There is a funny story added just recently to my traveling experience at the UK-border which I would like to share with you, my dear fellow-Steemitians.
At first I would like to describe shortly certain circumstances in my life which bring me very often to Scotland.
When I first visited this beautiful land as a tourist in 1978 I couldn’t even dream that this will 30 years later become the home of my – by that time yet – unborn child, today well known in the world of producers in UK under the name Masha. But life is, of course, unpredictable, and mortals are not allowed to know upfront their karma and destiny, or whatever it is that governs our deeds and directs us on our Path…
To cut the long story short: during last ten years I have been visiting her new family in Scotland very often and since I got my first of two grandchildren in 2013 I became the baby-sitter, almost on a regular monthly basis, especially after this guy – who was named Arik after 30 days spent on this planet – three days after he landed on Earth, found out that the most pleasant place to sleep is the chest of his “deda”, how he calls me.
The best illustration for the frequency of my visits would be the usual conversation with some of the security clerks at the Edinburgh Airport:
‘Heya, Myurich, how are you today?’
‘I’m good, thank you. How are you, Nash? Leaving us again?’
‘Yes, but I’ll be back in no time!’
Since the time of Arik’s first nap on my chest, I enjoyed investing a lot of time in my grandson and I am really proud of him mastering the three skills I have thought him at such an early age: skiing, riding the bicycle (with no supporting back-wheels) and playing chess.
He repaid me by getting me addicted to ‘Nando’s’ – almost as delicious as ‘El Taco’, but waaay more tasty than ‘Subway’, ‘KFC’, ‘Burger King’, ‘McDonalds’ etc.
And now we come to the actual story that I wanted to share with you in the first place:
RyanAir brings us – Arik and me – on a sunny but, as usual, very cold morning, from Düsseldorf-Weeze to Edinburgh airport like almost always – right on time (with trumpets and final proud announcement at landing: ’90% of our flights in last year were on time!’) – for the bargain price of 9.99€ per person in this occasion (like very often, too).
We approached the desk of a very seriously looking passport-control officer and after detailed check-up of our documents – my Croatian and Arik’s UK-passport – he asks me:
‘Your relation to this child, sir?’
‘Perfect! Very close and warm’ – I reply, smiling innocently.
He does not accept my light tone and did not let himself be confused, so he rephrases the question, pronouncing the words slowly, probably supposing that I don’t really understand well his Scottish accent:
‘Who are you to this boy?’
‘I am his grandfather.’
‘And where are his parents?’
‘They are waiting for us outside?’
‘Can you prove somehow that this is really your grandson?’
‘Of course’, I say, and while I am pulling out from the backpack the parental passports’ copies and a guarantee letter I am complimenting him:
‘I am so glad that at last I found somebody responsible enough, who is doing his work properly… I must admit that I flew over this continent and nobody has ever asked me if I might possibly be even the smuggler of kids…‘
Source: Daily Express
And then it gets hilarious: he is studying the given documents and discovering that Arik and I bear the same surname (which is written in his passport in front of his father’s last name) he comes up with the next dilemma:
‘So, his father is Croat and his mother is German?’
‘No, his farther has Scottish and his mother has the German citizenship’, I reply.
‘And you are a Croat?’
‘No, I am Serb of Montenegrin heritage, with Yugoslav and then later Croatian citizenship, born in Zagreb.’
I see in his face the major effort to digest all information and then he grabs for the straw with a trace of victory in his voice – proud of himself that he at last understood and solved this mess:
‘But Arik is half Croat and half German?’...
...and found me waiting for him in the ambush:
‘No, sorry.
He is a quarter Scot and a quarter Iranian, because his father comes from a mixed marriage and by the second half, Arik is a Serb, and that is because of my daughter - you know, his mother with German citizenship – who is, after both parents, of a Serbian nationality and was also born in Croatia.’
At the end of his strength, the poor guy tries his last chance:
‘Anyway, you are now coming from Croatia, aren’t you?’
‘No, I am living longer than one third of my life in Germany and that is where I'm coming from.’
Already evidently exhausted by this game of false guessing, ‘the loser’ is almost prepared to rest his case, but he, unfortunately, decided to draw the ‘winning’ conclusion:
‘But the little boy lives in Wishaw!’
At this point I pull my final argument on him and put him to the ground:
"No, wrong once more... he is only born in Wishaw but he lives in Motherwell, by Glasgow!"
I hardly heard the words ‘Thank you, sir, you can go...’ but I could easily read the clear message on his face:
‘I am ready to change my shift immediately if I ever find out this guy is coming back to Scotland again!’
I almost cannot wait until the 17th of April this year !
