It was in Paris when the profiling started.  The French people (together with some others) kept staring at my chest. No, no, don’t get me wrong. I had nothing to show, nothing except a tag I mean. Not that kind of tag, a name tag. Only that the name on the tag wasn’t mine. It was the name of my country. That’s what they were staring at. And of course when your country is not as big as France, as important as Germany, as rich as UK, or as liberal as Holland, they will think “I didn’t know that’s how you spell it.  Are they still communist over there? Do they speak Russian? Probably”.  Naaaah. They don’t think that. They think “I’m scared, let me pretend this people are not here and maybe they’ll go away”.

I was on my way to board the plane, like the other French, German, English and Dutch people. When three armed security officers stopped me. They pulled me on the side and said they want to check me. They seemed to have an interest in my shoes (nothing special, quite ugly and cheap). They wanted me to take my shoes off (and also my socks) and checked the inside. Maybe there’s where I was hiding my AK-47 or Uzzi. When they couldn’t find anything in there, they thought my purse would be a better place for an Uzzi. They took everything out, totally overlooked my pepper spray that had “Interpol Professional Super Paralisant” on it, and asked me why I have a Christmas ornament in my purse. It was summer, you see. So that was something weird. It was a gift for somebody I said. That didn’t convince them. They said they would have to retain my ornament for further evaluation. You can go on board now (the French, Germans, English and Dutch had finished boarding and were all staring at me again thinking “I hope she won’t sit next to me, she might be a terrorist. Who carries Christmas ornaments in their purse in summer?”). 

I was seated next to a guy that told me, in a language you might call English, that it was rude of them to make me take my shoes off. And that it was obvious they should have checked the purse first. And they forgot to look inside my jacket. Anyway, he said, welcome to France. And America, here we come. “Merde! C’est rien que de la merde!” I said back at him. He was surprised I knew French and left me alone the rest of the way. 

America, I hope you won’t make me take my shoes off….I was in an airplane for 15 hours and my feet stink. The Americans left me alone. Their war was with other small countries, fortunately. I didn’t have a beard, a Kaftan or a Shawl on my head (or a Sombrero for that matter). So nobody minded my small “Interpol Professional Super Paralisant”. America, I love you!