May 18 2006
Security Probe
I’m starting to notice a pattern. Once again, I’m blogging at the airport. This time, the infamous Rossy-Charles De Gaulle airport. A huge multinational corporation decided I was sufficiently expense-worthy to fly me out to the Big Apple to further determine my employability. Who am I, still jobless in P5, to decline, and travel to one of the best cities in the world no less?
Back to the subject of this ranting, a rather unpleasant security probing. I’m not sure who to give proper credit to for this experience, ze French, US security, American Airlines, probably a combination of the above. Nonetheless, the questioning I underwent at the AA pre-checkin security counter made me think of the people extradited to an undisclosed country for a confession inducing one-on-one:
What do you do?
A student.
Let me see your student pass.
Why are you going to NY?
To talk to a company.
Do you have a receipt for your ticket?
No, the company paid for it.
Where are you staying?
Holiday Inn.
Do you have a receipt?
Again, no, I didn’t pay for it.
When did you buy your luggage bag? What kinds of electronics are you carrying? Where and when did you buy them? Have you sent them in for repair? How did you get to the airport? And on and on.
He then leafed through my passport and focused on my visa to Indonesia. You went to Indonesia? For how long and why? 3 days for vacation. Only 3 days? Yes, I went from closeby Singapore.
More inane questioning ensued, and the entire ordeal must have lasted at least 7 minutes, while feeling more like an unacceptable eternity. I’m rational enough to see the need for security, especially to NYC, but does that justify criminal treatment for someone going to his own country? And why single out Indonesia out of all the countries stamped in my passport, because it’s predominantly Muslim? Aren’t there French laws against that?
My takeaway is that I at least walked away from the grilling to the checkin counter without further hassle and, to borrow a phrase from Accordion Guy, preserved my anal sovereignty.
Naively thinking all the unpleasantness was over, I assumed that the checkin process would go smoothly. But alas, my French experience had not ended. To complete it, the agent insisted on weighing my carryon, asked me if the suit-carrying slip I was holding (with hanger showing) contained a suit, and dismissed me with one final parting shot; in oh-so-francais manner she claimed to have let me take it on the plane because the flight wasn’t full. Gee, can I get a free snarl with that? Let’s see, my luggage falls well within the weight and size limit, so spare me your infinite generosity s’il-vous-fucking-plait.




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