I suppose one of the best parts about traveling is coming home. Home is where the heart is; it's where you hang your hat. In my case, there's a spoiled feline waiting, eager to ignore my affectionate overtures even while not letting me out of her sight.
Yes, coming home is one of the best parts of traveling. It's also one of the most humorous, especially when it involves reentering the United States.
Most people find going through Customs a supreme pain, but I find it kind of entertaining. Here you are, after a nine-hour flight from London, sitting next to an armrest hog or the newlyweds who can't keep their hands off each other and you get to stand in line waiting for your turn at the Inquisitor's booth.
Normally this wait involves a heavy carry-on bag and desperate need of the loo.
When it's your turn, you approach the little booth with its stern-faced Inquisitor. If you're me, you give him your sunniest smile, hoping your post-flight breath isn't too offensive, and hand over your passport. All the while, you secretly hope the Inquisitor will be impressed by the number of stamps, representing all the cool places you've seen.
Alas, the Inquisitor could care less about the stamps in your passport. He has much more important stuff to worry about.
"How long have you been gone?" he barks.
"Oh, about a year..." you reply meekly, not wanting him to think you're hiding anything.
"Why so long? What was your purpose of travel?"
"I was teaching in England. There's a Visa...page 10..."
He turns to page 10 of your passport book and stares at the visa sticker pasted on the page. Then he stares at you, obviously not convinced that you're the same person. You give him the same cheesy smile from your passport picture, hoping to convince him that this is, indeed, really you. Finally, after considering the possibility of a fingerprint check and maybe taking a DNA sample, the Inquisitor decides that you're probably who you say you are.
Now it's time for the Inquisitor to determine whether or not you have any contraband in your luggage. He rattles off a rapid-fire list of the offending items:
"Do you have any weapons? Flammable liquids? Tobacco products? Food? Agricultural products? Illegal drugs?" The list goes on and on.
You give him your most winning smile and a sunny, "Nope!" You send up a fervent prayer that your dirty laundry won't qualify as a lethal weapon.
The Inquisitor has saved his most important question for last.
"Are you bringing any livestock back into the United States with you?"
By this point, you're really needing the loo, and you can taste just how awful your breath is. Just past this stern Inquisitor is freedom and sunshine, waiting to welcome you back to the U.S. of A.
"Oh, crap! I left Bessie on the plane!"
You don't really say this, but you're tempted. Instead, you give the Inquisitor one more cheerful, "Nope!" and sigh with relief has he grudgingly hands you your passport and waves you through.
Then..."Ma'am...one more thing."
"Yes?" You wait expectantly, bracing yourself for the inevitable luggage search, picturing your laciest panties flying through the air in front of so many people. The Inquisitor stares at you, wrinkling his nose slightly.
"Do you have any breath mints?"
Originally posted on "The Anxious Traveler" on March 26, 2008.
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