I have a 'guilt' issue. It has been
passed down from mother to daughter all the way back to my grand
grand mere in Paris, France. And thanks to this highly developed
ability to feel as though everything is my fault, I am petrified of
authority. Most recently Customs Agents.
Customs and I have a history:
The first time I went to Tijuana I was
positive they wouldn't let me back into the United States. Never mind
that we were walking across the border with nothing but the clothes
on our backs. (Granted, the clothes on our backs were Cardinals
shirts and they were playing the much beloved Dodgers that day.)
I routinely ship gifts to my brother in
Germany. Every year we ship his family Christmas presents and every
year they get hung up in Customs. I guess the children's toys and home baked cookies are just to hard to pass up. This year I pushed the boundaries and sent my favorite home blended spice mix for bbq. When
the box went missing for nearly a month I didn't have the heart to
tell my brother what I had done. I figured if there was any question
he would be better off to be COMPLETELY innocent.
And then there is THE INCIDENT
So, with this impromptu trip to Mexico
I figured what better to take two ex-pat semi-CoasterofIllinois-ers
that coffee and spice blends from Soulard Market – the oldest
farmers market that side of the Mississippi. (U.S.) I happily claimed
my 'food' imports on the Customs form and after an excruciating wait
in the immigration line (read that unattainable bathroom), was pulled
aside for a bag search.
Naturally.
Yet, even with my poor grasp on Spanish
and the Customs Agent's apparent mutism, I was able to communicate –
with frantic hand gestures and much eye rolling on his part – that
the coffee and spices in the GIFT BAG were indeed...gifts. He shook,
sniffed and eyeballed the contents, especially the Orange Chipotle
blend,which I explained was delicious on fish. In the end, seemingly
not much of a foodie, he stuffed everything back in my bag and then
looked perplexed when I tossed the tiny TSA lock into my pocket.
What's the point of locking the bag now?
My little foray into near fugitive
status freed my fellow travelers to pass through semi-unscathed.
Harley Girl (explanation to follow) was also bag searched, But
Birthday Girl (also to follow) – who, by the way had millions of
dollars of camera equipment on her person – skipped on by.
Their fate was not so rosy on our
return trip.
US Customs Agents covering return trips
from Mexico are unfazed by declarations of liters of tequila and
vanilla. They chuckle at silver charms and glass hearts. They do,
however, have a penchant for motorcycle t-shirts. Evidenced by travel
companion number one – who chose to wear her studded Harley t-shirt
home. Not only did this warrant a pre-scan warning that 'you'll never
get through with that on' but it won her a full pat-down.
My other co-hort, now known as Birthday
Girl, also won a pat-down. Best we can figure it was because they
couldn't fathom how anyone could return from a trip to Mexico so pale
as to be considered transparent. Pat-down city sweetheart!
But, Birthday Girl didn't stop there.
You see, we returned on February 13. Which happened to be Birthday
Girl's...birthday. Our airplane seat row was 13. So, when the Customs
Guy told Birthday Girl to go stand in line 13, how could she not
react with surprise.
On retrospect, it probably wasn't such
a good idea. Customs Agents do not like it when their people shreik,
"WHAT LINE DID YOU SAY?!" It took a rapid explanation of
the situation from my spot on line 11 for the poor agent to regain
his composure and allow her to pass.
In the end, Harley Girl and Birthday
Girl survived their first pat-down and we developed some undeniable
truths about Customs:
It might take a while to move millions
of dollars of the drug of the day in one pound of coffee and 8 ounces
of spices but what drug lord would have the guts to disguise his
haul in the very substances that the Customs people look for?
Harley t-shirts are subject to
profiling.
Customs Agents have no respect for
'number significance'.
And lastly, we would like to propose
Celebrity Pat-Down. Seriously, who could get upset if say, Brad Pit
or Salma Hayek were to do your pat-down? Shoot, I might even go
through twice, just to be safe.
*In a previous installment the term
CrapMonkey was attributed to my sister. It is in fact a term coined
by an artist/writer friend of mine Melissa Stevens. She is waiving
all royalties for its use in this blog.
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