'Settling' in Buenos Aires

A day with Homeland Security

The day began as most days do, yesterday in Buenos Aires. But today was to be different, quite different!

At 10:40PM my plane took off for Washington Dulles. I had asked the flight attendant if the liquids ban was still in force. I was desperately trying to finish the bottle of fresh orange juice I had forgotten in my freezer, sucking the concentrate from the ice.

They call my flight.
More OJ! Need the vitamin C, I might get a cold.
They call boarding.
Damn this OJ tastes good.
They call section 2.
I ask a flight attendant if frozen OJ counts as a liquid?
She thought maybe I had found a loophole.

I threw the OJ in my food bag and head for the plane. The short angry security guard cuts briskly in front between me into the walkway (these small turds-of-men think they rule the planet forgetting that passengers pay their salaries). I give the attendant my boarding pass and make straight for the security guy, he steps back and I whisk by down the tunnel to my plane. I take my seat for an on-time departure for Washington D.C.

Lots of pretty girls on board, the seat beside me is free. This is a flight from Argentina of course! No! A white guy, he sits beside me, talking to his girlfriend on his cell phone, fluent Spanish, looks Jewish. Wonder if he too ordered a kosher meal? The flight attendants call his name. He leaves his hand luggage on the seat beside me, still chatting with his girlfriend. She called him. Back he comes with his duty free, a liquids exception for private enterprise.

He has vodka and it isn’t made in Paraguay! I have frozen orange juice. Maybe things are looking up. We’re friends within minutes. He’s got the aisle seat. He grabs my bag from the overhead after take off. I extract the juice surreptitiously, he the vodka. Now we need cups. They come, plastic, filled with drinking water. Empty that with one gulp. Two fine cocktails that look like OJ’s.

Cheers!

Eventually after dinner we run out of ice. Another crisis in the life of the budget traveler; my turn to ask. I wander back to the galley. I’m ignored, but professionally. I reckon the gay black guy is the best bet for attention. He voices his suspicion as I ask for two cups of ice. He feigns being drunk, his arm waving around in the air, unable to pass me the plastic glass of ice. I don’t play along. I wait for him to stop. I grab the glass. I call him a gentleman and a scholar. Was that a slur? I think he likes it but he’s still suspicious and we had been warned once already.

Back to my seat with the ice, a hero. Last of the OJ mix, loaded with vodka, two plastic glasses full! Cheers again!

Then comes the older stewardess from first class.

She launches her accusations, I sit there trapped, my glass in my hand. My partner says it’s his vodka. I assure her that this was our last one and it was practicably 100% orange juice. She doesn’t believe me! “Good!” she says, “I won’t have to spank you then!” I nod in agreement, my partner remonstrates for a spanking. He’s still jealous of my Kosher meal.

Cheers! Time to sleep.

I woke up over the Bahamas, still dark, no more screwdrivers. I reached into the food bag and found that I had a can of soda. Best to drink it.

Within two hours it was touchdown time in D.C. Dulles airport, it was a tight connection to San Francisco.

We were directed like sheep, half asleep, through the maze that is Terminal C to immigration. The girl behind me, (I had cut in front of her), was pretty. Argentina parents living in San Francisco! She asks the attendant if we will make the flight. I assure her that she had a good chance, US passport.

I however had an expired green card. Thirty five minutes in the line and it’s my turn. I show him the Irish passport, then the green card. He checks both, noticing the expiry date. I show him the form from the US embassy in Argentina. He isn’t impressed. He takes all the paperwork my passport included and drops it into a cardboard folder pointing to the mirrored room.

Secondary processing...

The room is huge and empty. All around me there are smaller rooms each with numbers on the mirrored doors, all have computers. There’s no one here.

I let out a quick sharp “Hello!”

There is no one here, and no one coming. Two Wendy’s breakfast combos sit uneaten in their bags behind the counter. I wait smelling the rancid oil. I’m on seventy security cameras. Someone will come soon, surely? I have 55 minutes till San Francisco take-off, gate C5.

