Uganda Be Kidding Me Read online

  This is when I went into bullshit mode.

  “A passport? For what? To travel to a third world country?”

  “To travel to any country, Ms. Handler.”

  “Really? When did this start?”

  “Since airlines were created, Ms. Handler.”

  “Would you mind not calling me Ms. Handler? I’m not in my eighties, and I resent the implication that I’ve never been proposed to.”

  “Okay, Handler,” he replied. “You do realize your passport is actually necessary in order to land in another country. Even if I were to allow you to go through security here, which I will not, you will have to go through customs when you land, and they will send you right back on the next plane.”

  “You can settle down,” I told him firmly. “I’ve got the picture loud and clear.”

  I moved away from the counter and then went back to him for another attempt. “You do realize I’m not a terrorist? I’m not going to blow up a plane. I have a television show. That would be a really stupid thing for me to do and think I can get away with. I’m pretty easy to find.”

  “I’ve never seen your show, but congratulations.”

  I moved away from the counter to call my assistant and find out why my passport hadn’t been packed. She informed me that my passport was indeed packed inside my toiletry bag inside my carry-on bag—information that had all been sent in an e-mail the night before for this very specific reason. This is exactly why I’m unable to travel alone; the minute I walk into an airport, it’s like someone has given me a full-blown lobotomy.

  I remounted the ticket counter, put my leg on the luggage scale, and exposed my passport to Hot Pants.

  “Here we go, little man. I’ve got the passport right here.”

  He looked at me askance, read my name off the passport and tilted his head to get a better look at me. “You’re a lot smaller in person,” he announced, before handing me two boarding passes and informing me I’d have a layover in Frankfurt.

  “Come again?” I asked him.

  It would be an understatement to say that this particular man took pleasure in delivering this news to me. And this was someone who had no idea what even merely passing through Germany meant to me.

  Only a month earlier my cousin Molly and my aunt Gaby (Molly’s mother) had tagged along with me to Berlin to film the show Who Do You Think You Are?

  Who Do You Think You Are? is a genealogy show that traces your heritage and flies you to wherever your ancestors made the most noise. In my case, it took me straight to Germany to research my Nazi roots. You don’t find out where you’re going until you actually get on the plane that day, and I was secretly hoping I’d end up in a country I’d never been to—like Russia. I know Russia isn’t on everyone’s hit list, but I’m less upset with Russians than Germans, because at least they have good literature.

  When we got to Germany, Molly suggested we go to a concentration camp. Sachsenhausen was an hour outside of Berlin, and we had the entire next day off from filming.

  “Yes,” I told her. “I suppose you are right. Being a Jew, it is kind of embarrassing I haven’t been to one yet. But, it’s not like I haven’t read about them.”

  “I bet all the people who were forcibly taken to concentration camps wish they had only read about them,” Molly replied. “You do realize that if you come to Eastern Europe and don’t go to a concentration camp, you’re an asshole?”

  After spending the first day in the hinterland, where my mother was born, we were off to Berlin, and I was excited to be going to a real city. The first day we saw the Berlin Wall, the Tower of Terror, and the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, and by the time dinner rolled around, I was suicidal. I woke up the next day feeling overwhelmed with sadness. The hotel we were at felt like a bunker, and the air-conditioning in my room was drying out my eyes, causing me an unusual amount of restlessness.

  The three of us met for breakfast in the hotel restaurant.

  “I really don’t think I’m in the mood for a concentration camp today,” I revealed to Molly and Gaby. “I think I’ll get superdepressed.”

  “I really don’t think anyone was in the fucking mood for a concentration camp, Chelsea. Do you?” Molly asked, slamming down her orange juice. I was taken aback by her aggressiveness.

  “I’m just saying, it’s fucking freezing out, and this sounds like it’s going to be a mostly outdoor event.”

  “Yes, it is cold out, and it was even colder out when Jews were forced to work all day with no shoes and shaved heads and sleep in human stacks. I think you can handle an hour or two in your wool coat, pashmina, and Uggs.”

  “Okay, Molly. I get it. Obviously, I’ll go. And for the record, I would never wear Uggs.”

  “It’s not really about you, Chelsea.”

  “I said I fucking got it!” I told her.

  “And I’m warning you ahead of time, there probably won’t be a bar.”

  “Perfect!” I replied. “A concentration camp without any cocktails. Sounds like another fantastic day.”

  I have never had a positive experience in Germany or Germans, except my mother—she was very sweet.

  I asked the ticket counter man at the airport if there were any other possible cities that would connect me to mounting Negroes. Reflecting on this exchange, I firmly believe he wouldn’t have told me if there was.

  I wasn’t going to let this little prick get me down.

  I consider myself to be quite independent, but only independent in the way that I am always able to find someone else to do something for me. My assistant had planned ahead for what is called an airport greeter—someone who assists a mentally incapable person through airport security and directly to the lounge, then babysits the person until the plane is ready to take off. The greeter then walks the baby to the assigned gate, exchanges a look of pity with the gate agent, and then escorts the baby to the assigned seat. Then flight attendant comes over and offers a set of pajamas.

  I had to go to the bathroom and asked my personal greeter if it was okay for me to urinate. He informed me that the first class lounge was only around the corner, but I insisted on using the “people’s” bathroom in an effort to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.

  I walked into what looked exactly like what a public airport restroom is supposed to look like—a bathhouse.

  As I happily trotted up to the girl at the end of the line, she very loudly asked, “Are you Chelsea Handler?”

  It was very early in the day, and as I was sober; I decided that yes, I was Chelsea Handler.

  “Can we take a photo after you’re done?”

  “… Going to the bathroom?” I asked, wanting her to hear her request out loud.

  “We can do it now,” she said.

  “No, let’s wait until we’re done and step out of the bathroom,” I suggested.

  I waited patiently for my turn and when it came, I walked into the bathroom stall. It was a shambolic tragedy. There was urine everywhere. Everywhere. On the wall behind the toilet, on the floor, on the toilet seat cover… and on top of all that, there was a fully soaked paper toilet seat cover also stuck to the toilet. What on earth was the point of pulling one of those paper seat covers out to sit on if you were just going to squat, anyway? It looked as if this criminal used the actual seat cover as the toilet paper. How could something like this happen before 1 p.m.?

  First of all, if you are female and leave a toilet in that condition, you need to ask yourself a couple of questions:

  What is wrong with you?

  Seriously. What is wrong with you?

  I’m fully aware this is coming from someone who lost control of her bowels in a kayak. However, I would never in my entire life leave a public restroom in the condition I saw it in that day. I wouldn’t even do that in the privacy of my own home. Well, maybe there, but I wouldn’t let my cleaning lady clean it up—not if it came out of one of my orifices. I have thrown underwear out in the garbage in order to prevent my cleaning la