The Smuggler

So, there I was, an innocent in paradise....I was on the last leg of our trip home safe and sound, so's I thought on home turf at the SeaTac airport. I was at the baggage carousel, heaving off bags when a customs agent approached Mary to randomly ask about her arrival. I had given her the hastily completed customs checklist I'd been given on the plane from London, the one that had about six tiny lines in which I was supposed to itemize our purchases over the prior month's travels which were burgeoning from every bag and pocket....



Conscientiously, I had checked the appropriate boxes, all negatives on contraband items but had in fact indicated a "yes" on the food box. I raced over to the customs agent grilling Mary, my bags flying in every direction, and answering his question about the "yes" with "olive oil...and some Pasta - is pasta a problem??" I queried....



"nope, pasta should be all right..." he responded, scrawling an illegible initial on the page. I retrieved our seven suitcases, piling them awkwardly on carts - I was really missing the Public Porters we had used through Europe about then, and off we huffed through a corridor and out into a waiting room off lines and swarming people. Through the first booth we went, a customs agent smiling and stamping our passports while I finished the customs forms, quickly putting vales on all the various items listed. He smiled. "Food...is the olive oil you mentioned on the back all that you have?"



"Yes," I blustered...or wait we also have pasta!" He smiled again and stamped away a few more times and sent us on our way. The next waiting area was like coming through Ellis Island....hundreds of bodies sweating away, hauling all types of baggage, babies crying....oh the humanity. An agent approached us and took a look at the scrawl on our customs ticket. "Follow the yellow line...he snarked"....



I knew this was a bad omen. No one else was following the yellow line. None of the suspicious-looking types I had earmarked were in the yellow line. This was bad. I turned the corner, Mary was ahead of me and already having words with a customs agent...he was rummaging through her handbag. She had not eaten the breakfast box we had been given on the plane, and had in her bag a small packet of apple slices. She was mortified as he waved them in the air chastising her for all to see for having tried to sneak apples into the country. Shame. Fortunately for her, his tirade was minimized by the fact we and four customs agents were the only ones in the yellow room. Everyone else had followed the blue line or the red line and were happily on their way home by now.



I started to unload the baggage onto the (yet another) x-ray belt...the luggage passed through, but a sharp-eyed agent snapped up the blue bag, the one we had bought in London for our purchases. The one with the pasta. He had the customs ticket in his hand. "Olive oil...is that all the food you have in here???" He grilled. "Yes...er no..." I replied weakly. "We have pasta. we were told that packaged pasta is okay..."



"Yes, Pasta is okay." he muttered as he opened the bag and began rooting though it. Through the clothes we had packed in there, through the souvenir books and postcards. He ripped open a plastic grocery-type bag filled with bags and pasta and dove in like a surgeon extracting a harpoon...."Nope, THIS is what we saw..." he snapped, producing two plastic shrink-wrapped sausages. He glowered at me. "You didn't declare these," he said.....



"Honestly I didn't even know we had them..."

He looked at me incredulously...

I stammered some more..."We were considering them, I forgot that we bought them....."



"Hmmmm. This is a serious offense. You can't bring these in - they aren't stamped with the blue seal."



(I still don't know what the blue seal is. I was not even sure if he meant an insignia or a member of the whale family.)



Mary muttered into my ear ''I forgot I bought those....I was going to put them back at the store and then guess I bought them anyway...."



"These look expensive too" the agent said...but we'll have to keep them. The question is that this is serious. This could cost you a fine...$400."



He looked at me to observe the wave of fear his words would no doubt send rippling thought me. At that point I was thinking that if I would have to pay the $400, I should at least be able to take the sausages home.



"I will see what I can do. I will have to discuss this with my supervisor." With that he turned on his heels and stalked off to a little cubicle past the x-ray machine. After a minute (I was actually wondering if there was a supervisor behind the screen or if this was a ploy like the one practiced by used-car salesmen who have to leave you for a few minutes to discuss the offer with their supervisor....after a minute he returned.



"I can waive the penalty, but I will have to have your passport, and I will have to make notes regarding this problem. You need to be aware that this is serious and the next time you go through customs, if you have meat products and don't declare them you will have to pay the $400." He looked at me sternly. I asked if I could repack the underwear sitting in the conveyor belt. He walked over and typed for a while on the computer...then gave me my passport. I scanned it to see if there were any nasty notations there regarding my meat-smuggling, but it was clear. I realized however that on future travels I will be watched for sausages in my carry-ons.



And so, I am a marked man. Mary bought the sausage but her passport is clean. Mine is marked. I will be known forever more as a smuggler of preserved meat products. I am sure I am doomed to forever walk the yellow line...to be searched mercilessly for apple slices and pocketed hot dogs. I will have to bear the yoke of sausage shame....it is my burden.