A couple of years ago, when I had just finished University, a group of friends and I decided we would go on a trip for a couple of months to postpone the impending doom of careers that awaited most of them at the end of summer. Several destinations were discussed, notable options being India and southeast Asia. The first was discounted on the grounds that only a couple of the party had much interest in going there at the time, and that, lovely though it is as a country, it can be a bit stressful to travel about in on a budget. Plus the fabled ‘Delhi belly’ lurked ominously as an excuse for all of those on the fence.
Southeast Asia was also kicked into touch on the grounds that it was where everybody went on their gap years, and without a cut glass English accent, we weren’t sure if people would believe we were actually traveling there. With everything considered, mainly what language was spoken, so we might be able to talk ourselves out of trouble should we find ourselves in it, the group chose the United States of America. One of the group had lived there for a couple of his formative years as an adolescent and we thought this sort of insider knowledge was too good to pass up. I knew a couple of yanks from uni and some family friends who lived over there so it was ideal for me.
While I would like to tell you I played an intrinsic part in the planning of the trip, to do so would be an unadulterated lie. The main planning was completed by the ex-resident and a chap who, as it turned out, didn’t even come on the trip. I think his long-term girlfriend had made contradictory plans as to how he was going to spend his summer, and he rather cleverly went along with them. They have since married, so I suppose he got his comeuppance for his compliance. Despite his absence on the trip, we were all greatly indebted to him, as he found rail links, flights, hotels, hostels, even fucking activities for us to do while he sat in the pishing Scottish rain. Poor bugger. Between our fallen comrade and the ex-patriot, they knocked up an incredibly detailed route around the States which hit all the big names everyone wanted to see, with the exception of Miami. This was later explained to us by the organisers as being too difficult to fit in, and not that great anyway. I suppose there is very little for six young single males to do in a party town full of bars, clubs and beautiful women, but hey, you can’t win ‘em all. I was just happy someone had actually booked something.
A couple of weeks after the discussion I received an enormous spreadsheet outlining where we were going, how we were getting there, where we were staying, and what there was to do there, all with costs attached. Someone had passed up a lot of masturbation time to make this spreadsheet (well I hoped anyway). The list even prioritised what needed to be paid when, so essentially I went on a two month freestyle package holiday. Brilliant.
The trip would start in New York, head to Washington via Boston and Philadelphia, fly to Chicago, then down to New Orleans, before heading west. The final leg would see us visit Arizona, the grand canyon, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Yosemite, San Diego and finally LA. I was happy with the itinerary.
The first hurdle arrived earlier than expected. We flew from Edinburgh to Dublin, where we would jump onto a flight to JFK. Due to some serendipitous good luck, our plane arrived early and instead of the four hour wait between flights, we were told we could get on one departing in 30 minutes. Ya dancer. They came and got us off the plane, assuring us our bags would be transferred, we just needed to be taken to US Customs in the airport before we could board the plane. We were ushered along a corridor, down some stairs and into an area with an enormous rope-maze queue. Well it would have been a queue if there was anyone there. We filtered through to the front with the help of our air-hostess-come-airport-guide, at which point she said ‘good luck’ and evapourated.
While I had no concerns about going through the border customs desk, I had never needed to go through one alone before, mainly doing my travel in Europe. My concern was more focused on one of our party who sometimes would develop the shakes for no reason in particular. This seemed to be exacerbated when he was nervous. Knowing that we had no reason to be nervous, apart from the fact that five chemical engineers and a lawyer travelling together might seem a tad odd from their viewpoint, I didn’t expect any trouble.
My friend who used to live over there went first and after a couple of minutes was admitted. I went up next. My smile and offer of good morning seemed to almost offend the miserable bastard that I was faced with. He began his question without so much as a cursory glance at my face.
“How long do you intend on staying in the United States of America?” I thought there wasn’t really any need to fully name the country, it was pretty safe for him to assume I knew where I was going. I doubted many people turned up at the front of that queue by mistake, looking to buy fags or something.
