Mind the Gap

I should have known better. The thing is I’d convinced myself, that there was something special between us. I thought that years of shared history, common values and habits meant that we had something unique. True, I don’t always understand what you’re saying, but still. Sniff. Clearly I was wrong! It’s you, not me. Cuba never treats me this way, North Vietnam was nothing but polite. Formal, agonizingly meticulous, and painfully slow, but gracious.

So why the heck do I always get thoroughly grilled in UK customs? I have a U.S passport, a Swiss “legitimacy card,” and a diplomatic passport to substantiate that I am who I say I am and that I’ve never been convicted.

Mind you, I submit to full body scans (including retinas), standard video and photo recording, I disrobe nearly completely and patiently wait for the people in front of me going through security who somehow missed the signs every three feet about NO LIQUIDS MORE THAN 3 OUNCES and yet are still trying to convince the security guard that their oversized bottle of Aqua Net qualifies as a medical necessity.

Well, “patiently” is perhaps a gross exaggeration in the interests of dramatic effect (Lady, it’s NOT aerosolized insulin or breast milk, and as a doctor, it is my medical opinion that you shut your pie hole and move it along), but nonetheless I cheerfully submit to a variety of intrusive procedures because that is what we all signed up for. Security is important. I get it.

I don’t quite understand how what is happening at the United Kingdom’s border is making the skies any friendlier however.

My first two trips to England, I thought maybe the custom official was having a bad day, but this last trip confirmed my suspicion that it’s systematic.

After enduring the Easy Jet cattle stampede off the plane, I waited in the “All other Passports” line, landing card filled out in neat block letters, assorted identifications in hand. Finally, it was my turn.

I promptly walked over to the counter where the dour faced man waited. The straw colored wisps of his hair that remained were clinging frantically to the smooth surface of his egg shaped pate at awkward angles. The front row of his teeth overlapped each other and protruded forward over his lip inquisitively. He’d be a great mascot for the Oregon State Beavers.

I smiled, and slid my papers across the countertop to him.
“Look at the camera!” he barked. I nodded and blinked as a rapid fire series of digital pictures were taken. I caught a glimpse on the computer screen. Good lord; the pictures are about as flattering as those taken by speed cameras. I looked like a half wit with a good hair day.

“Why are you in England?”
“I’m here to visit a friend, she just had a baby.”
“How long are you staying for? Where does your friend live? How do you know her? How long have you known her?”
“I’m here for four days, they live on X Road, and we went to high school together.”
“High school? In the United States? Why is she living here? What does she do? What does her husband do?”

I wasn’t entirely sure what this had to do with national security, but I explained nonetheless. I even more or less managed to describe what my friend’s thesis was on. I was confused. Is this some sort of interrogatory tactic where he would pester me with a range of random social questions, then would sneak one in about terrorist activities? I was envisioning the scene from Austin Powers, where he asked the spy the same question three times, before he finally revealed all.

Oh my god.
The customs official let loose with a racking cough and exposed me to a full view of incisors one through forty two, soft and hard palate. Was that a fungus growing on his teeth? Is that even possible? Maybe I shouldn’t drink the water here. Maybe his mom took doxycycline while she was pregnant with him?

He interrupted these medical musings to ask if my friend had delivered a boy or a girl. Hmm. Maybe their technique is more sophisticated than Dr. Evil! I glanced around. Were video cameras and heart rate monitors measuring pupil dilation, tachycardia and body language to identify liars and thus potential terrorists?

He stopped me after I gave the baby’s gender, birth weight, length and APGARS. Dang, I was really looking forward to taking him through a c-section, but seriously, my ride was waiting, and if we chatted much longer he was going to need to buy me a drink.

“Why do you live in Switzerland? How long have you lived there? What do you do for work?”

I hesitated. I don’t mind the body scans and property searches, but it just never seems like a good idea to tell the truth to authority figures. Possibly this is the result of hiding from Officer Mann on his stealthy Schwinn during my misspent youth, or more likely it’s from having a lot of friends who are lawyers. Nonetheless, I was already half way concerned I was going to get pulled into solitary for a prolonged chat with British customs. I eschewed a more creative response and stuck with the truth.

“I moved to Switzerland six months ago for a job. I’m a doctor with the World Health Organization.”

“What kind of nursing do you do?”

“None. I’m a surgeon.” I delivered this last line with a minor challenge issued by my shoulders and a firm glance into his pale, ferret shaped eyes.
Stamp, stamp.

“Welcome to England.”