Whenever I travel internationally I always have this horrible panic session as soon as the plane lands...and for all I know it may be rooted in my childhood when my family would make me hide chorizo in my luggage. I was never really sure how wrong it was smuggling chorizo, but I had a hunch.
So apparently I look dodgy. You know, like a liar. A criminal. The kind that uses the last of the toilet paper but doesn't tell anyone. The customs lady in the Glasgow airport had a hunch I had used the last of the toilet paper sometime, somewhere...leaving somebody stranded, panicked, searching for something else to use.
Lady: Why are you coming into Glasgow?
Me: I'm visiting.
Lady: For how long?
Me: A week.
Lady: To do what?
Me: To visit!
Lady: What are you going to do while you're here?
Me: (what kind of fucking question is that. The same shit all other tourists do. You live here...you should know) uh...things. I'm gonna see things.
She escorted me (along with a guard) into a tiny interrogation room lit by horrid fluorescent lights. She questioned me further then left, locking me in behind her so she could corroborate my story. She looked through my wallet. Read through my notepad. Inspected my CDs, asked me how much money I had in the bank, who I lived with in the states. I couldn't be quite sure – maybe she was looking for a date.
She was gone 15 maybe 20 minutes, giving me enough time to figure out an escape plane. She would come back and look through the small window but not find me. I would hide behind the door and soon as she opened it to inspect my whereabouts, I would knock her over and run. RUN. I would hop on the train and go to Spain where I would hide with my grandmother somewhere in the mountains.
My mom has this horrible habit of making telemarketers regret they called. She shares way too much information. Unnecessary information and then keeps them on the line longer than they really would like to be. I hate that habit and I was embarrassed when I discovered it was hereditary.
Customs lady came back and asked me why I had only gotten a one year passport. There were many honest reasons I could have given. It was cheaper. I'm receiving my European Union passport shortly. I don't need a 5 year passport.
But instead I gave her the dumbest one. Although an honest one, dumb.
Me: Because to get a five-year Mexican passport I have to get my Mexican military card. And to get a Military card I have to be clean shaven. I didn't want to shave my beard!
Why was it her business that I like sporting a beard and that without one I look like a 12-year-old girl? Regardless, she finally let me in with a special stamp. I was on some watch list to make sure I left the country when I told her I would.
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