EWolfe

alternative energy

Tell you: ride to ski?

I am not an alcoholic, I'm a drunk. An alcoholic is what you call someone you don't like who drinks as much as you

Here's a good one.

What follows is one representative newspaper account of the strange story of Merhan Karimi Nasseri, a man without country, trapped by his lack of papers in Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris, France, since 26 August 1988: [boston Globe, 1997] He could be any passenger waiting for a flight, sitting patiently on a red plastic bench in Charles de Gaulle Airport's Terminal One, luggage piled neatly by his side. He sips a cup of hot chocolate and scans the crowd, occasionally cocking his head to listen to the airport announcements. He peruses a book, Hillary Rodham Clinton's "It Takes a Village." But Merhan Karimi Nasseri is going nowhere. He has been waiting for a flight out of France, he says, for 10 years. Nasseri was expelled from Iran a decade ago for his political views. Through a series of fateful missteps, he landed here without any documents. Since then, Europe's increasingly stiff stance toward refugees and his fragile mental state have kept him at the airport here in legal limbo. His is a story of broken hopes and bureaucracy, of a trip across Europe in search of a homeland that became a journey into mental chaos and despair. And it is a story of a man who has searched for his family, only to find an adopted one here, at Charles de Gaulle. "He's like a part of the airport. Everyone knows him," says Muhamed Mourrid, the manager of the Bye Bye Bar, pointing to the spot where Nasseri, 47, has lived for a decade. "That's his table, his chair, his place." Adds Marise Petry, a Lufthansa clerk, "He's one of us. We even get letters for him." Among the annals of horrific refugee tales, Nasseri's story is remarkable for its pathos and complexity. It begins in Iran in 1977, when Nasseri, fresh from studying in England, was expelled for protesting against the shah. His expulsion left him without a passport. Nasseri came to Europe. He bounced from capital to capital, applying for refugee status and being refused, again and again, for nearly four years. In 1981, his request for political asylum from Iran was finally granted by the United Nations High Commission for Refugees in Belgium. That decision gave him refugee credentials, which in turn allowed him to seek citizenship in a European country. The son of an Iranian and a Briton, Nasseri decided in 1986 on England with the hope of finding relatives there. He got as far as Paris, where in 1988 his briefcase containing his refugee documents was stolen in a train station. Nasseri boarded a plane for London anyway. But when officials at Heathrow Airport found he had no passport, they sent him back to Charles de Gaulle. At first, the French police arrested him for illegal entry. But as Nasseri had no documents, there was no country of origin to which he could be deported. So he took up residence in Terminal One. From its circular confines, he and his attorney, the Paris-based human rights lawyer Christian Bourget, battled to define his status and send him to London. In 1992, a French court finally ruled that Nasseri had entered the airport legally as a refugee and could not be expelled from it. But the court could not force the French government to allow him out of the airport onto French soil. In fact, Bourget said, French authorities refused to give Nasseri either a refugee or transit visa. "It was pure bureaucracy," said the lawyer. French immigration authorities have no comment on the case. Bourget and Nasseri then focused on Belgium, where they hoped to reclaim Nasseri's original refugee documents. But Belgian refugee officials refused to mail them to him in France. They argued that Nasseri had to present himself in person so that they could be sure he was the same man to whom they had granted political asylum years before. But, inexplicably, the Belgian government refused at that point to allow Nasseri to return there. And under Belgian law, a refugee who voluntarily leaves a country that has accepted him cannot return. In 1995, the Belgian government finally told Nasseri that he could retrieve his refugee documents if he agreed to live in Belgium under the supervision of a social worker. Nasseri refused. He said he would move only to Great Britain. And so here he has remained, year after year. At first glance, the dignified man does not appear to be a refugee who sleeps on an airport bench because he has nowhere else