I consider this my first blog, from October 2004. It’s actually my second one. We’re going to try a project of posting an archive piece every evening at 6 pm or so.
BACK IN PARIS, Monday evening, Oct. 3, 2004…Arriving at Gare du Nord from Amsterdam, the place I go to play in Europe, I waited till the crowds had passed and was one of the last people to get off the train. Striding along the platform I was stopped by a group of cops, who announced that they were with the French Customs Service.
[In French.] “Do you speak French?”
[In French.] “A little.” [I would prefer to have this kind of discussion in English.]
[In decent English.] “Do you have more than 7,000 euros or its U.S. equivalent? Or tobacco, alcohol or anything else to declare?”
“Nothing like that.” [I don’t mention all my new bandannas, eight of them, hard-to-find perfectly square ones, including several new shades of pink.]
“Do you mind if we search your bags?” [Very friendly and polite for cops. Compared to the Canadian border police, who once read my diary while I waited, these guys are like perfume salesmen. It’s Paris after all.]
“Not at all.”
“What country are you from?”
“United States.”
“Can we see your passport?”
“Sure.” I reach into my laptop case and — not kidding, really by accident — hand the guy a copy of Raphael’s Ephemeris. The symbolism of this is not lost on me. Oops, I reach into the same pouch again and produce my passport and take back the little booklet. They look the passport over and get busy on my bags. It has been through flood and I often carry it in my back pocket. I am always envious of these people whose passports look like they carry them in a padded gold box. They are probably envious of me.
Meanwhile, I’m about the last person off the train, so there’s not a line behind me. This affords me a higher level of service.
“What do you do?”
“Writer.” I had them my official press identification. Occasionally it is good for something.
“Who do you write for?” I start listing countries where my columns run, leaving horoscopes out of the story. Now, I know how cops profile, and I’m a little difficult to peg this way. I look like a morph between part early middle-aged touch of gray wearing a starched pressed dress shirt, part wood elf and part hippie-kid, wearing one yellow glove and one orange glove on either hand. Pink scarf. My official photos are suitable for White House credentials, starched and pressed. People always seem to know I’m a journalist, however. I’m not sure if this particular combination is in their cop manual.
“Where were you?”
“Amsterdam.”
“What were you doing?”
“Visiting a friend.” [This is the only right answer to that question, ever.] [Note in 2008: The “visit with a friend” made a fine essay in Book of Blue several years later.]
“Do you take drugs?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.” [They are just being thorough of course, in case you change your mind in the three-second interval between the two inquiries. Some cops will ask you four or five times hoping you change your mind.]
“Would you empty your pockets?”
“Sure.” I begin to empty my pockets with a kind of eager enthusiasm. (I always know exactly, precisely what is in my pockets.) Remember that in such moments, as “friendly” as they are, you’re supposed to be apprehensive; you, after all, are alone, and there’s a whole crew of them, looking very official with black leather gloves and cool uniforms and nifty guns and very much in control. Searching your most private objects. This puts the squeeze on the potentially guilty. A lot of psychology is involved in police work and good cops take pride in this part of the job. While they do all of this this, I’m keeping track of who has my passport and watching the bag search with one eye, looking at the cop questioning me with the other, answering his questions. They are scrutinizing me as I do this. It’s kind of fun.
I pass them my leather jacket for them to have a go at, ask them where they want all the stuff from my pockets, with the slight insinuation that they should be more organized.
“Do you have a box of some kind?” I ask.
“Put it all here,” on top of a bag they’re done searching.
They are curious about the homeopathic remedies I’m carrying. I say they are homeopathic remedies, which the French have actually heard of; American security agents treat these little tubes of sugar pellets with labels written in Latin like they’re potential long-range artillery.
Just to be on the thorough side, one guy frisks me. There is always a curious intimacy to this experience that nobody is supposed to notice.
They reassemble all my stuff, give me back everything, and thank me for my cooperation. It’s a sincere thank you. Nobody has noticed that my visa expired months ago.
Then the sergeant has one last question before I’m admitted to Ville de Paris.
“Who are you voting for, Bush or Kerry?” There’s a twinkle in his eye.
I smile. “Kerry.”
“Thank you for your cooperation,” the sergeant says again.
“Thanks, guys.” I flash them the peace sign as I walk away.
I remember these early blog entries from the first time around. Boy, does this bring back memories. Certainly has been been a lot of water under the bridge since then.
ha@ visa expiry ;p {so sayeth the foreign born resident who is usually stuck in boxes and sprayed with stuff at airports these days for security}
Still love that story, hilarious! I’ve noticed myself when one has no fear and is genuinely, casually friendly with cops that most of the time they’re actually human! I’ve even had the pleasure of sharing some artwork, books, and “spirited” socio-political-militaristic conversations with ’em! Just NEVER, EVER get fresh (even in jest) with an exceptionally homophobic cop! You may end up on the ground, face pressed into concrete, with a knee digging hard into your back, with your arms being twisted behind you in ways they weren’t meant to bend!? Honestly, it’s “possible” (especially if he’s a tad bit smaller than you). But, lessons are always there for the learnin’!
I do dig the flashbacks, keep ’em comin’.
jere