A large black gentleman in uniform marches in. He knows why I’m there. He asks to see the expired green card, passport too. I show him the form from the embassy which says that I should be allowed onto the plane.

“That don’t do me no good Sir!”
“It’s in Spanish”.

I tell him to flip it over, it’s in English on the other side. He reads it and tells me it’s just for the carriers. I knew that, it had got me this far. I will go no further by the looks of my Homeland Security representative.

To lighten the situation I ask him whether I might make my flight, trying to sound positive, feigning a short smile.

“When does it leave?”
“About an hour.”
“Probably not!”

“There will be a fine!” he adds. I guess this is positive I think to myself. Better than being deported.

“How much?”
“265”
“Ouch!”
“Uh, huh!”
“You take cards?”
“Do we take cards?”, he asked the as a female agent enters.
“Yep but I need the key for the safe, you got it?”
“Nope. Call Jack.”

No Jack, no key, more computer issues. The form needs to be printed in triplicate, each copy signed, one by me, one by his colleague Ms Mason. The printer is dreadfully slow. What was that code? Two-eleven or two-twelve? A or B? 212A! Fine. The printer whirrs. I think maybe I might make this flight. The ticketing agent had come by searching for Mr. Phillips. She knew I was here, she had my bag.

More computer problems and another whirring printer. The first agent reads the printout. Just one copy. Agent Mason offers to hers while eating breakfast. But no, there’s a problem. The first agent corrects the form with a black pen, where it reads “San Francisco, Ireland”. He crosses out “Ireland” and puts in “CA”. He adds the name of his supervisor and offers me a copy to sign. There’s still 20 minutes to take off...

We leave together, all three following agent Mason. We walk right through, customs I have my checked bag now.

Progress!
Movement!

I hope my credit card works. There’s no one manning the homeland security payment booth. Agent Mason spins around to ascertain the whereabouts of agent Pacheco. He has the key to the safe. She leaves me alone with my baggage. She disappears behind anther security door.

Time ticks by.

Back they come! I read his tag. It’s Pacheco, the key to the safe is in the till. But! There is no key to the till.

Goodbye flight.

So now what?

The agents turn to each other. The prisoner can’t be released, the prisoner can’t pay, the paperwork is in progress. There’s nothing for it now but to go to the other building.

Ten security doors later I’m blinded by the sunshine as we exit another security door to the car park. I’m being taken in the space wagon marked homeland security. Lots of stop signs! No need to rush now. I’m just hoping I don’t have to pay for a new ticket to San Francisco.

We are stuck behind a baggage cart train, the on-board computer is pleading with us. We ignore the annoying beeps refusing to put on our seatbelts. They are my sheriffs and I their captor. We don’t quite stop at the stop signs but who cares we’re cops and I have an escort. I feel kind of special and tell agent Mason that they should offer Dulles airport tours. She says they do, for the foreign office but only for visiting politicians.

We’re there! We pay. We leave my customs form. My card works! It’s back to the space wagon parked outside.

Mission accomplished!

My bag is still waiting for me in Terminal C. I thank the first agent and shake hands with Agent Mason, wishing her a Happy Christmas. As it turns out with all the to’ing and fro’ing I never actually went through customs.

I hope the wine’s OK.

Postscript:

I’m escorted each step of the way through terminal C, alone. My ticket is changed for free, more security checks. I check my big bag for the next flight. I have a new boarding pass. Things are moving along nicely.

Scan time.

The security man has a broken arm. He’s polite but very intense. Takes his job seriously. I wonder did he hit someone? He asks if I’m carrying any liquids or gels.

“Did I want to declare them this time?”
I’m floored, back in the twilight zone.
Did he really say that?
Weird!

I feel vulnerable taking my shoes off, surrounded by X-ray machines. It’s all a little strange but I move along bravely, I have no choice! No more trusty agent Mason to make me feel safe. I get to my gate and write some more of this then it is onto UA 237 to SFO.

Fingers crossed!
I got here and had Christmas.
Tomorrow I have another screening with homeland security.
Wish me luck!

Posted by Tony Phillips at December 27, 2006 03:24 AM