Custom made touring

When I picked up my local paper yesterday, the entire back page of the Arts section was taken up by a great feature written by Peter Robinson about his recent book tour for his newest Inspector Banks novel, STRANGE AFFAIR. No link, alas, but it talks about the usual tour shenanigans -- interviewers who have obviously never read the book, sparse signings, and drinking with Ian Rankin. But what had me rolling was the opening installment, as Robinson prepared to fly from Toronto to Logan Airport:

I live in Toronto now, though my Inspector Banks novels are set in Yorkshire, where I grew up, and in Toronto you have to clear U.S. customs and immigration at the airport, before your flight.  I turn up at the airport with a letter from my publisher explaining the purpose of my visit. I'm doing an eight-city tour -- mostly readings and signings at selected bookshops. Nervously, I make my way over to the booth.

"What is the purpose of your visit?" the agent asks.

"I'm going on an author tour," I say, brandishing a copy of STRANGE AFFAIR. "I've got a letter --"

"Author tour?" he cuts in, looking at me curiously over the top of his glasses. "I know author tours. One time I had this woman come up to me and I asked her what she did for a living. Know what she said?"

"Er, no."

"'I write the Harry Potter books.'" He laughs. "That's what she said to me. 'I write the Harry Potter books.' Yo go ahead now and have a great tour."

Stunned I do as he says.

Having cleared customs a time or few at Pearson Aiport, I completely understand why Robinson might have been nervous. Most of the time I try to stick to stock answers because customs agents don't really want to hear any others -- they have to keep the line moving, after all. But when I flew to Las Vegas for Bouchercon a year and a half ago, I had a grand time trying to explain to the clueless customs agent why I was going to Vegas for some mystery convention and not for, oh, gambling. Like anyone else travelling to the city would, I suppose.

Then the cell phone I'd borrowed from my mother tested positive for explosives... and I had oh so much fun explaining that no sir, it was really covered in antacid dust.

Anyway, if you've toured, how do you deal with customs agents? Do they look at you funny and try to challenge your story, even if you have documents? Or share any bizarre customs stories in general.

Comments

[elizabeth bear]

The only time I've ever had to clear customs for a book signing (headed into Canada), the conversation went like this:

"Purpose of visit."

"Business, sir."

"Are you bringing in any merchandise?"

"No, sir. I'm a writer; I'm here for a book signing."

"Oh! What do you write?"

"Science fiction." *Hand over copy of book*

"Excellent. Are you any good?"

"Well, I certainly *hope* so."

... and that was it.

Getting through Customs into Canada for Worldcon in 2003 was a little rougher. "Purpose of visit?"

"We're here for a convention?"

"What sort of a convention?"

[five minutes trying to explain what a science fiction convention is in mundane terms, ending with the word "Torcon"]

"Oh! Torcon! Why didn't you just say so? Go on through."

*grin*

[David Terrenoire]

Sarah,

Posts like this one are the reason I'm so glad I found your site. Very entertaining stuff. Thanks.

[Steven]

Hi,
Had to explain myself going to the Toronto B'Con. That was easy. Apparently, I wasn't the first mystery writer of the day. Probably not the only one from that flight. The "any good"? question came up. "Good? Yes. Rich? No."

Also, try explaining why you need to carry 150 matchboxes with your bookcover on them. I couldn't.

[Rebecca]

On a couple of trips to Spain I've said I was there as a tourist (partly true, after all). Oddly, although Spanish immigration people are national police, and have some pretty serious terrorism concerns, they also can't seem to resist the temptation to be tour guides. ("The Picos de Europa? At this season?" one said dubiously when I flew into Madrid in February. "Lots of cold and rain. Not very nice." It didn't seem like the moment to explain that I was going there in February because...er...actually I was writing a book about a colleague of his with unfortunate homicidal and fascist tendencies.) But my favorite immigration story has to be arriving in Girona at 11:00 pm after a flight delayed for two hours from London. All the Brits (mostly going to summer homes on the Costa Brava) were waved through of course, along with home-coming Spaniards, and the single sleepy member Policia Nacional was pretty much relying on the honor system for anyone with a non-EU passport to stop by and get it stamped. A pair of young New Zealanders ended up in line ahead of me. They didn't speak Spanish, and the guard didn't speak English. He looked at their landing card and got upset.