“Around two months.” I said, his lack of personal engagement suggested succinct answers would be best. At this he did look up at me. Still no smile.
“What is the reason for your visit?” He stared unflinchingly at me. I explained me and my fiends had just finished university and had organised a group holiday. ‘We had decided where better than your wonderful country?’ I asked rhetorically with a smile. For a second it looked like he might actually answer, but then I think he remembered he thought America was the best country in the world.
“How much money are you taking with you?” I thought this a particularly rude question. Why is that any of his business? I took a second to make sure that was actually the question he was asking and told him I had a thousand dollars.
“A thousand dollars for two months? I don’t think that’s enough.” I was half a second away from pointing out that he clearly wasn’t employed to think, and even if he were there wasn’t a quantity small enough to explain how few fucks I gave about what he thought. Instead I used a different form of cheek.
“Yeah I don’t think it’ll be enough either, but I have this great thing called a credit card which you can use to take money out of ATMs, so when I run out I’ll probably do that. I’m assuming you do have them in America? Because if not I may not have enough.” Fortunately the sarcasm was completely lost on him and for the first time he looked like he might change his expression from that of a man strapped to a toilet pan trying to pass a rugby ball. I was however mistaken, he was merely looking at the American Express I was holding up to make my point to make sure it was the same kinds of cards they used in America. It was a fucking AMERICAN Express. Once he was satisfied with my choice of bank, he said.
“Yeah we have those too. That should work.” Thanks! Moron.
“Wonderful. Then I should be fine.” He took a moment to look at my passport again, said my name aloud a couple of times, nodded gently to himself with his face unchanging.
“OK, welcome to America. Please enjoy your stay.” Monotone in voice, and lacking the passion of the television advertising campaigns I had seen for California, but I didn’t give a fuck, I would never have to talk to this ignoramus ever again.
As I retrieved my passport back I smiled at the fud, and walked past his station. It was at this point I heard my other friend having a slightly more interesting conversation with the border buffoon a couple of desks over. I was quickly told to move on from there but I could see my friend visibly distressed and befuddled by the line of questioning he was facing. I was unable to hear the end of their exchange but my friend illuminated us as to what had happened later that day.
When he walked up the same questions were posed to him. How long do you intend to stay? Purpose of your visit? How much money are you taking? He didn’t get offered the same fiscal advice that I received but he did then get asked what he did at University. When he responded with chemical engineering the arsehole gave him an impending look. This caused his shakes, which he was already suffering from our night of festivities the evening before, to increase in magnitude and frequency. This was something the twat noticed.
“So does that mean you make drugs?” he asked. My friend replied that most of them worked in oil, so they made money rather than drugs, but his quip went unappreciated. The arsehole was undeterred. “Do you take drugs?” My friend was clearly shocked that he should be asked such a thing. He answered ‘no’ with a laugh as he thought the twat was joking.
“What’s funny?” He asked. My pal realised this was a serious line of questioning and ceased his laughing. ‘Nothing.’ “Why are you shaking then? Are you a drug addict?” My friend said he just managed to stop himself from a ‘what the fuck?!’ Instead he looked around incredulously and said no, absolutely not.
The border agent apparently then asked him another few questions about whether he was going to America to take drugs or buy them or sell them or anything you can do with drugs. Eventually he paused, looked about, sniffed loudly, then said he could go. Having almost managed to get his shakes under control, he only dropped his passport twice in front of the guy and scuttled though.
When he arrived at us he was white as a sheet. “This is already the worst holiday of my life.” We didn’t even have time to get to the bar before jumping on the flight, so we ended up getting arsed on the plane and asking him every time he was about to fall asleep if he had any drugs on him. He still maintained he didn’t.
Surely the other Americans couldn’t be as bad as those two clowns?
A drunk abroad 