Customs

First off, sorry it has taken me so long to make a second post.

Secondly, bear with me for the next two blog posts. They may not seem to relate to the major theme of this blog – but they will.

Finally, I apologize for the formatting of this post. I cannot for the life of me figure out how to make WordPress do what I want.

Anyway, here is my post:

 

Mere hours before our trip to Dominican Republic, I make it to Sanjeev’s office. We have been trying to connect and missing all week.

“Tony, I need you to make a list of all the equipment and write down all of the serial numbers so we can – “

BUZZ! BUZZ!

Sanjeev’s phone is ringing. “This is an important call. I’m sorry, hold on.”

I get a pen and some paper from his secretary and take a seat on the floor. Surveying the equipment, I wonder if maybe Santa missed my house and accidentally delivered all of my gifts to the School of Communication a month late. I open the tripod bag and try not to drool on its carbon fiber, fluid head, OConnor professional quality holiness.

“Yes. Okay. I need… two pairs of pants. Two shirts. No, just, you know, t-shirts.”

I start laughing. Sanjeev gives me a puzzled look.

“I don’t think I need a tie. Okay, pack it anyway.”

He hangs up. I explain, “I wish I could call my room and get someone to pack my suitcase.”

Sanjeev laughs. “Oh, yes. But it costs, my friend. It costs.”

 

Packing my own suitcase is not done with the same care that I can imagine Sanjeev’s wife has taken with his. I grab the only three clean pairs of underwear I can have and stuff them into my suitcase with three pairs of jeans I wore last week. I mash a dress shirt and some shoes in my bag because Sanjeev has taken them, somehow remember my passport, and leave the room with everything I need in two small bags.

 

 

Finally we are at the airport. Sanjeev sends me with our equipment to the customs window. “You’ll have to declare this stuff,” he says. I have no idea what I am doing. I must look just innocent enough to be some mastermind terrorist.

A security guard stops me. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to customs.”

“Why?”

Now I’m confused. “I have this stuff. I need to take it through customs.”

“Okay, wise ass, I know. Where did you come from?”

I point behind me, at the entrance. I am under the impression that this is the only possible answer.

“Oh, okay, sorry. I thought you might have come from over there.” He points to a security door that I clearly could not have come through. It appears that airport employees work on the other side. “You’ll need to declare your stuff. Right this way.”

He takes me to what appears to be a ticket booth in the wall. This is the Customs window. I don’t know how I could have missed it. It’s clearly located behind a Tensibarrier and a baggage rack. There’s also a moat around it. Okay, you got me. There’s no moat. But there is a bulletproof curtain on the inside of the window.

The guard knocks three very discrete knocks on the window. He leaves. As I wait for the bulletproof curtain to open, I notice a sign: “Knock only once. Then wait for officer. Thanks!” The curtain opens. I am greeted by Joe Pesce. He gives me a look like, “You knocked three times. Die.”

“What do you need?”

“I have this stuff that I need to declare.”

“What do you need to declare?” He looks at my tripod case like there is a bazooka inside.

“I have a list.” He looks at the list.

“What are you doing with this stuff?”

Is this some kind of trick? I look around to make sure I am not on Candid Camera. “This is camera equipment. I am taking it on the plane to another country. I’m making a movie.”

“Why do you have all of this stuff on the list? You don’t need to declare this. You need to fill this out to make sure you can bring all of this stuff back with you when you come back into the US.” He hands me a sheet. “Knock when you’re done.” I fill it out.

I am sure to knock one, and only one, time.