Always be Polite, Never Tell the Truth

                  

Everything started off smoothly enough, as everything usually does before going horribly wrong.

Disasters of any magnitude rarely seem to come with any huge preamble. Okay, perhaps volcanoes are an exception, giving off a puff of smoke or two, a low grumble. When volcanoes erupt, it’s as if the earth is being kind enough to give a polite cough warning you that it is about to pummel you with pumice, bury your home in lava and ash, and incinerate you in a pyroclastic flow. But volcanoes, as I said, are an exception to the rule.

   

Bad things usually happen to good people without any warning whatsoever. Earthquakes throw children from their beds in the middle of the night, before crushing them beneath huge chunks of what was once their apartment building. Meteorites crash through suburban roofs without so much as a how-do-you-do. Fires strike unexpectedly. Boats sink in sudden storms. Planes crash out of a clear blue sky. Disasters always strike when you least expect them. That’s why they call them disasters.

 

My little disaster began - smoothly enough of course - at Attaturk International Airport, in Istanbul. At least I assume it’s called Attaturk International. To be honest I can’t really remember, though I’ve been through it several times. It’s the only airport in town, so to me it’s just The Airport. But it’s a pretty safe bet that if something is located in Turkey, it’s named after Attaturk. The Turks love him. Enormous historical photographs of him hang everywhere, Big  Brother-like, in Istanbul. He gazes down on you out of the past like a man with a stern vision of a bright future for his nation.

 

Attaturk, in case you didn’t know, was the father of modern Turkey. After the fall of the Ottoman Empire, every government in Europe was saying to themselves, “I’ll have me some of that!” The British, the French and the Russians were squabbling over who would get the biggest pieces of the pie. Attaturk led the army that drove all the greedy bastards out, and founded the world’s first secular Moslem state. This simply means that, even though the fledgling country Attaturk had created was already 95% Moslem, he had the good sense to keep religion and politics separate. This is why the Turks love him. Well, most Turks.

 

There are some ultra-conservative Moslem politicos now rearing their ugly heads who would like to turn Turkey into another Iran. But most Turks don’t want that. They  lean toward Europe and away from the Middle East. Most Turks – and certainly nearly all Istanbulis – would like Turkey to remain secular, be a part of Europe, and stay as far away from the mess next door as possible. So this is why most Turks love Attaturk, and why there are so many pictures of him in Istanbul. The huge black and white photos act as visual reminders of the original idea of Turkey. Attaturk was a man with a vision, and the pictures are supposed to remind you of that vision. He also had great taste in hats. I’ve heard rumors that some men name their penises after him. But I digress. Back to the story.

 

I had arrived at The Airport more than two hours early, as required. I had removed all liquids and sharp objects from my carry-on baggage. I checked in, got my boarding pass, passed through immigration and security with no problems. I bought some smokes and a bottle of Rafi at Duty Free. I located 114, the gate from which my flight would leave, and still had an hour and a half to kill. There was a bar one minute’s walk from my gate. They had free power outlets for charging laptops and cellphones. You could smoke there. Perfect.

 

I sit down, plug in my computer, light a cigarette, and order a pint of Efes. Life can’t get any better. I do a little writing, in between chatting to a guy from Holland going to Mexico and a Filipino girl on her way to Bangkok. I smoke a few cigarettes, toss back a few more Efes. I look at my watch. The flight leaves in 20 minutes, boarding ends in 5. No problem: the gate is just a few meters away. I pay my bill, pack up my computer and leave the bar. Seconds later I arrive at gate 114, and show my boarding pass to the security guard. Big problem.

 

“Hiyir!” (No!) Says the guard. “Hiyir 114! 323!”
I re-examine my boarding pass. It clearly states that the flight leaves from gate 114. I show it to the guard.
“Hiyir. Gate change. Now 323!”

   

They had changed the gate at the last minute. There had been no announcement. They had simply changed the gate number on the monitor. And gate 323 is at the opposite end of the airport, over a kilometer away. I had 5 minutes to get there. I made the international gesture for “call them and tell them!” to the security guard, and I ran.