After a few fruitless minutes while I shifted from foot to foot wanting to get to my hotel and collapse, I edged up behind the young women, to find out what the problem was. The guard was saying that the address on their landing card was "a bad address." "Look," he said (in Spanish), and turned over the landing card. "Girona. Here." (He made an X on the back of the card.) "Barcelona. Here." (Another X) "The hotel," (another X) "here, off the highway. 30 kilometers from Girona. 40 from Barcelona."

The poor confused New Zealanders looked at the diagram, and repeated that they did not understand. He finally let them go, shaking his head, and turned to me. "You speak Spanish, right?" he said hopefully, as he stamped my passport. "Tell them that it's a hotel off the highway, and an hour's ride from anywhere. They'll have to take the shuttle bus back to the airport and then the buses from here into town if they want to see any sights. A lot of people make reservations on the internet and they don't realize how far out it is. You'll tell them, won't you?" I dutifully promised I would and hunted them down in the baggage claim to convey the message. I thought of the scene again when confronted with the uniformly surly and unpleasant immigration people at JFK on my return home.

[Joseph Goodrich]

Sarah---

Two travel experiences come to mind.

The good one was at Gatwick. I told the customs officer that I was a playwright and he not only asked me if I had something up and running that he could come see, he mentioned that his sister's husband worked in the theatre. Britain's fabled manners and love and respect for the arts was abudantly on display.

The bad experience was in Amsterdam, where I was changing planes en route to the U.S. My flight from Paris had been delayed a day thanks to an air controllers strike. Why was I leaving a day later than my ticket indicated? Even with an explanation, the officious little fellow couldn't wrap his mind around the matter. What had I been doing in Paris?...Visiting friends?...What are the names of these friends?...Do you have their names written down anywhere?...You have a camera in the bag?...No?...Then how do you take pictures of your godson in Paris?...

The list of questions went on and on and on---it must have been ten minutes that I stood there, justifying my existence in general and my trip in particular. The customs guy's manner was compounded of condescension, suspicion with a perfectly obvious dash of 'I'm doing this simply because I can'.

Well, if that's the worst that's happened, I tell myself, I've gotten off easy.

[Stacey Cochran]

I've never left the country. Though I would like to...

[Donna]

Bizarre customs stories? Oh dear.

Well, first there was the Bouchercon Las Vegas one. I had to change planes in Minneapolis and pass through Immigration there. I chose the line that was moving
quickly. Well, at least, it was moving until I stood in it. Then it stopped, dead, with me and the Bulgarian athletics team wondering what was going on. At least, I was wondering what was going on. I don't
have a clue what the Bulgarian athletics team were saying since I don't speak Bulgarian.

I finally got up to the counter and the man asked the usual questions - how long was I staying, where was I staying, why was I here etc. When I said I was coming to Las Vegas and staying with a friend the first night
and then going to a crime fiction convention he just looked at me and said "And how did you become interested in that?" Thinking back, I don't really think he needed to know all that information about The Famous Five and Nancy Drew, but...well...there you go. He then asked how I knew the friend I was staying with in Las Vegas. "We're both Cary Grant fans and we met on the internet" I said. He looked horrified.

"It's OK", I reassured him "I've met her before - she's really quite normal."

"Ma'am, it wasn't HER I was worried about." he said as he stamped my passport.

And then coming home from Left Coast Crime in El Paso I was detained for an hour by Homeland Security when traces of glycerine (apprently used in making explosives) was found in my handbag. I am now on first
name terms with four members of the security service. I know their childrens' names and their dates of birth; they got to handle my breasts and rummage through my
underwear. I feel somehow as though the division of intimate sharing was a tad uneven :o) Oh, and glycerine is not only in explosives but also in lipgloss - who knew?

And then there was the satay stick in my handbag at Gatwick airport....Oh, better shut up, i could go on forever.

Donna

[Mary]

I almost got Reed and SJ in trouble at customs in Canada. When I explained that I was there for Bcon the guard asked if I had any books. I thought he was looking for freebies (silly me). So I said no, but that there were two authors behind me who might. Turns out they were cracking down on people trying to bring in books to sell without the proper paperwork and taxes. Fortunately both of them got through okay. I of course need to learn to keep my mouth shut ;-)

Donna thanks for the heads up on glycerine. I never would have thought of that and its in a number of items.