OK. So the trip to Sweden ends. So we head back to the Gothenburg City Airport, which is just a tiny thing of an airport. It used to be an old military base, I think. So it's pretty bare bones. Our flight didn't leave until 11pm, so we were all fairly shattered and full of sadness that our wonderful trip was over. I can't really explain it, but there was sort of this grey cloud hanging over us. Maybe it was just me. Maybe it was that we were sitting for hours under artificial light in a building that nearly made status of airport. Or maybe it was that Benno and Jess had a stroke of bad luck. Turns out that Benno booked he and Jess a flight for earlier in the day and obviously missed that flight. It was a simple oversight. And so they had to pay 500 some odd pounds to get new tickets issued so they could catch our flight home. Bugger.
They managed to get it all sorted and things resumed as they normally would and as normal as you can imagine. We sat in a dimly lit waiting area past security, queued up to board our Ryan Air flight and landed in London's Stansted Airport at about midnight. Maybe Benno and Jess' bad luck were an omen. I wasn't prepared for what happened next.
As you know when you get off an international flight you have to go through Passport Control. Because I was the only American in the group, I had to stand in a separate line all on my own. I can't quite explain it, but while I was standing there in line, I was feeling extremely nervous. My heart was beating like mad. But I pushed those feelings down and told myself I was just being silly. Why was I so stressed? Well, I was in the UK on a visitor's passport which is given to American's when they first arrive in Britain. It's just simply the stamp they give you when you enter the Kingdom. And it's good for six months. The border agent who originally stamped my passport did so with a great reluctance. The flashback to that monent is probably what prompted my nervousness. Whatever. There I was. In line. On my own. I step up to the desk answering typical questions - why are you here? What are your intentions? The questions got increasingly more intense. I felt the blood drain from my face. My vision started to narrow. My throat was completely dry. It was getting difficult to talk. I slowly realized that this questioning was not going well.
Now, anyone who knows me knows I'm a terrible liar. I also wear my heart on my sleeve. My panic must have been shining like a great, bright beacon to the woman questioning me. I'm sure this did me no favors whatsoever. I heard myself answering questions as if from outside of my self.
Why are you here?
To live with my fiancee. We just got engaged during our holiday in Sweden.
Why are you here for so long?
Because we're trying to figure out what to do - whether or not to get a finacee visa or get married.
How can you afford this trip?
I sold my house.
What's your job?
I lost my job.
How much money have you spent while you were here?
Not much. A few hundred dollars.
Not bad. So what do you do?
What do you mean?
What do you do on an average day to keep busy?
I volunteer.
Where's your visa?
Visa? I didn't realize I needed a visa to volunteer.
Ignorance of the law does not make you immune to it. It is your responsibility to research such information before making a trip.
I did!
Where did you get your information?
The Home Office website.
Where do you volunteer? PAD Gallery. How often? About 4 hours a week. What do you do? General assistance.
OK. One moment. I'm going to speak with your partner. I'll be back.
She walks over to Dave who has been standing about 20 feet away during most of my interrogation. He got through his line in record time. He has a severe look of worry on his face. I feel like I'm underwater. She comes back.
So your partner says you volunteer a few times a week in the mornings and afternoons - would you like to revise your statement. Please bear in mind lying to an immigration officer is grounds for refusal to enter the country.
No, I think we're saying the same thing! I gave you an average of the hours I work at the Gallery - sometimes I never go in, sometimes I go in for 6 hours. But I never go in the morning and afternoon in the same day...I think he meant that sometimes I go in the day and sometimes in the afternoon.
It went on like this for about 20 minutes. Finally she told me that I was going to be detained for questioning to determine whether or not I was to be allowed into the country. Dave was told he had to leave the area he was standing in and go downstairs by baggage - and to leave me with our baggage. I had to sit. And all I could do was sit. No bathroom. No moving around. Just sit and wait.
And I did wait. For nearly two hours.
