Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Why Euroscepticism is Bad for a Traveler’s Health
A nice British officer with puffy red cheeks is smiling at me. I have just handed him my ID card, an old, consumed piece of paper covered with a plastic cover that is about to fall apart. The officer stares at me a couple of times. I know he doesn’t need to look at the blurred words on the paper to figure out I am Italian. He tries to take out the paper from its plastic cover. It has been there for quite a long time. It is sticky. When taking it out to scan my photo, he almost tears out the remaining strip which is still keeping the two parts together. He sighs. Then he stares at me for the third time. He's still smiling, but I can sense a feeling of compassion in the way he is now lifting only one corner of his mouth.
"Do you have a passport, sir?" he asks.
I am confused. I don't know how to reply. "Something should have happened," I figure. A series of questions suddenly pop into my head. "Has the UK pulled out of the EU already?". And then again: "What if I need a visa now?" "I don't have any visa." "I don't even have my passport with me." "That's it. I am an illegal immigrant now."
The officer is still waiting for my answer. I am still confused, but I decide to go with the most simple and logical answer. "Yes, sir." No reaction. He is still staring at me. "...at home, in Italy" I add, ten long, awkward seconds later. He sighs, again. "You should have brought it with you". I panic. I start thinking about the few basic EU rules about free circulation that I have been taught. At this point – to be honest – I suddenly feel particularly insecure. I cannot come up with a rational conclusion. Ok, there's no Schengen in the UK, bla bla bla, I remember that. But I am still pretty sure that my simple ID card is more than enough to circulate within the EU. "Right, within the EU". I think. And I am suddenly back to my initial intuition. "Something should have happened".
I picture myself being stuck forever at the Gatwick airport, brushing my teeth in the public toilet and building my own shelter in a narrow space between Starbucks and Pizza Hut, Tom Hanks' style. People behind me are starting to get agitated. Most of them are Italians and they have then no problem making it explicitly clear that this ID card thing is taking way too much time. Only when, almost desperate, it occurs to me that I didn't even bring any toothpaste, does the officer break the silence: "Your ID has no electronic chip, so I have to scan it and write down your information. It would be much quicker with the passport. You can pass through the automatic gates with it".
I get out of the airport, relieved, holding the prehistoric ID card in my hand. I light a cigarette right outside the door. Two seconds later the guy from the currency exchange starts waving at me. "If you smoke here you'll get a ticket. You need to go five steps further and pass the no-smoking sign", he kindly points out. I apologize. "Right, I am not in Italy anymore” I think. “I am in the United Kingdom, EU."
A nice British officer with puffy red cheeks is smiling at me. I have just handed him my ID card, an old, consumed piece of paper covered with a plastic cover that is about to fall apart. The officer stares at me a couple of times. I know he doesn’t need to look at the blurred words on the paper to figure out I am Italian. He tries to take out the paper from its plastic cover. It has been there for quite a long time. It is sticky. When taking it out to scan my photo, he almost tears out the remaining strip which is still keeping the two parts together. He sighs. Then he stares at me for the third time. He's still smiling, but I can sense a feeling of compassion in the way he is now lifting only one corner of his mouth."Do you have a passport, sir?" he asks.
I am confused. I don't know how to reply. "Something should have happened," I figure. A series of questions suddenly pop into my head. "Has the UK pulled out of the EU already?". And then again: "What if I need a visa now?" "I don't have any visa." "I don't even have my passport with me." "That's it. I am an illegal immigrant now."
The officer is still waiting for my answer. I am still confused, but I decide to go with the most simple and logical answer. "Yes, sir." No reaction. He is still staring at me. "...at home, in Italy" I add, ten long, awkward seconds later. He sighs, again. "You should have brought it with you". I panic. I start thinking about the few basic EU rules about free circulation that I have been taught. At this point – to be honest – I suddenly feel particularly insecure. I cannot come up with a rational conclusion. Ok, there's no Schengen in the UK, bla bla bla, I remember that. But I am still pretty sure that my simple ID card is more than enough to circulate within the EU. "Right, within the EU". I think. And I am suddenly back to my initial intuition. "Something should have happened".
I picture myself being stuck forever at the Gatwick airport, brushing my teeth in the public toilet and building my own shelter in a narrow space between Starbucks and Pizza Hut, Tom Hanks' style. People behind me are starting to get agitated. Most of them are Italians and they have then no problem making it explicitly clear that this ID card thing is taking way too much time. Only when, almost desperate, it occurs to me that I didn't even bring any toothpaste, does the officer break the silence: "Your ID has no electronic chip, so I have to scan it and write down your information. It would be much quicker with the passport. You can pass through the automatic gates with it".I get out of the airport, relieved, holding the prehistoric ID card in my hand. I light a cigarette right outside the door. Two seconds later the guy from the currency exchange starts waving at me. "If you smoke here you'll get a ticket. You need to go five steps further and pass the no-smoking sign", he kindly points out. I apologize. "Right, I am not in Italy anymore” I think. “I am in the United Kingdom, EU."
