We’re back in Sonoma County after a long, stressful, long, hard, long, hectic, hard day of travel, which started when I woke at 4:30 a.m. in Paris and ended 25 1/2 hours later when I finally climbed into bed in Santa Rosa. In between, it was a combination of stress, boredom, irritation, and anger … anger like I haven’t felt in a long, long while, at the rude, smug, arrogant, small-minded idiots working at the immigration and customs operation (if you can call it that) at the Minneapolis airport. But more on that later.
We are hopelessly punctual people, and my view is always that I would rather get out early and avoid the stress of possibly being late. We also wanted to make sure the apartment was all neat, orderly, and clean for the the family who had let us stay there. So for our 10:30 a.m. flight we were up at 4:30 a.m. for a quick breakfast, final packing, and final apartment-straightening.
There was an added bit of stress, which was that we’d been asked to drive the family car to the airport so that it would be available when they returned later that day from the States. This would not have been quite so daunting but for the fact that their car is about the most un-Parisian car you can think of — an older-model Chrysler Voyager minivan (although the “mini” part doesn’t really apply), which, sitting in the very small parking space in the garage under their apartment building, looked enormous next to the little Renaults and Peugeots. And, in fact, it turned out to be very difficult to navigate it out of the garage, up a very, very narrow ramp to the street level. I was about halfway up that ramp, turning very slowly and (I thought) carefully, when I heard a scraping sound coming from the rear passenger side of the vehicle. Stressed anyway, and hyper-buzzed on coffee, I immediately thought that I was hitting the wall, so without thinking I steered the other way (to my left) — a mistake, since I had only about 9 inches of clearance on that side. Sure enough, the corner of the left front fender hit the wall, and scraped a bit before I re-corrected by steering to the right.
I couldn’t believe it. I’ve had one at-fault accident my whole life, pride myself on my driving ability, and here I was, a minute and a half into our trip home, and I’d damaged our friends’ car. Not a good start to the day. (If there’s any good news in this, it’s that the small scrape I put on the bumper is definitely not the only one on the car; you can’t drive something like this around Paris without it acquiring a bit of a patina.) Then when we got to the garage exit and pushed the button on the door opener, nothing happened. We had visions of sitting in the garage while our plane took off, but then, without explanation, the door started to open, and we were out onto the streets of Levallois.
The drive to the airport was uneventful, we found a large space next to a passenger walkway in the terminal parking garage, checked in, and had a fairly relaxed time at CDG waiting for our flight in the new Terminal 2E, which is gorgeous and, for some reason, seemed much quieter than most airports.
Our flight back had two legs, Paris to Minneapolis, and Minneapolis to San Francisco. The flight from Paris was uneventful — the seats were larger than on the flight over, the plane was smaller (a 767) and had a 2-3-2 seat configuration, meaning that Suzie and I had two seats to ourselves. The food on the plane was exceptionally good, the crew was marvelous, I got about 2 hours of sleep, and even saw an enjoyable movie (the unexpectedly good Matt Damon film called The Informant). Still, the flight was nine hours, and after a while my legs started to ache, and no amount of standing and stretching seemed to help. And the worst was about to come.
When I’d booked the flight, the layover at Minneapolis was around 2 hours, but Delta Airlines later changed to departure time of the second flight, reducing the time to about 1 1/4 hours. I assumed, gullible consumer that I am, that if Delta had that as a viable connection, then it was possible to make the connection. And it would have been, if not for two things: the incompetence of the immigration and customs staff at the Minneapolis airport, and my stupid honesty.
Let’s first talk incompetence. We had to clear immigration and customs in Minneapolis. Our flight arrived at the same time as three other flights, from Amsterdam, Tokyo, and one other place I don’t remember. This confluence of arrivals apparently came as a surprise to the immigration and custom folks or, more likely, they just didn’t care, because the facility was woefully understaffed, leading to huge lines to get through. We’d met a charming French family on the plane who were sitting across from us; they were starting a 3 week vacation through the Western U.S. (starting in Denver, then to Seattle, then to San Francisco) and were in the same position as we were — their next flight left an 1 1/4 hours after the Paris flight arrived. And they, unlike us, had to go into the non-U.S. citizen lines, which were (of course) significantly longer than our U.S. citizen line. No way were they going to make their next flight.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was having to watch people get unnecessarily hassled and questioned by the mean-spirited, small-minded, and (I don’t use this word lightly, but it’s appropriate here) fascist immigration officials. Not all of them were like this; ours was a reasonable-seeming lady who processed us through quickly. But at the same station as her was an obnoxious, not-very-bright-looking man who, as far as I could tell, was hassling people for the pure enjoyment of it, just because he could. His first target was a black man who had been visiting China; he was subjected to an excessive number of questions that seemed to have no point or purpose. His next target was a family returning from France; he started interrogating them just as we were finishing up with our agent. His first question was appropriate enough: “Where did you come from?” The answer (“France”) lead to a second question, which was also, I guess, appropriate from a immigration official (“What were you doing in France?”).
