So when exactly did you go to Syria?” asked Jacques.
“Jacques”, was, at a guess, a Haitian immigrant, now working for the Immigration and Naturalisation Service at Miami Airport. “Poacher turned gamekeeper” I thought to myself, a little cynically. Perhaps it was the complimentary Daily Mail I’d read on the plane (actually I mean “complementary”, as in “free” – there’s little complimentary about the Mail, unless you tend to agree that National Socialism had a point on the issue of immigration) Anyway, the fact is, whatever his origins, and whatever my Daily Mail brainwashed mind thought of the situation, Jacques held all the aces here. He stopped flicking and looked at me, then looked back at the passport, then looked at me again. Shaking his head slightly, he asked the question again. “Er, I haven’t actually been yet, I’m going in September, but I had to get the visa already” “And why would you want to go to Syria?” “I’m going to learn Arabic.” “Why do you want to learn Arabic?”
At this point, my mind was racing; an incorrect answer and I’d be deported; no holiday in the Keys, no trip to South America, and no return, probably ever, to the USA; it was imperative I made him believe my answer. In this respect I should have been assisted by the convenient coincidence that it happened to be true. This was little consolation, however, given the rather annoying fact that all I could think of was amusing, though inappropriate responses along the lines of “so I can read the word of Allah, the one true god, and slay the apostate infidels”. Granted, this would probably not have been the best course of action in the long run, but there would undeniably have been a moment of real comedy there, presumably just before the red lights started flashing and the men with moustaches and uniforms came to lead me away for a spot of “waterboarding”. For the record, I’m not entirely sure what that involves, but since it’s against the Geneva Convention, I have a sneaking suspicion I wouldn’t like it a great deal.
In the end he believed my answer. In the circumstances, perhaps suggesting “I want to learn Arabic so I can work for the government” while giving him a conspirational, “us against them” look was a little risky; he responded with precisely the same facial expression I used to reserve for those naïve enough to inform me they’d “love to work for Credit Suisse”.
To be fair, I don’t decry Jacques’ initial suspicion of me. I hadn’t shaved or slept in a week, and I’d spent the previous three days attempting to pickle my liver in cheap Bulgarian booze on a stag do in Sofia. Though had Jacques (or anyone else for that matter) actually been to Sofia, they’d fully understand the reasons for my parlous mental and physical state. With all due respect to any Bulgarians who may be reading this, I have to say that my experience of their capital was not overwhelmingly positive. Indeed, in my three, admittedly hazy, days there, I saw little to contradict a succinct description I heard before my visit from an old friend: “a post-Soviet hellhole with amazingly cheap vice”. Actually, that’s not strictly true: while beer, food and lodging were undoubtedly a bargain, as a couple of nameless members of our party can confirm, Bulgarian vice is not so cheap. £1,300 for a couple of bottles of champagne is expensive in anyone’s money, but in a country where beer goes for 40 pence a pint, that’s extortion. To add insult to injury, the drunken buffoons in question didn’t even get to see any nudity for their 4,000 levs. Aside from the three musketeers and their late night aberration, the weekend was largely incident free, though the local populace did seem a little bemused by the fancy dress outfits, ranging from a number of cads and bounders to a large bear (don’t ask), Rod Stewart, Gordon Ramsay, Colin Montgomery an anti-globalisation protestor, a failed boy band reject, and a schoolboy. A couple of humorous pics are attached here, more as a test of my ability to upload photos to the web than any belief they’ll be of great interest – like all the best jokes you probably had to be there. Suffice to say, however, I shan’t be rushing back to Bulgaria, as a gravelly-voiced ageing Scottish rockstar or otherwise.
I will, however, shortly be heading to Bogota to commence my Spanish studies; in the meantime I’m having some much earned r&r with the family in the Florida Keys. Sun, sea, and scuba diving – it’s a tough life…
“Jacques”, was, at a guess, a Haitian immigrant, now working for the Immigration and Naturalisation Service at Miami Airport. “Poacher turned gamekeeper” I thought to myself, a little cynically. Perhaps it was the complimentary Daily Mail I’d read on the plane (actually I mean “complementary”, as in “free” – there’s little complimentary about the Mail, unless you tend to agree that National Socialism had a point on the issue of immigration) Anyway, the fact is, whatever his origins, and whatever my Daily Mail brainwashed mind thought of the situation, Jacques held all the aces here. He stopped flicking and looked at me, then looked back at the passport, then looked at me again. Shaking his head slightly, he asked the question again. “Er, I haven’t actually been yet, I’m going in September, but I had to get the visa already” “And why would you want to go to Syria?” “I’m going to learn Arabic.” “Why do you want to learn Arabic?”
At this point, my mind was racing; an incorrect answer and I’d be deported; no holiday in the Keys, no trip to South America, and no return, probably ever, to the USA; it was imperative I made him believe my answer. In this respect I should have been assisted by the convenient coincidence that it happened to be true. This was little consolation, however, given the rather annoying fact that all I could think of was amusing, though inappropriate responses along the lines of “so I can read the word of Allah, the one true god, and slay the apostate infidels”. Granted, this would probably not have been the best course of action in the long run, but there would undeniably have been a moment of real comedy there, presumably just before the red lights started flashing and the men with moustaches and uniforms came to lead me away for a spot of “waterboarding”. For the record, I’m not entirely sure what that involves, but since it’s against the Geneva Convention, I have a sneaking suspicion I wouldn’t like it a great deal.
In the end he believed my answer. In the circumstances, perhaps suggesting “I want to learn Arabic so I can work for the government” while giving him a conspirational, “us against them” look was a little risky; he responded with precisely the same facial expression I used to reserve for those naïve enough to inform me they’d “love to work for Credit Suisse”.
To be fair, I don’t decry Jacques’ initial suspicion of me. I hadn’t shaved or slept in a week, and I’d spent the previous three days attempting to pickle my liver in cheap Bulgarian booze on a stag do in Sofia. Though had Jacques (or anyone else for that matter) actually been to Sofia, they’d fully understand the reasons for my parlous mental and physical state. With all due respect to any Bulgarians who may be reading this, I have to say that my experience of their capital was not overwhelmingly positive. Indeed, in my three, admittedly hazy, days there, I saw little to contradict a succinct description I heard before my visit from an old friend: “a post-Soviet hellhole with amazingly cheap vice”. Actually, that’s not strictly true: while beer, food and lodging were undoubtedly a bargain, as a couple of nameless members of our party can confirm, Bulgarian vice is not so cheap. £1,300 for a couple of bottles of champagne is expensive in anyone’s money, but in a country where beer goes for 40 pence a pint, that’s extortion. To add insult to injury, the drunken buffoons in question didn’t even get to see any nudity for their 4,000 levs. Aside from the three musketeers and their late night aberration, the weekend was largely incident free, though the local populace did seem a little bemused by the fancy dress outfits, ranging from a number of cads and bounders to a large bear (don’t ask), Rod Stewart, Gordon Ramsay, Colin Montgomery an anti-globalisation protestor, a failed boy band reject, and a schoolboy. A couple of humorous pics are attached here, more as a test of my ability to upload photos to the web than any belief they’ll be of great interest – like all the best jokes you probably had to be there. Suffice to say, however, I shan’t be rushing back to Bulgaria, as a gravelly-voiced ageing Scottish rockstar or otherwise.
I will, however, shortly be heading to Bogota to commence my Spanish studies; in the meantime I’m having some much earned r&r with the family in the Florida Keys. Sun, sea, and scuba diving – it’s a tough life…
