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"F*@#king Immigration"

More than ninety minutes after the plane lands, he walks into the passenger pickup area.

"We don't treat people this way in Brazil."

Rest assured, security levels are heightened and no unwanted gay Brazilian terrorists will make their way into Newark this week.

He's in UK on a student visa from Brazil. On the spur of the moment, he decides to fly to the US, and procures a ticket the day before his flight. Two small carry on bags.

Hello red flags ...

"Why are you coming to Amercica?"

"Why is there no stamp on your passport from the last time you left Brazil?"

"When was the last time you were here?"

"How do you make money in the UK?"

"Who are you coming to visit?"

"And how long have you known *him*?"

"Where did you meet?"

"Do you have a phone number for him?"

And finally, the in the third interrogation room, with the third Immigration Officer, "You've only known this *guy* a week and you're coming to New York to see him? That's crazy. Why would you do that?"

Because I miss him.

Apparently that did the trick.

I asked if anyone was mean to him, or just the usual barrage (speaking of, 7ish tonight) of questions over and over. "Just a bunch of stupid questions. But the last guy was good looking."

I'm a little concerned that where ever we were last night, there were unmarked black cars and men with earpieces casually *not* watching us. Then again, it's like being in an Alias episode.

And more importantly, should I send Chi Chi La Rue a treatment for the movie?