Proud to be an American?

I'm pretty lucky to be an American....I guess.  But it doesn't always make me feel good.  Especially not on the night train between France and Italy.

The inspection by the border police has happened several times.  The interrogation by victims of the inspection to the victim of reverse discrimination has luckily only happened once.

I board the train at 20:15 for a 20:33 departure.  Depending on who is in the car, we might chat a little before bed and we might not.  Lights are usually out by 22:00 and it seems we are usually awoken again around 01:00.  We'll get to that in a minute.

Believe it or not, I've opted for first class on this journey.  First class means that there are four people in the cabin with four little beds.  Second class is six.  It's a 10 euro difference.  When I'm thinking clearly at the time of the ticket purchase, I remember to ask for an upper bunk.  An upper bunk means that you can crawl up there whenever you want to and read or write or sleep.  A lower bunk means that the people might be hanging out there with you for awhile before you go to bed and also again in the morning.  You get sheets, a wool blanket, a pillow and a bottle of water.  In my opinion, it's a great way to travel.  You don't have to take a train to a bus to an airport to wait in one line and then another line and then take a bus from the door of the airport to the plane and then a short plane ride with a bus to the train to your final destination.

So, what happens at 01:00?  That's 1:00 a.m. for my non-military friends.  The first few times I didn't know where we were.  In fact, I guess I still don't.  But, I do know that the inspection is by the Swiss.  Anyway, there's a loud, aggressive knock on the door.  At this point, everyone is usually sleeping.  I'll only tell you about the last time when my cabin mates turned on me.  But keep in mind, it's happened at least five times.

A rap on the door.  A drowsy opening of the door.  I usually stay curled up in my bunk because I know the routine.  They ask where you are coming from and where you are going.  They ask if you have a job.    They ask it in French, English or Italian and the responses are usually in Spanish, Portuguese, or French with the occasional, "I don't understand."  Bags are thoroughly examined.  Everything is taken out and every zipper is unzipped.  Seams are tugged at, souvenirs are unwrapped and pockets are checked.

The night the inspection was followed by the interrogation was the night I was sharing my room with two ladies from Columbia and one from Brazil.  As they were repacking their bags at 01:30 I caught a bit of their conversation in Spanish and Portuguese.  I looked down and said that I was sorry.   They were telling each other that it wasn't fair that it didn't happen to the American.  Then they started asking me questions.  Did it ever happen to me?  Why not?  Did it seem unfair to me?  So, I told them it made me feel guilty and sad and embarrassed.  Proud to be an American?  At that moment, definitely not.  There were four nice ladies in that first class cabin and only one of them was let off the hook.