This exact thing happened to me when I visited Spain in '73 at the age of 13. I didn't know a word of Spanish, so when I arrived at Barajas airport -
unaccompanied - I instinctively went to the shortest line at Immigration, which happened to be for native Spaniards. I held my U.S. passport in my
hands, but no one asked me for it, so I collected my bags and walked out of the terminal none the wiser. My uncle was waiting for me at the curb, and
as far as I knew, everything was fine - until I tried to leave several weeks later.
My host family consisted of a college student, a few years older than me, and his parents, a homemaker and a lawyer. Arturo and his father drove me to
the airport and stayed around long enough to note that there was a problem with my passport. The officials spoke no English, so Mr. Romero
instinctively took my case. He grew loud and agitated while officials questioned him with similar tone and volume. I don't know what was said, but I
ultimately made my flight to New York on time, which in retrospect might have been a mistake. |