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." [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. 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 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 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. 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].
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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