Sometimes Allah blesses you with enough luck and knowledge to get you through next few hours. Kinda like a few really (really) good bong hits. And though I have no idea what an ‘Allah’ is, it gave me the presence of mind to leave all identifying documents in my room. The first time I can ever recall doing that.
While walking in the early morning hours, we were approached by a uniformed officer wearing one of those silly Russian fur hats. Knowing its unusual, borderline culturally unacceptable, to see a woman out in public at such an hour, I presumed we were in for a stern questioning and would be on our way.
As he approached, he looked me up and down, which I thought was kind of queer at the time. Then I noticed how big his night stick was and begin to imagine the subsequent beating I could get if I so much as opened my mouth. In hindsight, I wish I had the lexicon to reformulate that last sentence.
As required, Ms. Baku presented her identification and I, played the ignorant white man who doesn’t understand Azeri. He looked over the ID card as if looking for something illegal, occasionally pausing to glance at me and continually press for some form of identification. I had a feeling we were going to be here awhile.
He called his partner over, a taller, younger and more handsome officer. They continued to talk to me, pressing for identification, not quite accepting the fact that I had no idea what they were saying. You know that dumb look you think you’re sporting when someone yells something at you in a foreign language, or when your IT guy comes down to fix your shit and explains to you what you were doing wrong? The look that says, “I’m sorry I’m not home right now. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.” That look is not universal.
Ten minutes of this, and Ms. Baku and the short, older, more ugly one excuse themselves towards the building while the taller, younger and more handsome officer keeps me at bay. At this point, the two begin to argue as I struggle to remember what time breakfast at the hotel begins and if they’ll have those delicious little French Toast thingies and if not, what they could possibly replace them with.
‘Cause I’m a hungry bitch.
Just when I was about to excuse myself to seek out a snack pack, or street-side mobile snack booth, Ms. Baku turns around, tucks her ID back into her bag, grabs my arm and escorts me away, clearly insensitive to my hunger pangs. As suspected, I have just witnessed first hand the corruption of the state law enforcement. An abuse of power to demand identification and grant its return to the lawful owner only if the price is right.
Threats ranged from, ‘Do your parents know where you are and if so, I need to call them to verify,’ to, ‘Why don’t we just take you down to the Police station and we can work it out there,’ to, ‘Perhaps you should come to the hotel with me. You might need your ID card again someday.’
What I didn’t know was, as my fantasies jumped from a fruit snack box to a night-stick beating, back to a tasty snack box, I was watching this woman argue with a Police officer in a language she claims with limited speaking abilities, ultimately negotiating her way to his submission and free return of her ID.
I forgot she studied law.
Also, she’s hott.
And, I’m meeting her family tonight. I’m thinking of going without pants.
While walking in the early morning hours, we were approached by a uniformed officer wearing one of those silly Russian fur hats. Knowing its unusual, borderline culturally unacceptable, to see a woman out in public at such an hour, I presumed we were in for a stern questioning and would be on our way.
As he approached, he looked me up and down, which I thought was kind of queer at the time. Then I noticed how big his night stick was and begin to imagine the subsequent beating I could get if I so much as opened my mouth. In hindsight, I wish I had the lexicon to reformulate that last sentence.
As required, Ms. Baku presented her identification and I, played the ignorant white man who doesn’t understand Azeri. He looked over the ID card as if looking for something illegal, occasionally pausing to glance at me and continually press for some form of identification. I had a feeling we were going to be here awhile.
He called his partner over, a taller, younger and more handsome officer. They continued to talk to me, pressing for identification, not quite accepting the fact that I had no idea what they were saying. You know that dumb look you think you’re sporting when someone yells something at you in a foreign language, or when your IT guy comes down to fix your shit and explains to you what you were doing wrong? The look that says, “I’m sorry I’m not home right now. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.” That look is not universal.
Ten minutes of this, and Ms. Baku and the short, older, more ugly one excuse themselves towards the building while the taller, younger and more handsome officer keeps me at bay. At this point, the two begin to argue as I struggle to remember what time breakfast at the hotel begins and if they’ll have those delicious little French Toast thingies and if not, what they could possibly replace them with.
‘Cause I’m a hungry bitch.
Just when I was about to excuse myself to seek out a snack pack, or street-side mobile snack booth, Ms. Baku turns around, tucks her ID back into her bag, grabs my arm and escorts me away, clearly insensitive to my hunger pangs. As suspected, I have just witnessed first hand the corruption of the state law enforcement. An abuse of power to demand identification and grant its return to the lawful owner only if the price is right.
Threats ranged from, ‘Do your parents know where you are and if so, I need to call them to verify,’ to, ‘Why don’t we just take you down to the Police station and we can work it out there,’ to, ‘Perhaps you should come to the hotel with me. You might need your ID card again someday.’
What I didn’t know was, as my fantasies jumped from a fruit snack box to a night-stick beating, back to a tasty snack box, I was watching this woman argue with a Police officer in a language she claims with limited speaking abilities, ultimately negotiating her way to his submission and free return of her ID.
I forgot she studied law.
Also, she’s hott.
And, I’m meeting her family tonight. I’m thinking of going without pants.