to go. His clothes are clean, his moustache well-trimmed. He keeps his one blazer covered with plastic wrap, hanging from an airport cart. His belongings are carefully packed in a frayed suitcase and a stack of Lufthansa boxes. Nasseri nods hello to a clerk, who calls him "Alfred," his nickname here. He follows the news closely, thanks to the most recent Time magazine, which the postman has just dropped off. And he loves to discuss the new selections from the Book-of-the-Month Club. "I just keep on reading, every day," said the soft-spoken Nasseri, a courtly gentleman who rises and offers his seat to a visitor. "I just keep waiting here." His pallid complexion is testament to his inability to cross the airport threshold to the outside world. He walks to the doors of Terminal One and absorbs fresh air as they swing open. But he never steps outside. His hollow cheeks and thin frame show the limits of the generosity of airport staff and strangers to help with his meals. Nasseri's confused account of his plight speaks to the psychological price he has paid in his fight to become a man who belongs somewhere. "Nobody could suffer all he did and stay normal," noted Bourget. The sad truth is this: After fighting for years to leave the airport and apply for citizenship elsewhere, Nasseri was afraid to do so when the opportunity arose. Belgium offered Nasseri the chance to settle there, but he refused. "Now, I think he will stay in the airport until he dies," Bourget concluded softly. His bizarre tale has brought him a degree of fame. He has been the subject of news reports from Finland to Britain. His life story became a 1994 French film, starring Jean Rochefort. Nasseri gets fewer visitors now to punctuate the long days down on Terminal One's boutique level, ringed with stores and small cafes. But he still has a following who help clothe and feed him and lift his spirits. "He does no harm to anyone," said Papa Starr, manager of the Les Palmes restaurant. "Everyone cares for him here." Several times a week, the airport priest stops by to visit him, as does Dr. Phillipe Bargain, the airport doctor. Many staff regularly visit him at his table for a cup of coffee and a chat. "I get lots of cards at Christmas," he said. "I call it my American Christmas." His life follows the quotidian airport cycle. He wakes at 5:30 in order to shave in the men's room before passengers arrive. He reads all day long. At night, he waits until the airport stores are locked before he brushes his teeth with the toothbrush and toothpaste from a complimentary airline travel kit. Weekly, he rinses out his clothes overnight in the bathroom. Nasseri is renowned throughout the airport for his refusal to ask for help. "We have a colleague who gave him clothes, but he returned them, saying 'I'm not a beggar,'" said Crystelle L'Hospitalier, a Lufthansa clerk. But he has to eat, and accepts occasional meal vouchers and francs from stewardesses and airport staff. As the years have slipped by, it has become increasingly clear that Nasseri will never leave Charles de Gaulle. His airport years have made him "crazier by the day," on the topic of his future, said airport doctor Bargain. When he talks about flying to London, the staff here greet him with understanding smiles. "An airport is kind of a place between heaven and earth," said Danielle Yzerman, spokeswoman for Charles de Gaulle. "He has found a home here." Nasseri is known for his honesty and refusal of charity. On two occasions he turned in billfolds full of money that had been mislaid by passengers. Airline and airport personnel push meal vouchers on him so he can eat. "French fries are my favorite," he confides. "It's not a very healthy diet, but I get enough." According to Nasseri: "When I think about the past 10 years, I realize that it is all wasted time," he says softly in clear but accented English. "I would like to leave this airport, but I need to get my identity papers in order first. It's not a normal life to stay in the airport for so long. It gets boring." On 17 September 1999, an international travel card and a French residency permit were put into Nasseri's hands. With them, he's now free to leave the airport, either to take up residency in France or to fly to another country that will allow him entry. He refuses to sign them, however, because they list his nationality as Iranian, and he wants it listed as British. He remains at Charles de Gaulle airport, determined to stick to this point rather than face life outside the terminal. source

