Put Your Hands, Put Your Hands in the Air

After reading that NeoNurseChic received her passport and eagerly awaits a trip, I recalled that, for whatever reason, I have difficulty traveling. Well, to be honest, whatever reason isn't exactly accurate.

I have previously alluded to my generalized scruffiness, an issue over which I am not particularly apologetic. I have yet to have a convicted murderer tell me that I was inappropriately dressed for the setting. This generalization, unfortunately, has made its way beyond my mere persona, and invaded my documents: my passport. Anyone who has seen my passport photo comes to the conclusion that I "look like a terrorist." It's a combination of the tan (SoCal - walking the yard), hair (too much & too mangey), black t-shirt & dungaree jacket (with up-turned collar), and gross profiling. I have been heartily "examined" by customs agents in foreign countries, and every single time I have returned from Canada, I have been pointed to the "Secondary Inspection" and my car has been searched. But I also add that in order to be admitted to a CA Sate Prison, I have been "background checked" by the US & CA Depts. of Justice, fingerprinted twice, and photographed & background checked yearly. This leads to a description of a visit to Mexico.

It is simple to cross the border into Tijuana (and notice the spelling - it's generally pronounced TIA-wana, when, in fact, it is pronounced ti-WANA). You walk through a tall turnstile, like leaving the NYC subway, where you can enter but not return. About 25 yards and a marker on the ground delineates the actual border. Keep walking and you come upon an office posted with a, generally, young man in a uniform with a large automatic weapon. Oddly, on the right is a traffic (people?) signal, mounted at about eye-level on the wall. It is never lit, and I have yet to determine its purpose. Within walking distance of the border are large plazas with more pharmacies than you have ever seen in one place in your life: "Lowest prices in Tijuana!" Intermixed are jewelry, leather, and liquor stores; dentists, especially the very notable Dental Felix (amazingly in Google Images!); doctors, known for just providing "prescriptions" (some medications are controlled in Mexico); and many restaurants and clubs.

My purpose on this particular day was to have lunch with a friend. It was "June gloom," the time of the year when overcast skies rules. I had a sweatshirt on, but as the day progressed, I removed the shirt and tied it around my waist. With the increased security at the border (except for the Arellano Felix family, who apparently could get anyone & anything across the border with no difficulty), the auto traffic wait is horrendous, and now even the walking wait was equally horrendous and can take more than an hour. The sign says, "busiest entry point in the world." WTF, I've been to Motor Vehicles in NY. Cue up.

Now, I interact with law enforcement frequently, but I mysteriously experience anxiety around local police and "La Migra," the Border Agents, INS. I immediately begin to feel guilt and I have no insight. Anyway, the first odd thing to happen was that I was approached by an officer leading a drug dog, in this case, it was a small Springer Spaniel; not exactly my idea of a "border protector," but the officer was kind enough to explain their sniffing ability. I learned something.

To enter the US from Mexico, you must first pass the INS; generally, show your driver's license, they may or may not ask where you were born, and keep moving. There are computers available at every INS agent station, but I have never even seen them turned on. Whatever... Next, if you have anything to declare, US Customs officers are waiting with x-ray scanners. I had brought nothing back, but as I passed by, an officer called out and asked me to approach. He asked me, "Sir, what is that in your waistband?" I started to say, "It's just my sweatshirt tied.." and as I reached to raise my t-shirt, he screamed, "PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!" I didn't even have time to panic. "I will check your waistband." As he checked, I weakly said, "It's just my sweatshirt." When he finished, I asked if this really had been necessary. "It was for our protection. You're free to go." As I walked away I heard him say to another officer, "You have to be very observant about things like that."

When I get a haircut, I usually begin the negotiation with, "I am not in the military," this being a big military town and all. But maybe in 6 months when I go for a haircut, I shall reconsider. My passport expires in December.