[Anonymous]

[Anonymous]

In which our correspondent experiences his own Groundhog Day when asked for his ID in America – again, and again, and again…

You’d think all this international travel would age me, but judging by a recent business trip to Boston it must be having an elixir-like effect.
I first became aware that Boston may be something of a risk-averse city when at a lunch meeting I noticed a disclaimer on the menu saying certain under-cooked items may make me “more prone to food-borne illnesses”. Finding the legal-speak amusing, I pointed it out to my US colleague, who told me it had to be included in Boston’s menus by law. Since the Declaration of Independence had been drawn up around the corner from the restaurant, we were clearly meant to take this sort of thing seriously. Bostonians certainly do, as I was to discover, repeatedly.

My punishing day of meetings concluded – the Americans like to work long, work hard, work some more, then take some work home and check their Blackberries every couple of minutes in case there’s some work that needs doing – I decided to reward myself with a beer. Pushing my way in from the cold into a traditional-looking bar, I was greeted by a spotty youth who asked me for my “picture ID”.

Amused, and frankly a bit flattered, that someone at least half my age thought me too young to drink, I skipped back to my hotel over the road to pick up my passport. (Okay, I didn’t skip – it was minus three outside, so I forged into the searing wind like Sir Ranulph Fiennes, if slightly less heroic.) I came back a few minutes later, brandished it triumphantly and drank my beer with relish, trying to recall the last time I’d been IDed. And failing, because I’m getting old and my memory’s not what it used to be.

The following day, when I had an afternoon free before flying home, I came prepared. Calling into a bar-diner to grab a bite – or, more accurately, judging by US portions, a banquet even Henry VIII would have balked at – I was asked at the door if I would be partaking in alcohol. Well hell, yes, why not? “Could I see your picture ID, then, sir?” Perusing my passport, the doorman handed it back to me, thanking me by name. Startled at first and looking around for some disembodied Big Brother, I realised he’d read it off my document. Nice touch. So that’s why Boston has a famous pub “where everyone knows your name”.

Then he came at me with the type of ink stamp I used to get marked with many moons ago at student union bars, and made a dirty-looking blob on my hand to indicate that I was a drinker. Feeling a bit like a branded cow – half of which was duly served up to me, along with enough fries to end the potato famine Irish Bostonians like to talk about – I settled down to self-induce a heart attack.

The stamping episode had brought back all sorts of nostalgia about my university days, and on my way back to the hotel I decided to do something I’ve not done in a long time, and buy a packet of cigarettes.

Nipping into the liquor store, I asked the guy behind the counter for a box. “Could I see your picture ID, sir?” came the astonishing reply. Now, I may look good for my years, but to say I’m too young to buy a pack of smokes is pushing it a tad, and I have to admit the novelty was starting to wear off. In fact, I was beginning to get pretty stressed out. I showed the necessary, got outside, lit up and dragged deep – yes, I did inhale – and mused on whether this was a sensible policy to discourage young people from the dark arts, or US security gone mad.

I got an answer of sorts later on back at Heathrow when I went to collect my case at the baggage hall. Pleased to see it making its way around the carousel so soon, I was less so when I realised it was trussed up with gaffer tape, the zip having been broken by the enthusiasm with which it had been ripped open in a random security check. And inside, another of those wonderful disclaimers, that no liability could be accepted for damaging my property in the course of the inspection.

Too tired to kick up a fuss, I wheeled my mummified case towards the taxi rank and, looking down, realised the stamp was still on my hand despite all attempts to wash it off. God bless America.

[JJ51435]

You get used to this when you live in the USA but – at 50 – I refuse to get carded and I have had arguments with doormen too eager to abuse their ephemeral power. I am always happy to go back to Europe and enjoy the freedom to drink, the freedom to speed – in Germany – and the freedom to shift gears… America is not for everyone. Just think of it as a freedom-loving dictatorship of the rich people. There also too many law enforcement agencies, too many levels of governments and too many prohibitions on top of lack of decent affordable healthcare and public education.

[VintageKrug]

One of your best columns yet. Bravo!

[Kilted_Scot]

Glad I read this post. I too am just back from the USA. I informed my wife that I had been ID’d both in San DIego and in Chicago prior to entering a bar. When she had stopped laughing and picked herself up from the floor, she flatly refused to believe that this had taken place and insisted that I had imagined both episodes.

[watersz]

While at the local footie ground in Boston trying to buy 3 Beers I got to the front after 15 minutes to be told Massachusettes state law only allows me to serve you two Beers sir.

take the Beers back start to que again yawn…….

[SimonRowberry]

Very amusing – thanks.

