I'm in New York City.
Monday morning, the day after the election, I woke up at five-thirty AM to wash up, eat breakfast, and check to see who had won. Being a genius, I had a delicious chicken schwarma sitting in the fridge waiting for me to nuke it. I housed the sandwich as I poured over the results. Hizballah had lost and the pro-Western faction had won.
My roommate's buddy had crashed on couch. Last night, he said he would be going home to sleep, but the near empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the coffee table told me all I needed to know. He was still awake, so I slapped him five and I headed downstairs to catch my cab.
As we drove to the airport the streets were deserted, save for a few weary-eyed soldiers who had been on duty all night. I made it to the airport with no hassle from the cab driver.
I was on my way to New York via Paris, and I got stuck with a seven hour layover that I somehow missed when I was originally booking my flight. However, some friends of mine just happened to be in Paris for the week, so I decided to make the best of a bad situation and meet them for lunch.
I had been to Paris a couple of years before, that time it was in March. I had a great time, but the weather was absolute shit and I was looking forward to a more summer-like atmosphere. No such luck. The weather was rainy and cold (whaaaa, I'm in Paris for the afternoon and the weather isn't perfect, whaaaaa). Whatever, but it's true.
Anyway, so I met my friends who were maybe mildly tipsy from a morning wine tasting. They weren't hungry, apparently they had filled up on a bunch of cheese somewhere, but I was. I got this wonderful ham, egg and cheese sandwich and a coke. When the bill came, the coke turned out to be 4.80 euros, about six bucks. Fucking French.
After lunch, I had a look around. By this time it had stopped raining and I checked out Notre Dame (always impressive) and the banks of the Sienne. Feeling fortunate to live this jet set life, but otherwise cold and soggy, I made my way back to Charles DeGaulle airport, as I wanted to leave plenty of time for myself.
A friend once said, "I've never caught a train that I didn't have to run to catch", but that just isn't me. If I am fifteen minutes early then I am on time, and if I am just on time, then I am late.
I made it back to the airport with plenty of time to spare. The dicks at passport control gave me guff because I look so different from my passport photo. I have lost some weight and I am now clean-shaven, but it's obviously me.
The has happened before. In Vietnam,the immigration guy called over his superior when I got there. The guy looked like a colonel or something. He was holding my passport and was very seriously saying over and over again, "this man fat, this man fat!". I don't know any Vietnamese, but I just maintained a looked that translated to, "look pal, it's me". After I didn't flinch or look nervous for a few seconds he relented. He gave me back my passport and sent me on my way.
It happened again at the Syrian border, and eventually they relented. And eventually these guys at the Paris airport relented. "Are you sure this is you?" they asked. "Are you sure this is me?" I responded. By now, I know the drill and I am comfortable in the situation. If I didn't get rejected or stuffed in jail in Syria or Vietnam for not looking like my passport photo, then certainly nothing was gonna happen here in France. My passport expires in three years anyway, so I can deal until then.
The flight to NYC was uneventful. I fell asleep immediately. Two hours into the flight, I woke up for dinner and a scotch on the rock (one ice cube), then I fell even more asleep. Six hours later I was landing in New York, greeted by the same shit weather as Paris. I should expect this from France, but not in my own country. It's June for God's sake. It's even worse coming from Beirut, where its 85 and sunny every damn day. So this is some fine welcome home weather, but what are you gonna do? The world doesn't revolve around me, and certainly neither does the weather.
It would have been nice to come back to warmth and sun, but the dank gloom better matches the discomforting uncertainty I face right now. I am almost thirty, and I find myself unemployed in this shitty economy. I am not sure what I am gonna do. Hopefully I can get a good job in Iraq. I like the Middle East and I could continue to improve my Arabic there. Also, the jobs are supposed to pay really well and the work would sure be interesting. At least I would have plenty of stuff to post for this blog of mine. But I am not sure. I will be looking for a job this summer and I will continue to write for this as long as I have anything remotely interesting to say. (Hell, even if I don't.)
Anyway, at passport control here in the States, they didn't even blink. He stamped it and I went on through to customs, where things were not so smooth. On my customs declaration card, I wrote that I was in Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan. The lady who took the card asked me why I was there. "For fun", I said with a grin. "For three months? Go see that guy over there" she responded sternly.
"That guy over there" asked me all kinds of stuff. Half the time it sounded like he was generally interested in my answers, but the other half it just seemed like he was checking to see if I knew details of my trip. "Would you put your bag up here sir and open it up?" My bag was packed to the gills, but I didn't have a choice. "You've been searched before, is that correct sir?" Obviously it's correct, it's on your computer screen.
I was searched before, coming back from a five months in Southeast Asia and India. They gave me the third degree that day, but its hard to blame them. I had long hair, a three day beard, I was wearing ratty clothes and sun glasses- in the airport. I am pretty sure that if you wanted to look like a heroine smuggler for Halloween, you would wear this exact same thing.
But I wasn't smuggling anything that day, today, or any day, so I had nothing to worry about. Starting to get a little frustrated with the treatment I was getting in my own country, I looked at the customs official and said in a respectful but serious tone, "the government don't like it much when people get to travellin', huh?". He was caught off guard by this, and in response he mumbled something about how the government likes it just fine when people travel, and that it was just unusual was all. He told me to put my stuff back together and be on my way.
So I am in New York right now sitting in a friend's apartment. I had a hell of a time living in Beirut these last few months, and I know I am extremely lucky for the opportunity to do so. I am excited to see my family and friends again, but as always, its weird to be back.
