So, I get dragged into an international incident in the former Soviet Block.

The Traveler: 


Prague. It’s a wonderful town. A cheep town, which is a thing of wonder in Europe. When you can have a top notch dinner for 40 bucks a head including drinks, you know you’ve found a place you need to come back to.  Apparently Prague also wasn’t totally blown to hell during the war, and as a result has much of its natural and historic beauty intact. In short… I suppose you get the point, I like it. Which is a good thing since there was a damn good chance I wasn’t going to be able to leave.

Entering the country was easy, deplane, minimal customs, observe with minor interest that the Czech national police traded their AK-47’s for MP5’s with double magazines – like both acknowledging that the AK as an international symbol is the gun of the bad guys –and that’s not them anymore, and at the same time stating quietly, we are fully prepared to jack your shit up.

In short, this was a police force to be respected, possessing an aura that suggested willingness to disappear someone if needed.

Leaving the country turned into a bit of a challenge. Mostly made worse by me.

The rules of security are different country to country, so I took a moment to familiarize myself before proceeding to the checkpoint. Fluids in bag, laptop, camera, and ipad out, they didn’t require taking off my boots, but I started to anyway.

“No-No… leave them on…” said the guy operating the metal detector.

“No, I should take them off, they’re cowboy boots, they have a steel shank”.

“Boots on.” He insisted.

When a dude with an MP5, 80 rounds of ammo, and the ability to pump all of those into you in less than 30 seconds tells you to keep your boots on, you do.

I walk through, and bleep. – of course.

We go through the rigmarole of: do I have paper, do I have coins, do I have a thermonuclear warhead in my pants, I say no and walk through again. Bleep.

“It’s the boots” I said.

He was having none of it.  He pulls me aside for a pat down. Fine. I’ve done this 1000 times, ain’t nothing but a thang, right?

Wrong. As the guard is patting me down, someone else calls over to me. “Hey buddy where you from?”

Now, I must admit that while I’m not generally into small-talk anyway, when a member of the Czech National Police is cupping my balls, I’m not what-you-wanna-call predisposed to idle chitchat.

But I was disoriented in the way you get when someone else literally has your balls in their hands, and for some dumb assed reason I answered: “Dallas, Texas.” I don’t know why… I figured this might be some kind of Soviet era interrogation technique.

It wasn’t.

It was some short, fat, random eastern European guy, with his wife and kids, looking for all the world like he’d just stepped out of Borat two.

Also worth noting was that he, his babushka, and offspring were presently surrounded by a fully functioning combat team of CNP.

I looked up into the eyes of the cop who was patting me down. He had precisely the look a guy with a sub-machinegun gets when he has your balls in his hand: Steely eye’d, tough, aggressive, and little bit uncomfortable.

I’d seen enough cold-war era movies to know how this would go. He’d say:  Do you know this man? I’d say No, fuck, he’s just some random eastern European asshole who started talking to me, and quick as shit, me and the Borat Extra would be serving life sentences in some gulag together. He’d probably teach me how to make Borsht, and I’d school him on motorcycle repair, and we’d eventually become friends, setting the stage for a made for TV movie, at least until I sold him out to the guards for better food.

Fuck.

We didn’t get a chance to have that conversation though because Borat Extra wanted to draw me further into his drama first. “So guy. In America, what do you do if they want to pat your kid down, huh?”

I grinned, smiled at the guards –yes guards, now there were two, attending me… and just kind of shrugged.

“They want to touch my kid, they don’t find nothing. Tell me is that right, they should touch my kid?” Borat Extra asked.

I turn trying to look away, and now there’s three guards on me… one is taking apart my luggage. The business class line behind me –there had been no line when I stepped up—was now like 25 people deep. Waiting or watching the spectacle I have no idea which.

The three guards, are running every article of my clothing, examining my liquids, riffling through my stuff, and yes, occasionally coming back to fondle my balls.

“I don’t know this guy…” I said to the guard. That was stupid because then he rightly asked: “Why would you say that? Why do you think we think you might know him?”

Fuck.

Now guy’s wife chimes in saying some shit in some language I don’t know… this takes Borat Extra to an all new plane of pissed off instigation. “This is a crime. You there” He points at me. “You’re a witness.”

Now I’m pissed. “I am absolutely not a fucking witness, dude. Seriously these cops could take you out back and execute you, and I won’t have seen anything.”

I look up at ball holding cop, who has since let go. “Seriously.”

“We don’t do that. Why would you say that?” he asked again.

Fuck. My instincts… my training on how to deal with situations like these was inculcated to me during the cold war. I’m a cold warrior. I don’t know how you’re supposed to act in a liberalized former Eastern Block country. I am saying and doing all the wrong things.

“I don’t fucking know dude… I’ve seen too many movies…” I say.  “I’m sorry. I appreciate you guys being thorough. We all just wanna get where we’re going safely.”

The words, or the tone were magical. That or because there was absolutely nothing to find on me… the CNP were done, with me I put my stuff away and got ready to step off…

Borat Extra wouldn’t let me leave easy though… “This is a violation of international law. You searched me and my kid, and didn’t find nothing. This is a violation of international law, you can’t hold us and make us miss our plane.” He looked at me. “You tell them.”

“Dude, international law isn’t my specialty.” I look over at the guard who is walking towards me. “I just want to get to Warsaw.”

Borat Extra heard this, “Warsaw! We go to Warsaw too… Go Dallas Cowboys!”

Fuck.

Afterward: On the Prague to Warsaw flight I was seated in Business, and fortunately Borat Extra was not. He did make the flight, though, and sat within three seats of my traveling companion (who was stuck in coach) KP, who has all order of stories of his rants and raves… but this isn’t his blog.