I ran carrying my guitar and a heavy laptop bag containing all my computer and sound gear. I ran like a man who exercised regularly, who isn’t 41, who doesn’t smoke and drink too much. I ran like my life depended on it. I passed computer monitors saying that boarding for my flight had already ended. But this did not discourage me. I had to make this flight; it was the last flight that night. The next plane to Tel Aviv was at 8 am the following morning. I may have been a fan of Attaturk, but I did not intend to spend the night at his airport. I ran like the wind. And I made it. I was five minutes late, but I made it to gate 323.

 

When I arrive at gate 323, panting heavily and drenched in sweat, there are still people waiting in line to go through final security and have their boarding passes checked. Disturbed by the sound of my labored breathing, they turn their heads to look at me. Some smirk, a few chuckle. I am a familiar figure of fun: The Guy Who Doesn’t Know. I am the guy who doesn’t know that they always change the gate at the last minute for flights between Turkey and Israel. At this moment I fail to see the humor. I have just run over a kilometer in under ten minutes carrying heavy luggage. I am pretty fucking pissed off.

 

“What the hell?” I blurt out to the flight attendant as she happily examines my boarding pass. “Why did you change the gate without warning anybody?”

 

“Security,” she responds cheerfully.

 

“Well why wasn’t I warned when I checked in that the gate would be changed?”

 

“Security.”

 

Right. Whatever. At least I won’t be sleeping on the floor tonight. I board the plane and take my seat, still sweating like a rapist. The flight takes off 15 minutes late. The trip is only an hour and a half. Land of Milk and Honey here I come.

 

* * * * *

 

Arriving at Ben Yehuda International, Tel Aviv, I had a different surprise awaiting me: a five hour interrogation by Israeli Immigaration officials. Everything was shalom and smiles until the Pakistani visa in my passport sent red flags shooting up like Hezbollah rockets.

 

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to speak to an Immigration Officer,” I was politely told. “Please go wait in that room over there.”

   

I did as requested. I went and sat in the waiting room. And I waited. And waited. And waited. There were four guys sitting in the room with me. All of them wore expressions that told me they had been through this before, and that it was not going to be fast, easy, or fun. It reminded me of going to jail in New York, except not so crowded and without the pervasive smell of urine.

 

“What are you in for?” I asked the guy sitting across from me, just to lighten the mood in the room. He didn’t laugh. Turns out he had been to Iran for a kidney transplant a few years back, and now was treated like a criminal whenever he returned to Israel. Apparently even having Moslem organs is suspicious to these people. The other guys in the room didn’t speak English. We all spent a lot of time examining the patterns of tiling on the floor.

 

Finally my name is called. I go sit in another room and am asked to wait by some junior level Immigration geek.

 

“Sure,” I say cheerfully. I am a friendly American traveler, from a country strongly allied with Israel, here to make a record, spend some cash (lots of it, actually). I have nothing to fear. I am an artist, here to work with Israeli musicians. What do I have to hide? Alot apparently.

 

I wait some more. I read The Economist and listen to some Bollywood on my iPod. Time passes. Much time. Then the junior level Immigration geek returns and asks me some boring questions, taking note of my answers on a blank sheet of paper.

 

He: Why did you go to Pakistan?

 

Me: To see the country and record some drummers.

 

He: Why did you have to go to Pakistan to record drummers?

 

Me: Because that’s where Pakistani drummers live. I also went to India. (He
wasn’t interested in this.)

 

He: What is your home address?

 

Me: Well, I don’t really have one, actually. I’m currently living in Bali.

 

He: Bali? In Indonesia? (Big Mistake Number One: Indonesia is primarily a Moslem country)

 

Me: Yes, but most Balinese are Hindus, if that’s what you were thinking.

 

He: If I what is what I was thinking?

 

Me: Never mind.

 

He: Where are you coming from?

 

Me: Istanbul. I went there to spend New Year’s with my girlfriend’s family. (Big Mistake Number Two: Girlfriend from Moslem country)

 

He: Your girlfriend is Turkish?

 

Me: Yes,  but she is not religious.

 

He: You don’t have a home address?

