I've been writing so much about immigration I thought I'd better come clean about my past adventures with border patrol. I've already told you about my acquaintance who was arested for scaling the Vatican Wall. This is how I smuggled an alien into France.
In 1990, I was invited as a chaperone and tour guide for a group of students headed to Rome to see their brothers or cousins ordained priests by John Paul II. The group met in New York for a flight to Madrid, and I was to herd them through sites in Spain, then to Lourdes, and on to the Vatican. The flight over was uneventful (but for the loss of my luggage), but when we arived by bus to the little town where we were staying, the outer gate of the retreat house was locked. A series of phone calls gave us to know that the only set of keys was on the person of a priest who was in a car on his way to Rome (and this was before cell phones).
A few more phone calls, and we were able to find lodging in a second retreat house across town. Which would have been crisis averted, except that suddenly our bus broke down. So I was standing outside a phone booth with the uber-chaperone, who refused to panic, telling me, "I refuse to let the devil steal the fruits of this pilgrimage." The last thing our contact in Madrid had told her on the phone was, "I'll pray for an angel to help you." Apart from that, we were left to our own devices.
We eyed the plaza and saw an 18-passenger van parked outside a bakery. A few inquiries led us to the owner of the van, who took pity on us and helped us shuttle a busful of American teens (and WAY too much luggage) from one side of town to the other. It took several trips. I was in the last group to make it to our lodging, and as he dropped us off, I thanked him profusely and asked him what we could do for him in return. He told us to pray for him, so I asked his name. "Angel."
I give you all this background so you'll understand why we found it necessary to spoil the girls that night with a party that hadn't been planned originally. My girlfriend and I borrowed the chaplain's car and went to Angel's bakery to buy a cake and some other goodies. Everyone was warm and well-fed and no longer grouchy, so all was well. Until the morning, when my girlfriend realized she'd left her purse in the back of the priest's car --and he was now back in Madrid, hours away from us. We had a chartered bus to Lourdes, so we had no choice but to leave her behind in the care of the Portuguese housekeepers.
For reasons I never understood, our bus stopped for awhile outside of town, and who should drive up but my friend and the housekeepers, in search of a working phone. Feeling this was a sign from God, I told my friend she should just come with us. Don't you remember our student days in Europe? How often did anyone actually check for a passport? And in a bus full of Americans, are they really going to check every person's papers? I thought that was unlikely. And worst case scenario, we'd leave her at the border, she could stay in a little hotel and we'd get her in two days' time on the way back to Madrid (I don't know why we went Spain-France-Spain-Italy, but we did). So she hopped on the bus, and I was confident she was doing the smart thing.
Of course, what I had in mind were train station border crossings. I felt more than a twinge of guilt , therefore, when we arrived at some godforsaken part of the French border in the middle of the night with nothing to be seen for kilometers but the guard station. And you can guess that the guards went methodically through the bus checking everyone's papers with all of us holding our breath. First my friend feigned surprise at not finding her passport and went to seek it in the bags under the bus. That ruse worked on the Spanish guard, who waved us through, but said, "No way Frenchie's going to let you through."
Frenchie by now had seen there was some commotion on our bus, so there was no being "shocked, shocked" that my friend's passport was missing, and we had to come clean. Our uber-chaperone thank heavens spoke fluent French, and went in to beg with the chief border agent (while a bunch of big, dumb, American girls sat in the bus praying). After 20 minutes or so, it didn't seem as if he would budge and I was preparing to disboard to accompany my friend, when the guy suddenly asked why we were there. When he heard our ultimate destination was Rome, he pulled a picture of John Paul II out of his wallet, asked us to pray for him at St. Peter's, and flagged us through.
The Lourdes leg of the journey was crisis-free, and we were flagged through without stopping on the return to Spain (so I wasn't totally nuts). The next task was to meet up with my friend's purse. We did our few days of touring, and the plan was to meet the people who had the purse in front of a tapas bar in the Madrid train station on the day we were leaving for Rome. The hand-off was to take place hours before departure, so no worries. Except our contact was delayed, and then there was a misunderstanding about the restaurant (any idea how many tapas bars are in the Madid train station?). My friend had gone to her rendezvous alone, and I was minding our charges on the platform beside the train. Everyone loaded up and we got the all aboard with no sign of my friend, and I prepared once again to stay behind. Two things happened simultaneously. I caught sight of my friend --with her purse-- at the top of a long stairway leading down to our platform. And the train started to s-l-o-w-l-y pull away. At the top of my lungs I shouted for her to RUN! She booked it, and the two of us made it to Rome by tossing our bags into our friends and leaping onto the moving train.
