dude, i sooooooooo get revolution points for getting detained this morning while trying to enter london! how keepitreal is thaaat??

i must admit, all the within-america traveling that i've done has made me lazy, and dare i say it...mindless. i forgot how crucial getting into a country like the united kingdom actually can be--that millions of aspiring immigrants throughout the world get turned away from entering the great pearly gates of great great britain (i totally pulled that estimate out of my ass. it's all about exacerbation, yo). so yes, when the immigration officer called me up, i didn't answer with the overwhelming slickness and swagger that i usually hold myself to...three hours of sleep and your first cup of coffee in over a year will do that to you. as i approached the officer, i noticed how dandy his face looked (and not too many faces out there are actually dandy). his hair was steamroll-slicked back, his suit sharply angled, like james bond. the new one, not pierce brosnan. i never really could be convinced by brosnan, probably because of his role in mrs. doubtfire.

adriel: haaaaaaayyyyyyyy!

immigration officer: passport please.

adriel: here...



adriel: as you can see, my hair's not spiky anymore.

immigration officer: (not laughing) what is your reason for coming to the uk?

adriel: i just wanted to spend time in a new environment for awhile.

immigration officer: how long are you staying?

adriel: about a month.

immigration officer: what? so you didn't come here for any reason? what do you do?

adriel: i used to be a teacher, now i'm a poet.

immigration officer: how much money do you make?

adriel: (undisclosed amount, that's in the millions, i'm sure)

immigration officer: you make (undisclosed amount) doing poetry?

adriel: yes.

immigration officer: but why are you here?

adriel: i just wanted to go to a different country...and i only really speak english, so england seemed to make the most sense.

immigration officer: but england's a big place. are you here to see anything?

adriel: you mean like...big ben? no.

immigration officer: i'm not satisfied by your response. go sit over there. i'll be back in half an hour.


i spent the next two hours of sitting limp on the tacky+uncomfortable salmon bench watching dozens of people prance through the national border like a bunch of charlies with golden frickin tickets. all these people...with their jolly accents. and...suspenders. and...probably fond memories of monty python.

two hours is much longer than half an hour. it leaves a whole set of three other half-an-hours for one to meltdown into paranoia. what if the person who walked away with my passport and flight stubs (a.k.a. my only proof that i actually flew here from the u.s. and not cambodia) was just a sharply-dressed miscreant who preys on young impressionable travelers who are stupid enough to write "artist" under the "occupation" blank in their traveler forms?

the thing that sucks about having your passport taken away while you're just inches away from a country that you're not from, and not really quite in either, is that you're screwed, in all ways possible. even after you've watched every single other person with every single lamest excuse get into the country, there's no "manager" of the department that you can demand to speak with, that actually gives a wombat's ass about what happens con your life. you kind of just have to sit there, and accept that, for that void in the time-space continuum, you have absolutely no rights whatsoever. you're in another country that you've never been to before, yet you're not really in in, you're just, well, detained in suspense. or suspended in detainment.

finally, the officer came for me, and led me into a special investigative room very reminiscent of the scene in austin powers where he pees for hella long. and yes, all of the officers looked like characters from sean of the dead. they sat me on a stool positioned at the corner of the white sterile walls and took my mugshots, then each of my fingerprints, one by one. basically, the british government now has all of my records if they ever need to pull me up as a suspect for
a) a diamond heist,
b) one of dick tracey's arch-enemies, or
c) a bourne identity

the difference between the british immigration patrol and what i imagine the american immigration patrol to be is, while both are assholes, the english will woo you with their charmingly british assholedom. it's like a vigilante hugh grant--no matter how fucked up it is, it would probably make a great rom-com. they tossed me into a blinding-white room with a toilet and no windows, but not before offering me tea and a tuna-and-cucumber sandwich. i tried my hardest to resist--the last time the chinese accepted something from the british, they ended up with a thank-you note for handing over hong kong while high on opium--but my love for both tuna and cucumbers got the best of me. i scarfed up the delicious delicious sandwich while they probably snickered at me from behind the double-sided mirrors.

in the detainment room (which shall thus forward be referred to as "the internment camp") were seven other detainees, four of which were chinese (now who's oppressed, ISE??). i didn't really get a chance to ask why two of them--a pair of girls who in fact looked like they were of honkongneseish descent--had wrapped themselves up in thin metallic cellophane. i never got to see what became of them, but i can only hope that they did what i think they were going to do; blind the officers with their metallic cellophane skirts, and then fly away as twin swans, into the ancient golden sunset.

i, on the other hand, waited another two hours with sporadic interrogation sessions, where the officer kept asking me why i would "spend all this money to come write poetry in london when you can do that at home," and demanded that i reveal details of my trip, such as how much deposit i've paid for each of my hostels, and how i expect to be able to afford a month of breakfast, lunch, dinner, and drinks (i assume he meant teatime).

finally, after dropping dramatic one-liners such as "it doesn't look good for you," and "we might just have to send you on the next plane back to where you came from," the officer played good cop.

"even though there's inadequate evidence that you're really here for your poetry, i'm going to trust you. but you must leave the UK by the date of your scheduled return flight! you are not allowed to be employed by anyone."

oh please, officer, let me escape my miserable job of traveling and art, to powder wigs in your glorious nation.



i'm here for a month. to write. updates galore, for real. cheers!