Then I was taken into the inner maze that makes up the part of the airport we never see as passengers. I was placed in a room. Questioned briefly. Taken to a new room. Fingerprinted. Taken back to the original room. Photographed. Bags searched. Body searched. Taken to the detention room. My bags taken from me. I saw a file about me already compiled. So quick! I sat in a dark room that was full of books, tv blaring about a poker face. There was a room with large panels of glass standing in as a substitute for plaster walls. This was a room I could pray in if I chose. But it was intended as a children's play area. I was offered some food. Nothing great. But very welcome. I was starving. There were two bathrooms. The only place to get any privacy. With matted, oily hair and puffy eyes I went there. And cried. The tears just wouldn't stop. What was I going to do? There was nothing I could do. I was not in control of any of my possessions except for what I wore on my back. I had no money. No cell phone. And even if I did, I would have had to hand it over to the security officials. Thankfully, it was a quiet as far as detainees were concerned and the security officials were very friendly. And they allowed me to pull my lip balm from my bag. I tried to focus on TV. It was crap. I tried to read. Impossible. It seemed all I could do was pee. And pee. And pee. Turns out that level of anxiety is great for emptying one's bladder.
I sat in this room with a man who was being detained for travelling on a fake passport for about two hours before being called for questioning. The immigration officer was different from the one who questioned me at passport control. He wasn't overly nice. But not rude. And I guess that's a good thing. They need to have a professional distance afterall. I was asked 23 questions. The answers were tediously transcribed by hand. I was often asked to slow down or repeat what I said. I was starting to be filled with a bit of hope. Then I was led back to the detention room. I sat for another half hour. Then the immigration officer came in to ask a few more questions. This time in the toy-filled glass paneled multi-purpose room. God I could use a prayer now. I cried. Pleaded my case, but only slightly. I didn't want to look more suspicious than I already did. He leaves. I go back to my seat in the main waiting area. By this time a young boy of 16 had entered the scene. He, too, had tried to enter on a fake passport. I had only volunteered without a visa. t really didn't seem just.
The immigration officer returned. Bad news. I wasn't going to be allowed to enter the UK. He handed over the official paperwork stating that I was being refused entry. I had to sign it. I would be placed on the next flight back to Sweden which departed in one and a half hours. I would not be given my passport - that would be held by the pilot until I landed.
What was I going to do? I needed to call Dave. I need to see Dave. I pleaded with the security agents to see him. Miraculously, they allowed it. They located him and walked him through the inner maze to where I was. We were allowed a five minute visit in a small room under the supervision of a guard. We hugged. And cried. And kissed. And cried. We exchanged luggage. We hugged again. And that was it. We were separated again. I would contact him when I got to Sweden and we'd figure out what to do. I was terrified. What was I going to do?
They managed to get it all sorted and things resumed as they normally would and as normal as you can imagine. We sat in a dimly lit waiting area past security, queued up to board our Ryan Air flight and landed in London's Stansted Airport at about midnight. Maybe Benno and Jess' bad luck were an omen. I wasn't prepared for what happened next.
As you know when you get off an international flight you have to go through Passport Control. Because I was the only American in the group, I had to stand in a separate line all on my own. I can't quite explain it, but while I was standing there in line, I was feeling extremely nervous. My heart was beating like mad. But I pushed those feelings down and told myself I was just being silly. Why was I so stressed? Well, I was in the UK on a visitor's passport which is given to American's when they first arrive in Britain. It's just simply the stamp they give you when you enter the Kingdom. And it's good for six months. The border agent who originally stamped my passport did so with a great reluctance. The flashback to that monent is probably what prompted my nervousness. Whatever. There I was. In line. On my own. I step up to the desk answering typical questions - why are you here? What are your intentions? The questions got increasingly more intense. I felt the blood drain from my face. My vision started to narrow. My throat was completely dry. It was getting difficult to talk. I slowly realized that this questioning was not going well.
Now, anyone who knows me knows I'm a terrible liar. I also wear my heart on my sleeve. My panic must have been shining like a great, bright beacon to the woman questioning me. I'm sure this did me no favors whatsoever. I heard myself answering questions as if from outside of my self.
Why are you here?
To live with my fiancee. We just got engaged during our holiday in Sweden.
Why are you here for so long?
Because we're trying to figure out what to do - whether or not to get a finacee visa or get married.
How can you afford this trip?
I sold my house.
What's your job?
I lost my job.
How much money have you spent while you were here?
Not much. A few hundred dollars.
