VIVE L'EUROPE : Why are airports so anti-European ?

par Padraig A. Carty - ©www.irisheyes.fr

For centuries we Europeans have considered our fellow European neighbours to be truly foreign, sometimes foreign-exotic, but more often foreign-peculiar. In the French language the same word (étranger) denotes both a foreigner and a stranger. We have waged vicious and futile wars against each other. We have been separated by natural and imaginary borders, language, religion, culture, climate (I almost added food and dress codes to this list but the Americans gave us Gap and McDonald’s which have been wonderful at homogenising our habits–ironic it had to come from another continent).

But after royally massacring each other in two major wars in the 20^th century, into which we were kind enough to invite the rest of the world, it was decided that enough was enough. And so we set up the Steel and Coal community, then the E.E.C. and now the E.U. with the very noble idea of gathering Europeans (the desirable ones that is, we can’t be doing with Serbs, Russians and Ukrainians) in a common project of peace and economic prosperity. We can trade freely within each others’ countries; we can travel, work and live where we want (though no Poles in France please and no Lithuanians in Italy). In short, we are told to treat the E.U. as home and we are encouraged to feel ‘European’. We’ve even created a common currency to cement the feeling of cohesion and brotherly love; if the Irish will allow it in their next referendum, we might even have a sort of gracious federal government reigning over the whole motley crew.

We now have European driving licences and European passports. But possessing a pretty purple E.U. passport does not seem to be enough to convince the airport authorities of our bona-fide European-ness. Recently I flew from Paris Charles de Gaulle airport to Dublin and once again I was reminded of how UN-European airport aficionados consider me. Upon arrival at the check-in I was asked to present my passport with my ticket (actually my computer printout). Stupidly I subsequently put the passport away as I browsed through the one shop that the whole of Terminal 1 has condescended to offer to the hundreds of thousands of passengers who pass through each year. In order to take sea-sick-provoking rubber walkway up to the passport control I then had to rummage in all my pockets and carry-on luggage to retrieve the passport and boarding pass (it’s always in the first pocket I check but a nasty gene invariably makes me ignore this and check all the others anyway). Then, documents securely placed under armpit, I stumble along to the passport control where I present my warm papers to a grim-faced police officer (are they paid to not smile?) who always takes nasty pleasure in grimacing at how the handsome young man on the photo is so unlike the middle-aged, slightly obese geezer standing in front of him. Now it’s time to browse through the duty-free which is of course, thanks to the E.U., no longer free of duty, so the warm and, by now somewhat sweaty, passport and boarding pass have to be safely put away, but this time I’m determined I’ll remember which pocket I use. After selecting a bottle of wine for €26, even though any wine shop in Paris would only have charged half that amount, I wobble on to another water-bed that passes for a walkway in Terminal 1, en route for the security control section. It is of course only when I have placed my bag, jackets, shoes, belt, glasses, mobile phone, socks and underwear on the conveyor belt that I realise that the lady in front of me, holding out a Star Wars laser baton, is not there to admire my practically naked body; no she wants to see my papers. Oh my god! Where have I put them? Another long search with much patting of pockets and pearls of sweat as I convince myself I have definitely lost them this time, not to mention the sighs of impatience from the queue behind. Finally I get through and decide this time I am definitely going to remember where I place those flaming documents for the next ordeal. After waiting around the uncomfortable and mind-numbingly boring waiting lounge the flight is called and I head towards the boarding gate. I proudly produce my boarding pass and passport (opened on the photograph page) to the smiling airport attendant, and wait for her to give me a lollipop or something for such excellent forward-thinking and organisational skills. To my dismay she doesn’t even look at the passport; in fact she seems to be put out that I would even want to show it to her. Sulkily I put the blasted thing away and head out towards the plane feeling sorry for myself and convinced that supernatural forces definitely have it in for me today. Suddenly I am stopped by two young girls just as I am about to walk through the boarding bridge tunnel thingy. They want to see my passport. I just couldn’t believe it. That was why the attendant wasn’t interested; this particular control is now subcontracted or outsourced or something to two other attendants, a great way to create employment but also a great way to guarantee air-rage from hopping-mad passengers. It goes without saying that I had tucked away my passport in some mysterious zone of my inner, most inaccessible pockets. After more sighs of exasperation from my long-suffering fellow passengers I struggled onto the plane only to be asked to show the stub of my boarding pass to the Aer Lingus hostess who smiled bravely, though it was strained, as she waited for me start the body search all over again.

Six times I had to show my passport to be allowed to travel from one E.U. country to another, because of course I had to produce the goodies upon arrival in Dublin too. I also had to show my boarding pass six times if I include the duty-free shop; why oh why are we obliged to show a shop attendant our boarding passes just to buy a packet of crisps?

Vive l’Europe.