The full-body scanner. Yes, it feels about as ridiculous as it looks. (Source: AP)
“Interesting,” said the Dutch security man, fingering my passport and flipping through the papers I had handed him moments before.
“Interesting,” he muttered again as he looked at the receipt for my stay at the American Institute for Yemeni Studies. I thought perhaps the American part of the name would balance out the Yemeni part. I guessed wrong. Apparently the Dutch use the word “interesting” like the rest of us use the words “highly suspicious.”
The Dutch man and I had been talking for about five minutes about who I was, what I was doing in Yemen, and who paid for it.
“Please wait here a moment,” he said, and stepped away to confirm with a more senior security man.
As they conferred, I tried to figure out what to do with my eyes, and finally just watched the passport scanner screen as passenger after passenger was checked in.
The scan of one man’s passport brought up a blinking display on the screen: “This person may be a selectee!” It said, as if he had just won an award.
Then I noticed both security men looking at me looking at the screen, and I looked away. The more senior man stepped up and round 2 of questions began.
How did I pay for the place I stayed? “By getting my own money out of the ATM?” I answered helplessly. His mouth twitched and I’m not sure if he was smiling or frowning.
Did I have anything in my bags that ran on batteries. Um, sure, laptop, camera, cell phone. Wow, I’m an idiot, I thought. They’ll detain me just because of my stupid answers.
Stupid answers, but good enough for him to finally wish me a nice flight and usher me into the full-body scanner prior to boarding the plane.
I was sure I was going to get detained upon arrival in the US. Everyone said so. I watched as the “selectee” from the Amsterdam boarding got a keen eye from the chubby US customs official, who called over the intercom — an invitation for a beefy uniformed man to stride over and ask the “selectee to follow him, sir.
I’m screwed, I thought.
The official looks at my passport, looks at me, then picks up the stamp and drives it home against the customs document.
“Welcome back,” he said.
Leave-leave-walk-now-before-you-say-something-stupid, my brain rattled.
In Fargo, North Dakota, USA, I stumbled off the plane, jet lag blurry, into the arms of family members who had waited an extra hour due to my plane being delayed. They had smiles, and hugs, and welcome home signs.
On the way out of the airport, at the bottom of the last escalator, stood one of my brothers-in-law, holding a sign with my name misspelled.
“Taxi? You need taxi?”
Yeah, I did.
Home, please, and step on it.
Despatches | {Wyoming} 