I guess everyone who travels has horror stories now. The more your travel the harder it gets to hold your tongue when badgered by a contracted airport "security" person who was a busboy at Dennys last month before he was fired for incompetence.
Immigration people don't seem to be getting any brighter either. I would expect them to have been at least a waiter in their previous life, not a busboy.
The last time I came back into the US, I had one scrutinize my passport. Inspector Cleusou decided some important interrogation was in order.
Inspector Cleusou: "You travel a lot. Thailand (raises a suspicious eyebrow), China (raises both eyebrows), Taiwan, Guam, Korea..."
"Yes." What else can I say?
Inspector Cleusou: "You have a permanent resident visa for Japan?"
Thinking, thinking... was that a question or a comment? His intonation raised, so it might be question. How could it be a question if he's looking at it? He seems to be waiting for an answer. After 20 hours of being awake, I'm a little giddy and almost blurt out, "I do? How did that get in there?" I decide against it and say, "Yes, I do."
Inspector Cleusou: "Why?"
Why? I want to be collecting my bags. Be nice. "I ask myself that a lot too," I say with a laugh, hoping he has a sense of humor.
Inspector Cleusou: "Hmmm... What do you do?"
He's humorless. I wanted to say that I'm a geisha farmer, but decide against it. "I work there," I say in a half answer to test if he is really listening.
Inspector Cleusou: "There is no expiration date on your permanent resident visa."
He's not listening. He's just screwing with me. I retest: "I'll check that next time I get it renewed."
Inspector Cleusou: "When does it expire?"
"When does it expire? It doesn't. That's why they call it 'perm - a - nent.' Is there a problem? What other questions can I answer for you today?" I ask with a forced smile.
Inspector Cleusou: "You can go now." He's had enough of me.
"I can go? You're dismissing me?"
Inspector Cleusou: "Yes, you can go."
"Didn't you forget something?'
Inspector Cleusou: Blank, slack-jawed stare.
I've got sweaters older (and perhaps a little brighter) than this pimply-faced kid, but he has a gun. "You're supposed to say, 'Thank you, sir and welcome home.' It's proper protocol. Which way is your office?"
Inspector Cleusou: "Thank you, sir and welcome home," he says through clenched teeth.
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(Added) This is my ranking of immigration and customs ports of entry:
1. Houston (Best)
2. Atlanta (Runner up)
Every one of these are pot luck, ranging from dismal to sadistic.
Detroit
Minneapolis
Chicago
New York
Los Angeles
