Advice to Passengers
Logan Airport, Boston, 2008
The customs officer stopped me as I was wheeling my luggage out of baggage reclaim.
RECOMMENDATION #1: Don’t make eye contact.
-Can I see your passport?
I handed it over, along with the declaration form. The man was stocky, thick-necked, with a buzz cut.
-What’s your profession?
-Journalist. Well, writer. Novelist. Actually aspiring novelist to be precise ’cause I haven’t yet—
-Please step over there, he said, writing “aspiaring novelist’ on the form.
RECOMMENDATION #2: If possible, don’t say you’re a journalist. And never say you’re aspiring to anything.
After asking if I brought any cigarettes, alcohol, etc., he began searching my bags. I assumed he was looking for undeclared goods, but he mostly leafed through my notes and random papers. It seemed an outrageous (though legal, I later learned) invasion of privacy, but I put on a cheerful face. I’d packed a military uniform from my Cypriot conscription and didn’t want to get on his bad side.
-What’s this?
He held up a glass jar of what looked like furry insects packed in lard.
-It’s something my mom gave me… to help with thinning hair. It’s a blend of pig fat and, I think, fiddleheads (my mother later corrected me that it was burdock root).
He held the jar up to the light.
-Pig fat? And what?
I repeated myself.
-What are fiddleheads?
-Green ferns with curled heads. They’re good steamed.
He continued to stare at it.
-Is your dad bald?
-No.
-Then what’re you worried about?
-I’m not worried. But, anyway, baldness comes from the mother’s side.
RECOMMENDATION #3: Don’t correct unless absolutely necessary.
He didn’t answer right away.
-We’ll have to get this checked out, he said finally, setting the jar aside. You grew up in Maine?
-Mostly.
-Where?
-Stillwater… Old Town. It’s near Bangor.
-How’d you end up there?
-My dad teaches at U. Maine in Orono.
-What’s he teach?
-Sociology.
I didn’t mention that he teaches a class on political violence and terrorism.
-I’ve been to Orono a few times. It’s boring as shit. I went to UNH.
Life clearly was more exciting in Logan Airport, where he could pry through passengers’ belongings and life details.
He glanced at a few newspaper cutouts on Sarah Palin. Maybe he interpreted them as fan clippings, rather than research for some satire I was working on, because he asked no questions. Thankfully, I had yet to print some satirical digital images I had of her.
Next, he retrieved a stack of plastic cards bound by elastic.
-What are these?
-Frequent flyer cards.
-How many have you got—?
-Too many.
He paused.
-Where’d you say you worked as a journalist?
-In Cyprus. Nicosia, the capital.
-You Cypriot?
-Yeah.
-You have a Cypriot passport?
I was hoping this wouldn’t come up. I’d always taken my father’s advice to not show my Cypriot passport in the U.S. to avoid any possible hassles over dual citizenship.
-Yes.
-Can I see it?
He wasn’t bothered by my Cypriot citizenship. My army exit permit was also in my passport wallet, but he didn’t search there. Not that it mattered. The next thing he found was my army boots. He pulled them out.
-These comfortable?
-Not really.
-So why do you have ’em?
Several possibilities flashed through my mind: “It’s my Halloween costume” … “It’s camouflage for duck hunting” … “I’m into fetish.” But one whiff of deception and I’d be in for it. Hence the most essential piece of advice, unless of course you’re a criminal:
RECOMMENDATION #4: Don’t lie, unless your lie is irrefutable.
-They’re my army boots. I had to do a three-month stint in the Cypriot National Guard.
I emphasized the mandatory nature of the conscription. I once read online that anyone who has served in a foreign military could, in some circumstances, be stripped of U.S. citizenship. Fortunately, he didn’t seem bothered. In fact, his questions about my army time looked to be more out of personal interest than procedural. I may have even gained some respectability in his eyes. He glanced at my army pants, jacket, and cap.
-I brought them in case I go hunting, I piped in, probably too hastily. Though I suppose these tan colors are no good for Maine—
-Makes no difference. Camo is camo.
He continued searching. The next object of interest was a ziplock of tablets.
-What are these?
-Pills for toenail fungus.
-For what?
-Toenail fungus.
-Did you get that in the army?
-No.
-Does it hurt?
-No.
-So what’s the problem?
-The fungus makes your nails thick and ugly. It’s hell to get rid of. I tried everything. Only problem is the pills can damage your liver.
-If you want to damage your liver, why don’t you just drink?
-I do that too.
I detected a faint smile. I grinned too. I was relieved that serving in a foreign armed force and bringing my boots and fatigues to the U.S. was a non-issue. But it was my writing that would concern him.
-What’s this? he asked, pointing to a paper on which several lobster claws resembling the number four were sketched out.
-It’s for my website. I’m designing a logo.
-Website. What for?
-I post monthly essays.
It was the start of the darkening of our relations.
