Immigration and customs are supposed to be boring. You hand over a passport, answer a couple of questions, and move along. Somehow, that memo keeps skipping me. Over the years, I’ve collected a string of “this-only-happens-to-me” moments—ranging from stressful to surreal. Here are a few greatest hits.
Act I: The Paris Near-Arrest (a.k.a. My Origin Story)
My streak started on our very first overseas trip, when I somehow managed to come this close to getting arrested at Charles de Gaulle. Nothing like a brush with airport police to set the tone for a lifetime of “memorable” border crossings.
Act II: “Reason for Your Visit?” — “Lunch.”
Fast forward to Dublin, where an immigration officer asked the classic question, “What’s the purpose of your visit to Ireland?” My honest answer—“Lunch”—didn’t exactly fit the dropdown menu. We were on a long layover and had planned a quick dash into the city for a meal. Yes, really.
Our “purpose of visit.” (Dublin’s Boxty.)
Act III: The Customs Phone Tackle
Sometimes the chaos isn’t about me—until I’m standing right there when it happens. Case in point: I once watched a woman get tackled in the U.S. customs security area for refusing to put her phone away. That escalated quickly.
Act IV: Global Entry… and a Debate About Queen
Most recently, we landed from a 10-hour flight from London and headed to Global Entry. Faces scanned, short queue, autopilot brain. Out of nowhere, an officer from beyond the checkpoint points at me and says, “That shirt’s not right.”
It took a second to realize he meant my concert T-shirt—Queen + Adam Lambert. I asked what was wrong, and he said, “I don’t like Adam Lambert singing with Queen. He’s not a good fit.”
So there I am, in a fog, discussing rock vocalists with CBP. I offered that Lambert’s a solid stand-in (also, I don’t exactly get a vote on who fronts Queen). The officer countered that George Michael would’ve been a better match—same presence as Freddie Mercury—if he were still around.
Meanwhile, the line kept moving, and my wife was vigorously motioning for me to inch forward. Was this small talk, or some bizarre screening technique? I didn’t dare cut him off. I tried to wrap with, “What-ifs won’t happen; we have who we have.” He nodded. I shuffled up to the primary desk.
“Bringing anything back?” the agent asked. I reflexively said, “No,” then immediately corrected myself: “Two bottles of wine from France.” He waved me through with a “You’re good—go ahead.”
And that’s how my oddest entry to the U.S. ended: a spirited debate at the border about who should front Queen, all while wearing my shirt from our whirlwind trip to see them in Minnesota.
Final Thought
Some people collect stamps; I collect odd immigration stories. If you ever find yourself stuck behind me in the passport line, you might want to choose a different lane—purely for time management.
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