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A Spoiled American Girl's First Deportation Story
As most grand adventures go, my epic trek across Europe began unexpectedly sort of like Bilbo Baggins adventure did, with a surprise knock on his door and only a couple of minutes to pack his belongings--not knowing how long he would be gone. Although mine was not set off by some middle earth wizard but by an English immigration officer at the ferry port in Calais, France with a giant pole up her bum and the nerve to suggest that after five and a half months of enjoying my free tourist visa, I was obviously "living" in the U.K. and therefore should not enter her controlled area of border, lest I continue to oh-so-offensively "live" in her precious kingdom some more.
Well, as I failed to appear like a rich kid bumming around London without a job, she told me in so many words to kiss my illegal waitress job in London goodbye and enjoy France for a bit longer. I so have never met an immigration officer doing her job so well. I got to give her credit for seeing right through me! I mean, I and everyone I know in London were under the false impression (and myself through plenty of experience) that traveling with a passport from the United States was like, "Hello darling", STAMP "Have a nice trip!" Apparently not in the mother country! Not anymore! Them got smart.
After getting a big horrible X mark written on my passport by the French police, I was told I could sleep in the waiting room of the ferry terminal until morning. Where I met a Sri Lankan woman with her 3 kids who had been turned away by immigration and couldn't speak English but smiled and offered me a whole bottle of water (kudos!), a homeless English man with a dog who told me he collected detainees police letters and that mine would be the first and coveted "white north American" letter for his collection but he understood when I said I'd rather keep it for my personal records, and 3 funny French security guards who nicknamed me "Marilyn Monroe" (merci beaucoup) and then made fun of me when I tried to sleep by making snoring noises as they kicked a ball around for the homeless man's dog for what seemed like hours, and a couple of back-packing hippies fashioning a card board sign that read PARIS and wearing vests with no shirts underneath, and lastly an English man who’s car broke down in the middle of the night but who failed to show the same compassion for my story as everyone else did, and instead turned his lip up at me and said I had asked for it.
In the morning I woke up off my bench to find the ferry terminal back to normal--rather than make-shift homeless shelter it had become a bustling port of travel once again. The scenery had changed so that "sleeping tear-faced girl on bench" no longer fit in, so I made my way up the stairs to the ladies restroom to look in the mirror and think positive thoughts while I applied make-up over slept-on make-up. "Hey girl! You're doing fine! This ain't so bad! Just go on back down to those immigration officers, give 'em that winning smile, and tell them: This is SO embarrassing, for BOTH of us! But you really need to understand, I am not, I would NEVER work illegally and I’m going home next month anyway! All my stuff is over there for heaven's sake! I just need to get my stuff, then I'll go back home!"
When I approached the day-time immigration officer and explained this awful mistake that had been done to me the night before, I quickly learned that he was NOT going to hear me! Neither was he going to be swayed by operation: bust out the water works or by my romantic star-crossed love story that he could help to reunite by placing one simple little tiny little staaaamp on my mother-fucking little tiny passport! (Note to self: never tell immigration officer about long-term boyfriend in country you are trying to get tourist visa to enter.) But hey---I got to perform one more award-winning tantrum before I left Calais, so everybody won, really.
SO! With nothing but a small pink back-pack, one more change of clothes, and---THANK GODDESS---my hairbrush and all of my make-up, I went to Paris where I bought a new suitcase and changes of socks and underwear, and I set off on a train trip across Europe, to the countries that still allowed me entry!
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