He clearly felt he was onto something, because he started reading every note scrap, possibly trying to sus out any Cyprus-hatched plot to attack America. This wasn’t any customs official. This was an agent of the highest order, a Beautiful Mind of Homeland Security.
And what eagerness to read my work! Seriously though, most publishers and agents lacked his good taste.
His demeanor grew increasingly severe. Apparently, my scribbles were suspiciously seditious. He was encountering scraps of paper upon which I’d brainstormed characters with phrases like “kill ’em off at end.”
He handed me a sheet upon which a red pen had leaked, giving it an air of violent subversion.
-What’s this? I can’t read it.
I could barely read the terrorist scrawl myself.
we ingest we fornicate we expire
we eat we fuck we die
we dine we make love we pass away
such are the ways of the world
select your preference.
-I don’t know, I replied. Pseudo-poetry gibberish I wrote a decade or so ago.
My answer only intensified his distrust. His expression hardened.
-So what work will you be doing in Maine?
-Oh, random jobs… lobstering, carpentry, roadwork… anything to support my writing.
RECOMMENDATION #5: Don’t say you do “random jobs.” It suggests vagrancy, shiftlessness, a questionable background. Pick one line of work and stick to it.
He held out a large plastic bag of loose tea.
-What’s this?
-Black tea from Western Kenya. Some kids were selling it roadside. I went last year to cover the Archbishop of Kenya—
RECOMMENDATION #6: Never volunteer information. Brief responses lead to fewer questions.
-What newspaper were you working at?
-Cyprus Mail. It’s the island’s only English-language daily.
-What’d you write about?
-Mostly local stories as well as some national politics—
RECOMMENDATION #7: Avoid the word “politics.”
Were you writing any editorials?
-Not really. Just a few on the lack of public transport in Cyprus.
I wisely thought not to mention my op-eds on European perceptions of the U.S. I was slowly realizing that dealing with customs officers is like running coal stoves: the less you meddle, the smoother the process.
RECOMMENDATION #8: Whatever requires elaboration is best left unsaid, even when it seems to your advantage.
He paused to type something up and then resumed his search. He soon discovered another piece of damning evidence.
-What’s this mean?
He was pointing to the word “Creed,” which I had circled, under which was written, “To hell with going to publishers – let publishers come to you.”
Any lingering bemusement in me had by now turned to exasperation.
-Look, it’s just an idea for an online writing project. I’m trying to do something different. You get fed up with rejections and publishers, especially when you see the crap they print every year.
I was starting to lose respect for myself for even answering.
-You’re not starting some underground thing, are you?
-No, I’m not starting an underground thing!
In his mind he saw angry editorials denouncing the American infidels, he saw Greek Cypriot mullahs (who apparently forgot they were Orthodox Christians) issuing fatwas to kill Americans, he saw shiftless “aspiaring novelists” infiltrating the U.S. to spawn movements with Credos that called for god-knows-what underground actions against “publishers.” This guy could crack the terror codes. He knew what I was up to, all right. He’d surely already checked my history for any connections to Bill Ayers and other such notorious ringleaders of international evil.
(Sidenote: ironically enough, a few years later at a Nicosia Starbucks, I struck up a conversation with an American guy who happened to be sitting at the same communal table. It turned out to be Bill Ayers.)
The search didn’t last much longer. He had one more question.
-What’s this? he asked, pointing to the word “Milkweed.”
-Milkweed? It’s a publisher.
The answer satisfied him.
-You can pack your things back up. I’ve just got to get this checked out and I’ll be right back, he said, holding up the jar of pig fat and burdock root.
As he was walking off, he turned around.
-What’d you say this was again?
-Pig fat and fiddleheads. Feel free to confiscate it. You’d do me a favor. Would you want to rub that in your hair?
He walked off.
It was then I realized what he was getting at with “Milkweed.” The ‘weed’ had caught his interest. He had to investigate a potential terrorism / drug trafficking connection. If the mujahideen funded terror operations with opium, didn’t it follow that I might fund my underground subterfuge with grass?
I’ve been told Logan Airport Customs is especially strict as it doesn’t want to find itself with another catastrophic 9/11-style breach of airport security. But the outlandish search I underwent also surely had something to do with seven years of the Patriot Act. The wiretapping, the surveillance, the expansion of executive power, the targeting of innocents, the chilling of free speech, the lack of judicial oversight, the undisclosed seizures and internments, the indefinite detentions without trial, the Inquisitional approach towards interrogation… these all had left their corrosive mark.
Or maybe the man just harbored a centuries-old (and, to be fair, warranted) suspicion of writers.
The customs officer returned after a few minutes with the jar in hand.
-I’ve got some bad news for you, he said. I’m sorry to say you’re going to have to take this with you.
His delivery was deadpan. Touché.
I took the jar and headed for the exit.
I didn’t intend to suggest that you could become pals because he’s boring... 😅Obviously you’re far from boring.
This makes me smile and giggle immensely.