After twenty-four hours of traveling we arrived at the airport in France. Chelsea, Sacha and I gathered our overstuffed suitcases, and over sized cardboard boxes. The over sized card board boxes encourage starring, the curious onlookers look quizzically at us. Like we are illegal aliens…who travels with boxes these days?
We collected card board boxes from the grocery store dumpster, recycled, they have large bold lettering that read: "Toilet Paper," or "Dish Soap," or "Dog Food." This year the boxes said, "Candles in a Jar." Card board boxes hold more, are sturdier and after having far too many suitcases thrashed from travelling, they cost nothing. I can stuff them full of walnuts, tortillas and chocolate chips.
As we were about to walk through the last custom’s gate… we saw French Husband standing on the other side with his arms ready to scoop us up, our hearts were ready to jump up and down…when a loud voice growled from behind us:
"Stop! What are in those boxes?"
The custom officer did not smile. We stopped in our tracks. The exit door nearly hit us. We turned our carts around and wheeled them back into the dungeon (which was not an easy task considering how full they were, exhausted we felt, and having seen French husband within arm’s reach!) The custom officer barreled down on us, asking us a million rapid questions, having our answers look-like tangled lies.
He asked if we were moving to France? He asked us why we had so many boxes, and why boxes and not suitcases? He asked if we had gifts inside? But his tone seemed to suggest that I was smuggling drugs or a human being. His eyes screamed that I was a smuggler of the worse kind. He was grueling on my frayed nerves and I wanted to bark back at him.
I started praying. Actually it was more a monologue with God… "Dear Lord, I’ll never pack dirty laundry again. Jeez please, do not have him open our bags." Knowing that if he opened our boxes we would be there for half a century and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
I also knew if I told him that the boxes were full of hand picked, shelled, vacuum sealed walnuts, a gift to us from my Aunt Louie; he might confiscate them and certainly keep them for himself. Those walnuts are gold to me. The walnuts are legal, and they were mine. All thirty pounds of them. And don’t get me started about the box full of tortillas and chocolate chips.
In the end after saying over and over again: I am an American, I was on vacation for several weeks in California, my family lives in California, my French husband is waiting for us behind that exit door, and these are my Franco/American children. I have some gifts and bought some things, but nothing highly valuable. He let us pass through…dirty laundry, and all.
photo: A vintage mix media art belonging to my Godmother. Boy meets girl, "Do you have the goods?" He asks. She replies, "Yes I do want to search me?" ………………………….Did I write that? I am jet lagged excuse me.
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