Harvey, an elderly well dressed and mannered man, arrived at French immigration at the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, France. He fumbled, mumbled and stumbled trying to remember where he put his passport.
“Have you been to France before Monsieur?” the French official enquired with narrowed eyes and a snide tone. Harvey smiled and admitted that yes, he’d been to France before, but it’d been a spell since he’d come back. “Well, in that case monsieur, you should have known enough to have your passport ready for inspection,” snipped the ill-tempered officer.
Harvey gazed at him with ancient eyes and gently informed the impatient French official that the last time he came to France he didn’t have to show his passport. “Pas (not) possible, old man!!! Foreigners have always had to show their passports upon arrival in ‘la belle France’!”
Harvey gave the Frenchman a long, hard look and with a voice filled with restraint said, “I can assure you, you Parisian punk, I’m telling you the truth. You see, when I came ashore here on D-Day in 1944, there sure as hell weren’t any uppity Frenchman out on that damn beach asking for passports.”
