This past weekend I flew from Hahn Airport (RyanAir insists on calling it Frankfurt-Hahn, which is like calling PVD Airport Providence-Boston if Providence were an empty field) to Rome-Ciampino, which gave me the opportunity to experience airport security in two fully new places and led me to realize that the pat-down is in fact a remarkable predictor/reflector of a country's culture.
Prior to this year, I had only had to avoid metal detectors in the United States and Israel. Strangely—either despite or because of the added security—I had never been patted down in Israel: apparently if you look skinny, white and Jewish enough saying you have a pacemaker gives you a free pass. (I had the same experience on this trip when I entered the Vatican. Had I the foresight and ambition, I could have easily smuggled a bomb into St. Peter's Basilica. Twice.) I did get a pat-down on my layover in Dublin, but it must have been unremarkable, since I have no recollection of the event.
In any case, if you've ever been patted down in an American airport you're familiar with some of the pageantry. As the TSA has come under more scrutiny, it has become more and more rigorous in its pat-down protocol. From the standardized summons ("male assist!") to the well-rehearsed spiel ("I'm going to run my hands up your leg until I feel resistance, then back down"), the pre-meditated nature of the ritual makes you realize how many boring seminars and team-building exercises must have been required to perfect it.
In retrospect, two things make the TSA pat-down quintessentially American. For one, Americans are the only pat-downers I've seen that will actually tell you what they're going to do to you. It makes sense, though—for an American, communication is the essential ingredient for any successful relationship, be it professional, romantic, or just with a man who is about to feel you up in a totally non-sexual way. We're expressive and emotive, and we can deal with most things as long as we have a verbal warning beforehand, even if it is the totally bizarre and seemingly unnecessary finger-along-the-inside-of-your-waistline. Germans and Italians, on the other hand, are not as communication-obsessed. They're not really into small talk, and the Italians especially aren't going to give you any warning when they're about to go for your genitals.
And on the note of genital contact, you can get a fascinating amount of insight into the sexual nature of a society just based on how comfortable its security agents are patting down your crotch region. The Italians have very little respect for personal space and will admit to you without much thought that they are lecherous and immature and proud of it. So, not surprisingly, the Italian pat-down consists of a cursory brush down the front of the shirt followed by a rub-down-and-tug-up in the front and back crotchal regions. The pat-down stops there, too—they don't go past the knee and certainly have no interest in making you take off your shoes.
The Germans, on the other hand, are the exact opposite. They're as uncomfortable discussing sex as the most conservative American, and they are the only Europeans I've met so far (although I've heard this is similar throughout Northern Europe) that greet members of the opposite sex with a handshake rather than a kiss. Thus, the German pat-down conspicuously avoids the genital area. The security officials there put a lot of effort into the rest of the body, putting pressure on the back and squeezing the feet to the point of foot-rub-intimacy, but when it comes to the pants they back off, starting at an arbitrary spot slightly above the knee and then just going down from there. It's a startling moment, because after getting a pat-down in America you realize how much the Germans are leaving on the table from an efficiency/invasion-of-personal-space standpoint.
And that's the other thing about American pat-downers: these guys don't slack off. Like any other job in the US, you have to take yourself seriously when you're working airport security. Not only is the TSA thorough to the point of paranoia (I still have no idea what those glove-scanning machines are for), but it seems to have drilled its employees enough that you will never get a lackluster pat-down from a TSA official. For all of our talk of German bureaucracy and efficiency, we Americans really underestimate our own excellence in those departments. The Germans take themselves seriously, but they back off when it comes to an uncomfortable area such as the penis or the Holocaust—they're still too proper and dignified to offend people's sensibilities. Americans, on the other hand, don't give a flying fuck about sensibilities. Even though we take our privacy very seriously, when a job needs to get done we are willing to sacrifice almost anything in order to make it the best, and I am willing to state that the American pat-down is without a doubt the best I've had. It's got the full-body grope, the foot rub, the unexplainable technology, and even the uncomfortable genital contact. And unlike the Italian pat-down, I can say with confidence that that awkward contact comes from a place of national security rather than sexually charged curiosity. USA! indeed.
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