So, there’s a joke here somewhere…

The Traveler: 


Deplaning in Warsaw there didn’t seem to be any customs or boarder control to speak of. This isn’t unusual, both the Czech Republic and Poland are EU-ish countries, and frequently there isn’t much boarder control between them. (Except when you go to England. They hate you in the UK nearly as much as we hate people coming into the US –the lines are so damned long that by the time you get in… you’re wondering why you ever wanted to in the first place). Point being we weren’t worried about the general lack of controls in place.

What we were worried about was getting the hell out of there before Borat Extra found us.

“We need to roll, brother.” Said KP.

And so we set off, only to shortly thereafter discover that the Warsaw airport is like the Hotel California… (for you Justin Bieber fans, that means: “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave”.)

“This is an incredibly innovative method of boarder control…” I commented.

“And economic stimulus.” KP is a financial analyst, dry as a bone, and I find him Earth-shatteringly funny.

“That’s gotta be the racket. Don’t let us leave, make us spend all our money at high-end shopping venues, and then ship us away on the next plane”. I commented.

“It’s perfect. Economic Stimulus, and they protect their organic resources from our otherwise locust like consumption.”

That was probably a pretty true piece of insight. Although I suspect the natural resources the Polish government was trying to protect were Polish girls.  My God, Man. I have never been to a place –even California— with more drop dead gorgeous girls per square mile.

Only a rave at Karl Lagerfeld’s house would surpass the beauty per capita of the streets of Warsaw.

But to see that, first we’d have to actually leave the airport. Which was – basically impossible.

Now, as a frequent traveler, I got over pretty quickly the male genetic disposition against asking for directions. In fact, as a tip to the wise, asking for directions is often he best way to escape an airport that seems otherwise designed to keep you in, and surround you with tempting tchotchkes.

We walked right up to the first peron we could find with a security badge.

“How do we get out?” I asked.

She looked at me blankly.

KP tried simplier words: “Leave? Exit?”

She shook her head, “Not information, security.” She showed us her badge.

“I’m not asking if you work for information, I’m asking if you have any. Specifically, how to get out of the airport.” I said bluntly.

“No.” she responded in kind.

“Fucking fantastic.” I said.

We walked off.

“It’s a relic of the Soviet system, she doesn’t want to be seen talking to us, in case they accuse her of being a collaborator with enemy agents.” KP said.

“We’re not enemy agents.” I said flatly.

“In Poland, everyone is an enemy agent.” KP Added.

“We’re here for your women,” I shouted. “Bring me virgins!”

“That kind of attitude will get us shot, dude.”

Eventually we did get out of the Warsaw airport, and it might have involved acts that danced rather anarchisticly with the authority. But I’ll not reveal our methods here, as such knowledge is certainly a state secret.

But the story doesn’t end there, friends.

After an amazing event, including a round of standing applause, and riding a real rock-star high. A high that was totally unexpected since I was totally unsure how my particular shtick would play when translated into polish. I went back to the airport to catch my flight to London.

Leaving the country everything seemed especially normal. Stand in line to check in, stand in line to get through security, make it through security with no real trouble, not even a passing brush against my genitalia, which was really disappointing since there are all order of tall, blonde, utterly gorgeous girls in the Warsaw Airport Police. I walk towards my gate, and I’m presented with another line.

Boarder Control.

I’m crazy confused here. I look around for other signs… but they’re all pointing as though my gate is beyond this checkpoint. I don’t want to go through here and accidently wind up outside of security. I consider briefly the effort needed to get into the country, which builds my confidence, there's no way they'd let me leave that easily. I wonder if I took a wrong turn. I look into the faces of other people in line, I recognize some from the security and ticketing lines –and they all accept this as perfectly normal. So I adopt rule of traveling #1: Fit In, and I go with the flow.

Ahead of me the boarder agent, a drop dead Amazonian blonde, is hassling some poor bastard. I dial up the charm when it’s my turn.

“Is this the way to gate 14?” I ask, a little lost, a little confused, a dash of vulnerability. Cops like that. I’m hoping that it plays well with a cop who is just hare’s breath away from being a supermodel.

“Yes,” she smiles. She flips through every page of my passport, inspecting the various visa. “Your picture doesn’t look like you.”

“I’ve lost a lot of weight. I have a driver’s license.” I show her that.

“You’re much prettier now.” She says.

“Thanks,” I say, now gushing a little bit.

She stamps my passport and says in parting: “Enjoy your stay.”

I give her the big smile, walk through, go to gate 14, board my plane and leave.

The punch-line: in Poland, they stamp your entrance visa, when you leave the country.