My wife and I got carded at Cheers in Boston 20 years or so ago – I asked the guy whether we looked under age and he replied something like “No Sir, but it’s my job.” Fair enough then, I guess.

I also remember going to one State, I’m pretty sure it was Massachusetts, in 1978, at the age of 18, and being able to legally drink. I then returned in 1980 and could not, because they’d raised the drinking age to 21 in the interim. Quite surreal.

Simon

[LuganoPirate]

I have to walk to get a drink! 😉

[Chiantikid]

My favourite was a few years back when I went into a bar in the USA and flashed my UK driving licence at the kid on the door. Always throws them, and as usual he had a good look obviously desperately trying to find my DOB. After a good 20 seconds he gave up, thanked me and said ‘Have a great evening Mr uk. Er sorry I said that’s not my name to which he replied he thought that was my name as it was on the top right side of my ID. Er no UK is where I’m from I replied!! You couldn’t make it up

[canucklad]

Well Chiantikid, my story is also driving license related.

First big trip with my mates, not involving a Med destination and all the fun of female flesh and sweaty stinky tequila slammer swill joints…..this holiday was our North American adventure culminating in a stay at my family home back in BC.

So, our last evening in the US arrives, our early next morning AC flight awaits and all our Yankee dollars are almost spent. Lenin like we collectively chuck our dimes, nickels, quarters and fortunately a variety of presidents into the kitty.. It’s agreed that we’ll get beer from the local Albertsons supermarket (Tesco) and order food in. My Comrade and I are dispatched to purchase the beer. Acutely aware of the strict laws about underage drinking, my Comrade takes his passport. The old 007 style passport I might add!!

We spot a great deal on our slab of beer, meaning we can eat like kings on our last night in LA. …YeaH…..Standing in the checkout queue. our tourist garb attracts the attention of a couple of girls that probably inspired the Beach Boys hit.. ..They melt when they hear my mates Scottish accent and WOW, could this be the perfect ending to our stay in the US?……… .Ehmmm No !!

Our 2 tanned Californian goddesses have kindly volunteered to drive us back to our motel, they pay for their groceries and head out to the car (probably a mustang) to wait. It’s our turn to pay for our beer……..as expected, 2 letters of the alphabet was barked in our general direction by a glasses and braces wearing, acne riddled lad who clearly should have been brought up in Cleveland rather than Orange County!! ……

Staring at the document that states the Queens request and requirement that allows my pal unhindered entrance to his country, this chump demands to see his……Californian Highway driver’s license !! ……. I don’t have one and I don’t drive my mate calmly explains . A job worth Joe, and, oblivious to the growing queue then questions the authenticity of the passport, and suggests it’s a fake. He repeats his demand to see my pals California Highway driver’s license if we want to buy the beer ! My mate now seething demands to speak to the manager, and the growing queue is now becoming impatient. The manager appears, inspects the passport and questions what it’s used , for…… “If it’s good enough for your government, to let me into your country, why isn’t it good enough here? “……. “We require REAL proper photo ID, have you any other Californian ID on you ? ” says the manager. ….“For F**** Sake, , stuff your crappy beer up your arse you F******* idiot”…Beer dropped onto the belt, we leave the store……

Now in the car park, my mates raging red face, raises the temperature of the Californian sun drenched afternoon to above boiling point…….and ME, my heart sunk lower than a snakes belly as I searched and searched until I forlornly gave up on the sultry Californian maidens who befriended us 15 minutes earlier. I swear if either of those Albertson employees approached me as that sense of loss sunk in, I’d have made the OJ trial look like an episode of Judge Judy. Raging, the pair of us, beerlessly headed back to our thirsty pals., With our heads sunk in despair, we pass a Korean corner market and enquire if we can purchase some beer from our Oriental friend ? With a cheerful smile he sells us his alcoholic stock, alas he’s more expensive and the judgement call, had to be made…….Beer or Burgers?

Our life’s wouldn’t have been worth living if we returned DRY, and breakfast was only 16 hours away…….Easy !!!

[RetiredLawyer]

My wonderful lady’s response to being “carded” is usually to bat eyelashes at the youth doing it, smile sweetly and exclaim that the ID request was the nicest compliment she had received that day.

It seems to me that, unfortunately, the US has turned into a nation of nannies — all eager to mind your business and legally require you to do what someone you don’t know deems is in your best interest and for your own good — regardless of what you, yourself may think.

[Chiantikid]

@canucklad. Great story. Yes you’ve reminded me that I was once asked for state ID rather than the British passport I was showing them as they’d obviously never seen one before. ( It was one of those states in the middle????) . I’m sure it’s all a ruse to get us annoyed so we’ll drink more!

[Author]

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