More Tom Lehrer: Spring is here, a-suh-puh-ring is here. Life is skittles and life is beer. I think the loveliest time of the year is the spring. I do, don't you? 'Course you do. But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me, And makes every Sunday a treat for me. All the world seems in tune On a spring afternoon, When we're poisoning pigeons in the park. Every Sunday you'll see My sweetheart and me, As we poison the pigeons in the park. When they see us coming, the birdies all try an' hide, But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide. The sun's shining bright, Everything seems all right, When we're poisoning pigeons in the park. We've gained notoriety, And caused much anxiety In the Audubon Society With our games. They call it impiety And lack of propriety, And quite a variety Of unpleasant names. But it's not against any religion To want to dispose of a pigeon. So if Sunday you're free, Why don't you come with me, And we'll poison the pigeons in the park. And maybe we'll do In a squirrel or two, While we're poisoning pigeons in the park. We'll murder them all amid laughter and merriment, Except for the few we take home to experiment. My pulse will be quickenin' With each drop of strych'nine We feed to a pigeon. (It just takes a smidgin!) To poison a pigeon in the park.

Girls! Pop the balloons, get the prize!

Always was, just ask Scott_Harpell. Damn right! wow paul. how creative. changing the names, to make it look like someone ripping on you was actaully ripping on someone else. sure aren't wasting your edumacation. Guess what Scott? I was thinking of Fence Sitter when I wrote that post. I just got the names a little mixed up. They all blur together sometimes... Don't worry Scotty, I'm putting my edumacation to good use! ya, umm that s obvious At what point does a massively recursive quoted thread collapse under its own weight? "12 buried and presumed lost in spray collapse. 'Well, that's 12 less of those fuckers to ban,' say moderators." I don't know, lets find out... Posers! All of ya! Dear god thats alot of quoted people! Huh? I think Arlen's original quote will just disappear soon. arlen?? This might be interesting... Eat it Ask Panama....

Always was, just ask Scott_Harpell. Damn right! wow paul. how creative. changing the names, to make it look like someone ripping on you was actaully ripping on someone else. sure aren't wasting your edumacation. Guess what Scott? I was thinking of Fence Sitter when I wrote that post. I just got the names a little mixed up. They all blur together sometimes... Don't worry Scotty, I'm putting my edumacation to good use! ya, umm that s obvious At what point does a massively recursive quoted thread collapse under its own weight? "12 buried and presumed lost in spray collapse. 'Well, that's 12 less of those fuckers to ban,' say moderators." I don't know, lets find out... Posers! All of ya! Dear god thats alot of quoted people! Huh? I think Arlen's original quote will just disappear soon.

Todd = The Albatross = Imelda Marcos of the Climbing World

Mike, your location is definitely the most bizarre.

Pretty heavy at Baker today, but lots of freshiez! The FatBob was the board to have, just wish I had wipers and a defroster for my goggles! Bring on the base!

Always was, just ask Scott_Harpell. Damn right! wow paul. how creative. changing the names, to make it look like someone ripping on you was actaully ripping on someone else. sure aren't wasting your edumacation. Guess what Scott? I was thinking of Fence Sitter when I wrote that post. I just got the names a little mixed up. They all blur together sometimes... Don't worry Scotty, I'm putting my edumacation to good use! ya, umm that s obvious At what point does a massively recursive quoted thread collapse under its own weight? "12 buried and presumed lost in spray collapse. 'Well, that's 12 less of those fuckers to ban,' say moderators." I don't know, lets find out...

Thanks for the info, Jon. I have always considered this site a privilege (and a fine one at that), and not a right. Climbers are by nature a raucous and non-conformist bunch. I believe that the moderators are doing a good job keeping a basically unruly mob in check. Kudos to the Admins and the Mods.

Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder Syndrome. Give the poor guy a break, he hasn't seen daylight in 4 weeks.

Alaskans have told me unless you shoot them in the eye, head shots are a waste cuz their skulls are so thick and the slope such that they often just bounce off. The middle of the neck is the place to shoot for: spinal cord/carotid artery. That break-apart is sweet!

How about the new Daihatsu Renton? Or the H3 "Bellevue" I personally prefer the Yugo Ballard. But the Hillman Hanford gets good mileage.

People, please. What a load.

Must be the bloody knife in your avatar pic. I think you are nice! Sexy, too.

That was great, Erik. They forgot: "Fuck! The fucking fucker's fucking fucked!"

EIGHT INCHES OF NEW!!! LATER SUCKAS!!

Was he sportin a set of these?