Monday morning, the day after the election, I woke up at five-thirty AM to wash up, eat breakfast, and check to see who had won. Being a genius, I had a delicious chicken schwarma sitting in the fridge waiting for me to nuke it. I housed the sandwich as I poured over the results. Hizballah had lost and the pro-Western faction had won.
My roommate's buddy had crashed on couch. Last night, he said he would be going home to sleep, but the near empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the coffee table told me all I needed to know. He was still awake, so I slapped him five and I headed downstairs to catch my cab.
As we drove to the airport the streets were deserted, save for a few weary-eyed soldiers who had been on duty all night. I made it to the airport with no hassle from the cab driver.
I was on my way to New York via Paris, and I got stuck with a seven hour layover that I somehow missed when I was originally booking my flight. However, some friends of mine just happened to be in Paris for the week, so I decided to make the best of a bad situation and meet them for lunch.
I had been to Paris a couple of years before, that time it was in March. I had a great time, but the weather was absolute shit and I was looking forward to a more summer-like atmosphere. No such luck. The weather was rainy and cold (whaaaa, I'm in Paris for the afternoon and the weather isn't perfect, whaaaaa). Whatever, but it's true.
Anyway, so I met my friends who were maybe mildly tipsy from a morning wine tasting. They weren't hungry, apparently they had filled up on a bunch of cheese somewhere, but I was. I got this wonderful ham, egg and cheese sandwich and a coke. When the bill came, the coke turned out to be 4.80 euros, about six bucks. Fucking French.
After lunch, I had a look around. By this time it had stopped raining and I checked out Notre Dame (always impressive) and the banks of the Sienne. Feeling fortunate to live this jet set life, but otherwise cold and soggy, I made my way back to Charles DeGaulle airport, as I wanted to leave plenty of time for myself.
A friend once said, "I've never caught a train that I didn't have to run to catch", but that just isn't me. If I am fifteen minutes early then I am on time, and if I am just on time, then I am late.
I made it back to the airport with plenty of time to spare. The dicks at passport control gave me guff because I look so different from my passport photo. I have lost some weight and I am now clean-shaven, but it's obviously me.
The has happened before. In Vietnam,the immigration guy called over his superior when I got there. The guy looked like a colonel or something. He was holding my passport and was very seriously saying over and over again, "this man fat, this man fat!". I don't know any Vietnamese, but I just maintained a looked that translated to, "look pal, it's me". After I didn't flinch or look nervous for a few seconds he relented. He gave me back my passport and sent me on my way.
It happened again at the Syrian border, and eventually they relented. And eventually these guys at the Paris airport relented. "Are you sure this is you?" they asked. "Are you sure this is me?" I responded. By now, I know the drill and I am comfortable in the situation. If I didn't get rejected or stuffed in jail in Syria or Vietnam for not looking like my passport photo, then certainly nothing was gonna happen here in France. My passport expires in three years anyway, so I can deal until then.
The flight to NYC was uneventful. I fell asleep immediately. Two hours into the flight, I woke up for dinner and a scotch on the rock (one ice cube), then I fell even more asleep. Six hours later I was landing in New York, greeted by the same shit weather as Paris. I should expect this from France, but not in my own country. It's June for God's sake. It's even worse coming from Beirut, where its 85 and sunny every damn day. So this is some fine welcome home weather, but what are you gonna do? The world doesn't revolve around me, and certainly neither does the weather.
It would have been nice to come back to warmth and sun, but the dank gloom better matches the discomforting uncertainty I face right now. I am almost thirty, and I find myself unemployed in this shitty economy. I am not sure what I am gonna do. Hopefully I can get a good job in Iraq. I like the Middle East and I could continue to improve my Arabic there. Also, the jobs are supposed to pay really well and the work would sure be interesting. At least I would have plenty of stuff to post for this blog of mine. But I am not sure. I will be looking for a job this summer and I will continue to write for this as long as I have anything remotely interesting to say. (Hell, even if I don't.)
Anyway, at passport control here in the States, they didn't even blink. He stamped it and I went on through to customs, where things were not so smooth. On my customs declaration card, I wrote that I was in Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan. The lady who took the card asked me why I was there. "For fun", I said with a grin. "For three months? Go see that guy over there" she responded sternly.
"That guy over there" asked me all kinds of stuff. Half the time it sounded like he was generally interested in my answers, but the other half it just seemed like he was checking to see if I knew details of my trip. "Would you put your bag up here sir and open it up?" My bag was packed to the gills, but I didn't have a choice. "You've been searched before, is that correct sir?" Obviously it's correct, it's on your computer screen.
I was searched before, coming back from a five months in Southeast Asia and India. They gave me the third degree that day, but its hard to blame them. I had long hair, a three day beard, I was wearing ratty clothes and sun glasses- in the airport. I am pretty sure that if you wanted to look like a heroine smuggler for Halloween, you would wear this exact same thing.
But I wasn't smuggling anything that day, today, or any day, so I had nothing to worry about. Starting to get a little frustrated with the treatment I was getting in my own country, I looked at the customs official and said in a respectful but serious tone, "the government don't like it much when people get to travellin', huh?". He was caught off guard by this, and in response he mumbled something about how the government likes it just fine when people travel, and that it was just unusual was all. He told me to put my stuff back together and be on my way.
So I am in New York right now sitting in a friend's apartment. I had a hell of a time living in Beirut these last few months, and I know I am extremely lucky for the opportunity to do so. I am excited to see my family and friends again, but as always, its weird to be back.
Welcome home broseph. Glad you made it home safe and sound. Looking forward to seeing you and hearing the stories that didn't land on the blog. Sounds like you've been holding it down pretty good man. I wouldn't worry so much about what'll happen, because it'll just happen. Let me know when you're back home - later.
ReplyDelete