Without a passport

The first time I traveled to Europe, when I was in my twenties and young and foolish (as opposed to just, um, foolish), I managed to get my passport picked from out of my pocket somewhere in Paris. When I realized I no longer had a passport, I did what any clueless young American man would do under the circumstances. I reported the theft to the Paris police. Les gendarmes, who didn’t seem particularly interested in my predicament, took down my story and issued me a piece of paper which said, essentially, that I had declared a stolen passport.

The next day I took a train to Italy to see friends. As was usual in the train, there wasn’t really any passport control. And so I found myself, a young twenty-something American, in Italy without possession of a passport (although I did have a nice note from the Paris police).

Three days later, I was travelling in the back seat of a car down to Rome, when we were pulled over in a random search by the Italian national police. These were not your usual police — their mission was to find (and hopefully neutralize) any international terrorists who might have managed to sneak into the country. To this end, they carried rather fearsome Israeli made Uzi submachine guns.

My Italian friend got out of the car and spoke with the police for a few minutes. When she came back, she explained that they needed to see our identification. Everyone else in the car brought out their passport or national identity card. I produced my little note from the Parisian police.

When she realized that was all I had, my friend got very worried. She warned me not to say or do anything funny (as in humorous). When she handed over our papers to the police, they became quite alarmed. We were ordered out of the car, and I had the opportunity to know what it is like to have several Uzi submachine guns trained in your direction.

They began speaking loudly and insistently in Italian. I told my friend to explain to them that it was ok — since I had a flight back to the U.S. the next day. Their response was even louder and more insistent. My friend, translating, explained that they were saying that I was not leaving the country. In my youthful ignorance, I had not realized that you can’t just get on an airplane and fly across the Atlantic ocean from Rome to New York with nothing but a helpful note from the Parisian police.

The U.S. Embassy in Rome was closed the next day, but fortunately one of my Italian friends knew somebody, so we managed to get an appointment anyway. The very nice woman there typed up a letter for me, an official communiqué from the United States government declaring that it was ok for me to board the plane and fly to JFK airport without a passport.

I thought that would be that, but there was a bit of a kerfuffle at Rome Fiumicino Airport. The Italian official at departure refused to accept the letter — in fact he became quite upset when he saw it. After a while a representative from the airline figured out the problem. The official didn’t seem to know or care what the letter said, he only looked for the official stamped seal — and the woman at the embassy had not stamped the letter. More loud and insistent talking ensued, after which I was eventually permitted on the plane.

Somewhat chastened, and realizing that I was one lucky young American, I boarded my flight to New York. The flight itself was uneventful, but when I got off, of course I was arriving in the U.S. without a passport (and with only, I now knew, an unstamped letter). Following protocol, the Immigration officers ushered me into a small room for the mandatory interrogation.

I was quite nervous. In my youthful imagination I was picturing the worst — they might decide I was an international terrorist after all and lock me up. This is was my general state of mind when I was sitting in a small room with a very grim looking man in a uniform, who I understood was about to ask me a series of questions.

There was a pause while he looked down at the papers in front of him. Then came the first question. The man in uniform asked: “Where were you born.” Without really stopping to think, I replied: “Bronx hospital.”

Apparently this was not an answer that would be given by an international terrorist. The man shrugged and said “OK, you can go.”

My guess is that few terrorists know about Bronx Hospital, and even fewer have a trace of a Bronx accent.