Customs

Paris, France
Wednesday, June 28

On the plane, there was so much turbulence the lady next to me, who should've bought two seats to contain her bulk, but instead pilled into mine, dug her nails into my arm at one point and said, "Oh, God." This did not help calm my nerves, and so I resorted to popping even more valium than was probably necessary. I also ordered 4 vodka tonics, which are no longer complementary after the first one, and in my opinion, definitely overpriced. Interesting note, planes take credit cards on board. I'd like to thank you, both Delta Airlines, and Visa, for getting me drunk. 

The combination of probably about 15 mg of valium and 4 shots of vodka over the period of 7 hours, plus a few sleeping pills here and there was enough to keep me relatively calm, but became more of a problem than a solution once I tried to get off the plane. I was right next to business class, so there were really pushy business men in suits all around me, all acting like their balls were on fire and the only way to put them out was to be first off the plane. I got knocked around on my unsteady feet until my fat lady seat companion scolded and shamed the nearest businessmen into letting us out before them, and helping us with the overhead compartments. 

Once off the plane of death, I made my way through a drunken, narcotic filled haze to the luggage and then to customs. Waiting in line, I noticed the customs guy was pretty hot. He didn't seem to even care about what he was doing, just taking a quick glance at people and stamping their passports like he couldn't give a shit. When I got in front of him, I was sweating a little, like, ok, not only am I kind of drunk, on drugs, and probably not very coherent, but this guy is pretty attractive, and that makes me nervous on its own. Also, for some reason, whenever I pass through customs, I start to feel like a terrorist sneaking into the country, or a jewel smuggler or something. I don't know what it is exactly, but something about facing someone who has the authority to let me into a country, keep me out, detain me, throw me in jail, or strip search me makes me start feeling like I did something criminal already and they're going to catch me.  

The hot customs guy takes my passport, which is already humiliating because my picture is probably the worst picture I've ever taken in my life, studies it for what seems like an hour and says, "Well, Mademoiselle Jennifer, how long do you plan to stay in my country?" I'm trying not to stutter, thinking, he totally knows I'm high, and I manage to stammer out "about a month." He stares directly into my eyes and says, "Oh, a whole month, Jennifer, what is it that you will be doing here?" I nervously start explaining that I'm doing a writing program, like a student, but not really a student, because then I'd need a student visa, and I don't have a student visa, and he cuts me off and says, "Show me your papers, Mademoiselle Jennifer." When people say my name repeatedly, I tend to get irritated, but in this case, it was a really weird mix of scared and slightly turned on. Isn't that pervy? 

I start dumping out all the papers I have; my acceptance letter to the school, the address of my apartment, all of this stuff, thinking this guy can totally see I'm fucked up right now, he's not going to let me in the country, my parents are going to kill me, I'm going to die an old lady with ten dogs, etc. He looks through all of my stuff, taking his time and says, "So, are you going to have a phone number for where you will be staying? I would like to know what it might be." I'm totally freaking out at this point, and I'm just like "I'm sorry, is there some kind of problem? I know people you could call who can verify who I am and what I'm doing." He starts laughing and he's like "No, no, you are a silly girl. I think you are very cute. There are no problems. I would just like to call on you while you are here." 

I was like oh, thank god, he's just hitting on me! I should've known because all French dudes hit on American girls, but I was so fucked up I totally didn't get it. Also, I had just spent like 7-8 hours on a plane, hadn't showered in 12, probably looked like I was on crack, and was not at my conversational best, so I never saw it coming. I had forgotten the number one rule about French guys; you don't have to be pretty, you don't even have to be cute, you just have to be a girl and they will hit on you. 

I told him I didn't have a number and I didn't know if I was going to have a phone and he was like, "Well, Mademoiselle Jennifer, now I know where you are studying, I will have to come around and look for you. You can go now." When I finally got away I seriously was like trembling from stress relief, embarrassment, and the thrill of being hit on by a hot French customs dude. He was right, I am a silly girl. But I bet I could've smuggled some shit into the country and he never even would've guessed.