Not bad. So what do you do?
What do you mean?
What do you do on an average day to keep busy?
I volunteer.
Where's your visa?
Visa? I didn't realize I needed a visa to volunteer.
Ignorance of the law does not make you immune to it. It is your responsibility to research such information before making a trip.
I did!
Where did you get your information?
The Home Office website.
Where do you volunteer? PAD Gallery. How often? About 4 hours a week. What do you do? General assistance.
OK. One moment. I'm going to speak with your partner. I'll be back.
She walks over to Dave who has been standing about 20 feet away during most of my interrogation. He got through his line in record time. He has a severe look of worry on his face. I feel like I'm underwater. She comes back.
So your partner says you volunteer a few times a week in the mornings and afternoons - would you like to revise your statement. Please bear in mind lying to an immigration officer is grounds for refusal to enter the country.
No, I think we're saying the same thing! I gave you an average of the hours I work at the Gallery - sometimes I never go in, sometimes I go in for 6 hours. But I never go in the morning and afternoon in the same day...I think he meant that sometimes I go in the day and sometimes in the afternoon.
It went on like this for about 20 minutes. Finally she told me that I was going to be detained for questioning to determine whether or not I was to be allowed into the country. Dave was told he had to leave the area he was standing in and go downstairs by baggage - and to leave me with our baggage. I had to sit. And all I could do was sit. No bathroom. No moving around. Just sit and wait.
And I did wait. For nearly two hours.
Then I was taken into the inner maze that makes up the part of the airport we never see as passengers. I was placed in a room. Questioned briefly. Taken to a new room. Fingerprinted. Taken back to the original room. Photographed. Bags searched. Body searched. Taken to the detention room. My bags taken from me. I saw a file about me already compiled. So quick! I sat in a dark room that was full of books, tv blaring about a poker face. There was a room with large panels of glass standing in as a substitute for plaster walls. This was a room I could pray in if I chose. But it was intended as a children's play area. I was offered some food. Nothing great. But very welcome. I was starving. There were two bathrooms. The only place to get any privacy. With matted, oily hair and puffy eyes I went there. And cried. The tears just wouldn't stop. What was I going to do? There was nothing I could do. I was not in control of any of my possessions except for what I wore on my back. I had no money. No cell phone. And even if I did, I would have had to hand it over to the security officials. Thankfully, it was a quiet as far as detainees were concerned and the security officials were very friendly. And they allowed me to pull my lip balm from my bag. I tried to focus on TV. It was crap. I tried to read. Impossible. It seemed all I could do was pee. And pee. And pee. Turns out that level of anxiety is great for emptying one's bladder.
I sat in this room with a man who was being detained for travelling on a fake passport for about two hours before being called for questioning. The immigration officer was different from the one who questioned me at passport control. He wasn't overly nice. But not rude. And I guess that's a good thing. They need to have a professional distance afterall. I was asked 23 questions. The answers were tediously transcribed by hand. I was often asked to slow down or repeat what I said. I was starting to be filled with a bit of hope. Then I was led back to the detention room. I sat for another half hour. Then the immigration officer came in to ask a few more questions. This time in the toy-filled glass paneled multi-purpose room. God I could use a prayer now. I cried. Pleaded my case, but only slightly. I didn't want to look more suspicious than I already did. He leaves. I go back to my seat in the main waiting area. By this time a young boy of 16 had entered the scene. He, too, had tried to enter on a fake passport. I had only volunteered without a visa. t really didn't seem just.
The immigration officer returned. Bad news. I wasn't going to be allowed to enter the UK. He handed over the official paperwork stating that I was being refused entry. I had to sign it. I would be placed on the next flight back to Sweden which departed in one and a half hours. I would not be given my passport - that would be held by the pilot until I landed.
What was I going to do? I needed to call Dave. I need to see Dave. I pleaded with the security agents to see him. Miraculously, they allowed it. They located him and walked him through the inner maze to where I was. We were allowed a five minute visit in a small room under the supervision of a guard. We hugged. And cried. And kissed. And cried. We exchanged luggage. We hugged again. And that was it. We were separated again. I would contact him when I got to Sweden and we'd figure out what to do. I was terrified. What was I going to do?
RSS Feed
