Flashback: Paris, October 2004

Back in Paris… Monday evening…

Arriving from Amsterdam, 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.” [In English: “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 these guys are perfume salesmen.]

“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 of the Planets’ Places. The symbolism of this is not lost on me. I reach into the same pouch again and produce my passport and take back the booklet-sized ephemeris. They look it over and get busy on my bags. My passport has been through flood and I often carry it in my back pocket. Verging on falling apart, it’s an object of curiosity. I am always envious of these people whose passports look like they carry them in a gold box.

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 dress shirt, and 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, pinpoint Oxford style. I’m not sure if this particular combination is in their cop manual.

“Where were you?”

“Amsterdam.” They know where the train has come in from — the naughtiest place in Europe.

“What were you doing there?”

“Visiting a friend” [this is the only right answer to that question, ever].

“Do you take drugs?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.” [They are just being thorough of course, in case you happen to 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. It’s a game and we both know it. I know they’re looking for something that they aren’t sure is there, and I am sure isn’t there.

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 gloves and cool uniforms 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.

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?”

“Put it all here,” on top of a bag they’re done searching.

Out comes all my stuff: bits of this and that, souvenirs, a lot of pens. They’re 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.

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.

Then the sergeant has one last question before I’m admitted to 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.