But the answer to that question (“We live in France.”) lead to a third question which absolutely floored me: “Why do you live in France?” It was said in a tone that implied that no self-respecting, God-fearing, patriotic, real American (remember, this was the U.S. citizen line) would ever consider living in France. And I could tell that it simultaneously perplexed and irritated the woman he was questioning — she looked at once startled and puzzled and concerned.
We were in the process of walking away towards customs, but the question angered me to such an extent that for a split second I actually considered turning around and asking Mr. Fascist Border Agent if he could explain to me what the hell kind of a question that was and what possible relevance it could have to anything related to immigration or border control. It was, in fact, more than a split second; I stood there for a moment, hoping the woman’s reply would be, “It’s none of your goddamn business why I live where I do,” but it was clear she was taking the path of least resistance, and actually trying to explain to the cretin why they lived in France.
Perhaps irrationally, I became as enraged and angry as I’ve been in a while. This is what “Homeland Security” has come to? Paying thugs to browbeat people at their whim? “Why do you live in France?” What the hell kind of a question is that? What possible relevance? What possible purpose other than to intimidate and demean?
Then reason (or perhaps cowardice) overcame my anger. We had a plane to catch and almost no time to catch it. If I’d called Mr. Fascist Border Agent on his crap, what would have happened? Would I be arrested or detained for interfering with a border agent? Did I even have any civil rights here? As much as I wanted to react, to do something, it wasn’t clear that it would accomplish anything. So I continued on, seething.
I mentioned my stupid honesty as a reason our connection was in jeopardy. The custom forms have a number of questions on them, including one asking if you are bringing any fruits, meat, or food into the country. We were — you can’t leave France without foie gras and chocolate, can you? — and so I marked that “yes.” I should have lied, I’m sure everyone else did, and there seemed to be no random bag checking. But because I’d marked “yes,” we were required to go stand in yet another line for yet another under-staffed inspection, this one of our luggage and, in particular, our foie gras. (Oh, yes, our apples were also confiscated. Don’t you feel more secure?). This was an extra 15 minutes and, as at the last station, we again got to see a black man be hassled unnecessarily by a fat white man in a uniform. This poor chap had to empty out his entire suitcase and let the fat white man rummage through it. Don’t ask why, it’s likely the fat white man didn’t have a reason. I just hope he wasn’t carrying apples.
We finally cleared this last station (the inspector had to read the ingredients on each can — it’s goose liver you idiot) and thought we had at least a chance to catch our next plane. But after clearing the customs and immigration area, we were next faced with incompetence by the Minneapolis airport itself: For all the incoming international flights, there were but two security lines. This meant that we (and everyone else) had to spend more time standing in yet another long line.
My head is spinning wild and mad at this point. What must visitors to our country think when they come here? If the fascist border agent hassle their own citizens like I saw, how do the treat those (all of them suspicious, of course) foreigners? I thought of the French family we met on the plane — what were they going to do, stuck in Minneapolis, barely able to speak English? I wanted to apologize to the whole world for the obnoxious idiocy. We have never been subjected to this in France or any other country. How has it come to this? Is this the face we want to give to the world?
We finally cleared security (by the way, there must be a low-IQ, high-bellyfat affirmative action program in place for hiring airport police in Minneapolis), and Suzie sprinted to our next gate (carefully located far from the international arrivals, of course). We found that they had held the flight for us and for a few other (even later arrivals) from the Paris flight. So I guess Delta Airlines deserves thanks for that, although they didn’t need to announce four times to the passengers on the plane that their delayed departure was due to us.
The poor lady sitting in our row got a big download from us, but she took it in stride, and was a delightful traveling partner (we learned all about Minnesota politics). But the flight seemed endless, endless, my legs were aching sore, the time dragged on and on and on.
And then the plane descended. Out the window, the Bay Area looked like dried mud, dessicated and brown. After deplaneing, I went ahead and got the car at the lot; it had a deflated tire, so I had to drive around and find a service station, which took even more time, and when I got back to SFO it turned out our luggage did not make the transfer at Minneapolis. Delta promised to deliver it but it still isn’t here. The drive back to Santa Rosa was long but uneventful, and we soon fell into bed, into a deep sleep interrupted only twice by the sudden jolt of leg cramps, one last remnant of 14 hours of confined sitting.
Tomorrow it’s back to work. Paris already seems far away.
Categories: France, Travel -- France, Travel -- General
Tags: Minneapolis airport, Paris, US Immigration