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| Me and my Beard in Prague. |
A few years ago, I was in Prague as a keynote speaker for a conference on branding Experiential Destinations. One of our associate creative directors, Kyle, was with me and he bought his father an old Russian Navy hat. I think it was for an admiral or something. I would often forget I even had the beard, or at least how it made me look. I tried the hat on in the store and the guy working there was quite tickled.
When we got to a bar, I had Kyle put it on so I could take his picture. He insisted on taking a few of me. There's not that many pictures of me in the world to begin with, because I'm usually the one taking the pictures. But these I like.
When I returned to the States, I cleared customs in Philadelphia. Or at least that's where I tried to clear customs.
I had been getting harassed by the US Department of Homeland Security with more frequency than my lifestyle or occupation would seem to dictate. I would get asked if I had worked with any NGO's. Or if I'd been in the military. When they learned that I was in advertising, I was asked if I worked on the Harley Davidson account. I'm not shitting you.
So this tall, chrome dome Gestapo character comes over the Kyle and I as we're getting our bags off the belt. I had my cameras with me and they were packed in a big, bright, yellow Pelican case. It's not subtle.
He came over, demanded so see our passports with not so much as a smile or a hint of courtesy. Clearly he enjoyed his job even though he'd obviously been unable to make it into the military or the police force.
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I realize that this last one is a little fey, but I included it anyway. More like the Gay Russian. |
He began asking us questions and while I was answering one of them, he put his hand up and asked me to step back. I hadn't moved a muscle. I thought, "What the hell does he think I'm going to do here? He's armed and is wearing body armor. I'm wearing flip flops. Not to mention that I'd have to make it past a few dozen Homeland Security guys, a few dozen Philadelphia Police officers, and about a mile of airport terminal before reaching the outside.
I was tired and irritable. We hadn't flown business class, so I'd been stuck in coach, sitting up and NOT sleeping. Not to mention that it had been like 13 hours since I'd had a cigarette. I really wasn't in the mood for this.
It took Kyle about 20 minutes. Not me. My guy took his time. He went through every single thing I had with me. Unscrewing pens. Unzipping the liner of the suitcase. Questioning me about how much money I had on me then making me write it down. Then when he found a bunch of traveler's cheques I'd had in my bag since a trip to Costa Rica the year before, he wanted to know why I hadn't told him about them.
"Dude, I don't spend this kind of time going through my own bag," I told him. "That key you found a minute ago? I didn't even know I still had that."
I also had too many cigarettes.
You can get a lot of good deals at Duty Free. Actually, that's really not true. For the four bucks off your bottle of rum, I'd rather not have to hoof it through the airport. But smokes! They are a bargain.
I was buying two cartons and the guy there convinced me that if I bought one more, I could get two free. I really didn't want to carry that much but the guy was so insistent that I take advantage of this good deal. I thought, what the hell.
What I didn't realize is that they're happy to sell you five cartons of cigarettes for you to take wherever it is you're going. Even though you probably aren't even allowed to enter the other country with that many cigarettes. And they definitely don't want you entering with more than two cartons.
I had more than two cartons.
"I bought these here!" I told him. "Like three hundred yards from here. Why do they sell a five carton box if you're not even allowed to have them?"
But the piéce de résistance was when he found a small business envelope that contained four or five miscellaneous pills. Shit. Now this was just getting ridiculous.
Six months before this, I'd been set to go to Los Angeles for two weeks to direct a photoshoot and a television commercial. The day before I was to leave, my back when out. Badly. I couldn't stand up straight. I had to take a car service to the airport, request a wheelchair, and board the aircraft first. By the way, this is not a bad way to travel. Before I left one of my wife's friends gave me a muscle relaxant (or something), which I didn't take because while I know what vodka will do to me, I don't trust pills.
After a few chiropractor visits in LA and I was good as new, but before that happened, my set designer's wife gave me a few more pills, which I didn't take.
Now not one of these pills was identical and I couldn't have told you what any of them were. But there they were. In an envelope. In my bag.
After I explained all this, a supervisor had come over to find out why I had been there for two hours. He dismissed the envelope of drugs and threw them in the trash. He dismissed the cigarettes. He said, he's fine and walked away.
By now the DICK that had been searching through my stuff saying things like, "Now sir, I'm going to open this bag. If there's anything I need to know about, now is the time to tell me."
Really? If I had oh, say a kilo of heroin in my bag, or a Burmese python, is it really going to matter if I tell him, or he finds it on his own? Well, maybe with the python.
"Look. You've got me and everything I'm traveling with. I don't have over $10,000 so whether I have two nickels or $2,000 it doesn't matter. I'm not carrying drugs, illegal contraband or lizards. You have to do your job and look through everything, then go ahead.
After we'd packed all my shit back up, he told me to have a nice Father's Day. And that's how I spent my Father's Day that year.
Thanks Patriot Act!
