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.