 

Me: No, not really. (Big Mistake Number Three: Homeless) I stay in hotels. (I should have lied here and given my mother’s address in New Jersey) I used to live in New York, but I left. I’ve been traveling the world for 2 years.

 

He: Why did you leave New York?

 

Me: Well, honestly, I got sick of it. New York is too damned expensive. And then when Bush got back in, I got really depressed so I decided to leave the States.

 

He: You don’t like President Bush?

 

Me: Actually, I think he’s the worst president we’ve had during my lifetime. (Big Mistake Number Four: Bush-hater)

 

There was a long pause while he considered my answer. Then he said, “Please wait here,” and got up and left the room.

 

I waited, and then waited some more. This time while I was waiting I didn’t read or listen to music. I began to worry. My flight had arrived at 1:30 am. It was now 4 am. This was getting serious. Was I going to be deported? I had been to Israel twice before to play concerts – the stamps were in my passport. I had never blown anything up on previous visits. Did they think I had now become a Taliban sympathizer after visiting a few Moslem countries? Could they really believe I was some kind of shoe-bomb wearing terrorist? I mean George Bush is a bad president. 70% of America now understands this to be true. It’s too bad it took America such a long time to wake up to the fact, but did stating that fact really make me a national security risk?

 

I’ll spare you most of the rest. It was mere repetition for two and a half more hours. They kept sending in higher and higher-ranking pen-pushers. I was interrogated by four in all. The last was a super-bitch from hell who would have felt quite at home in Nazi Germany. They all asked me the same questions again and again – an old cop trick to see if your story remains consistent. I had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide. I had told the truth the entire time. My big mistake. I kept telling them, “I’m just a musician! Open my bags! They're filled with instuments and recording gear! I’m here to make a record! I’m spending thousands of dollars! I’m working with Israeli musicians! I don’t care about religion! (My Only Lie: Actually I hate religion: It has caused more problems than it has solved.)

 

They asked me for phone numbers of people I knew in Israel who could confirm my story. I only had two: the number of my hotel, and the number of a girl I would be subletting an apartment from. Nobody answered the phone – it was now six in the morning. Eventually during the last interrogation session, fueled by fatigue, boredom and desperation, I took out my guitar and started playing a new song: Three Legged Dog. I don’t know whether they hated the music or were so shocked by my audacity that they let me go. They finally let me go. They gave me back my passport and said, “Welcome to Israel.” Some welcome.

 

15 minutes later I had located my checked bag (thankfully, no one had stolen it during the five hours it had been sitting, unguarded in the baggage area) and reached my hotel by 8 am. I checked into The Bell, a sketchy place near the end of Allenby, nestled comfortably amongst all the go-go bars and prostitutes. After all the evening’s stress, I really felt like a drink. A few all-night places were still open so I bought a bottle of beer. But I didn’t have the energy to pop the cap. Instead I threw my bags on the floor of my room, collapsed onto the bed, and slept.

 

Shalom.

Comments

[Joseph]

I understand why you would like Attaturk, but I don't see how you can overlook how he stood by and let the Armenian Extermination happen right under his nose.

[Brain]

Your story in Ataturk airport is really funny :)) 1km in 10mins is not a so good record, you have to start regular exercises. Also quit smoking...

[aylin]

uppps. i didn't know you had a concert here in istanbul too.
just listened to your conversation in gulsah's program at radioeksen.
i wish you come for another concert soon.

[Kelly]

funny when i saw the title of this post... i assumed it would be about you being in india. i was in india, and the #1 crazy-making thing there (and what a contest) was that it's considered most polite to tell people what you think they want to hear, rather than the truth. as in, "oh yes - this temple is stright ahead, not too much further."

also, loved your show saturday at the 3rock.

[deniz]

We are excited to see you in your coming up show at Babylon.
one "t" for Ataturk is enough by the way.

[ufuk]

i can't believe you were here (istanbul) and i didn't know a thing about it...it's such a shame for me. sorry about the stress at the airport, i hope next time will be better :)

[Eric]

Looking forward to the new record when it comes out.

Traveling in the middle east ... always an adventure.

Peace.

[santino]

oh man! i heard jen saying it over the skype tonight... i hope you get a great recording session with O and T.