I do.  I AM an American citizen, but my wife is a Georgian citizen.  We’re traveling together”

Turning back to the guard, she yells “well, what’s the problem?!  Hurry up! People are waiting!”

He nervously explained that he can’t find “Georgia” in the computer system and that he was trying different codes. Frozen at attention, I watched this woman’s tirade and was afraid to speak for unleashing her tirade at me.

Looking at the line, us and the passports, the “overseer” is becoming increasingly impatient

“Did you try “Georgia”?”

“Yes”

“Did you try “GEO”?”

“Yes”

“What other names does this country go by?” she asked as glaring at me as though this was all some sort of twisted ruse on my part to test the efficiency of passport control.

“Uh…Sarkhartvelo”

“What?” she asked incredulously “what does THAT mean?”

“It basically means “Georgia” in the Georgian language” Actually, it means “land of the Kharts” (“kharts” being the term of self-identification of a sub-ethnic group in Georgian), but given the moment, I really didn’t think that they were interested in a conversation of ethnographic lexicology and we did have a connecting flight to catch.

“Type that in!” the overseer screams at the guard who is sweating over the computer.

“It’s still not registering!” he cries “it’s not here!”

My wife meanwhile is calmly watching this spectacle: the overseer screaming at the guard and me, the guard in full panic mode trying to type variations of “Georgia” and “Sarkhartvelo” as fast as he can, and me leaning over the counter explaining that my wife can’t be the first person from Georgia and that the country HAS to be there.  My wife then says to me in Russian “Tell him “Gruzia” (the Russian word for “Georgia”).  Dismissing the comment, I ruefully explain to her that this is a US system not Russian, but to humor her I casually translate her suggestion to the guard.  “Gruzia!” pphhff…why would “Gruzia”- a Russian word be in the US computer system?  Georgia was an independent country.  A staunch ally of the United States and in fierce opposition to Russian influence in the region.  There is NO way that it would be…S.O.B! It was there! “GRZ”!  The passport has GEO on it, but the code is really GRZ!  We stood there screaming at each other for 15 minutes! Created a line that was forming like an angry mob behind us and for this?! How anti-climatic!

A hush falls over the counter.  The overseer, the guard and I just stand there looking at the computer. 

Her passport is stamped. “Welcome to America Mrs. DuPont” he sheepishly says handing her passport over “Sorry for the inconvenience…” as his sentence quietly trailed off.  My wife, seizes the moment with a bit of theatrical flair just stares at us with a look of “hmm…yes, thanks for your help,” rolled her eyes and walked off through customs.

In terms of physical distance, the flight across the Atlantic was shorter than our connecting flight in the United States, yet time wise sitting next to my wife who was not responding to my “that was pretty funny wasn’t it?” and “kinda cool how you solved the problem” comments, the flight seems interminably longer.  Eventually, as I sat there looking up at the under part of the overhead compartment, I heard my wife say with eyes focused on her magazine “so…travel a lot, do you?”