I’m not going to say I regret it because I’ll never say
that. But in hindsight, it might not
have been the brightest idea I’d ever had, because it took no fewer than 3 days
for my bodily functions to get back to normal (…meaning I didn’t shit for 3
days, in case you were wondering).
The thing is, you guys…I’d do it all over again. That smoked cheese was so goddamned good that
I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.
In fact, I only grudgingly gave the cheese up when my
husband and I hit customs heading back into the United States. I had informed my husband that I was going to
risk arrest by shoving the cheese into my checked suitcase and not claiming it
on the customs report. My really good
plan was to cross my fingers and walk really fast while praying to God—whom I
believe in the depths of my soul is a smoked-cheese loving God—that I wouldn’t
get caught.
And I would’ve been fine if it hadn’t been for my stupid
cousin, who had the exact same plan as I did, only with packaged sausage very
poorly hidden under a few t-shirts in her checked baggage.
They were making us re-check our luggage during the
layover because—can you believe it—those bastards thought we might be trying to
sneak shit back into the country. And so
when my cousin grabbed her suitcase from the carousel, only to be immediately
accosted by a sausage-sniffing dog and his uniformed master, I started laughing
hysterically at her while clutching my own bag, filled with illegal smoked
cheese, to my side.
I felt relief course through my veins since the dog was
busy with my cousin’s sausage (That’s
what she said) and I didn’t see any other bag-sniffing dogs around. I nudged the hubs and mouthed, “Hurry up so
we can get these onto the other belt while they’re checking Jenny’s,” and put a
spring in my step to get there faster.
But even my lanky grasshopper legs couldn’t outrun the
dog, who was in quite a close proximity to my cheese thanks to my asshole
cousin. Suddenly, I felt a tug. I looked down to see that the bastard dog that
had stolen my cousin’s sausage was now barking at my suitcase.
My husband saw the terror in my eyes, but he recognized
immediately that it was not there due to the dog, the scary-looking official,
or the prospect of spending the rest of my life in jail over a couple of blocks
of cheese.
No, the nervous pit stains now spreading under my arms were from fear of losing my smoked cheese.
“Hey!” I yelled, shooting an accusatory look at the
official who held the leash. “Could you
please get your DOG off of my bag? In
fact, shouldn’t you check that mutt? Is
he even allowed on the flight?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my husband roll his
eyes and step off to the side to wait for me.
“Ma’am,” the official said, raising her eyebrows in
warning. “This dog works for customs,
and he smells something in your bag. I
need to check the contents.”
“Ma’am, open the bag, please,” the official said,
stepping toward the bag.
“Do you have a badge or something?” I replied, trying to
sidestep her.
She flipped the badge, now pissed, and took another step
toward my bag and my precious cheese.
“Open the bag, MA’AM, or I will have to do it for you.”
“FINE,” I said, giving a huge, annoyed sigh as I dropped
my suitcase onto the ground and bent down.
“Fine. That won’t be
necessary.”
I began to unzip it very slowly, all the while wishing I
had gone with my first instinct when I was younger and become a magician
instead of a stupid teacher. That way, I
would’ve known exactly how to get the cheese from my stash into my pocket
without the officer or the dog ever noticing.
But alas, as soon as the bag had been unzipped half an
inch, that hungry-ass dog started jumping up and down as if he’d just found the
motherlode of Beggin’ Strips.
And then suddenly, somehow his jowls were in my suitcase
and I watched in horror as he started to pull out one of my blocks of
cheese. I counted that one as a loss,
but before I could even think about what I was doing, I grabbed the other and
shoved it into my mouth, hungrily biting off a few hunks before the dog lunged
at me.
Suddenly, I felt a palm on my forehead as the customs
official separated me from the dog.
“MA’AM!” she yelled. “That is
ENOUGH!”
I don’t know if it was her serious tone, the crowd that
had started to gather, or that she started talking all this jazz about
detaining me and I suddenly realized that I kind of wanted to see my kids--but
whatever the case, I realized I was fighting a losing battle, and I gave up.
I stood, hands on my hips, the cheese block still
clutched tightly in one of them, gathering my breath. After a moment, I looked up and met the dog’s
eyes. I swore I saw a little pity in
them as he recognized the defeat in mine, and maybe that’s what did it.
I sighed, blowing a strand of loose hair from my ponytail
out of my eyes. I looked down and
realized that all I had left of my precious cheese was the brown paper that had
been used to wrap it when I bought it.
It was limp with grease and totally useless to me, but
still, I couldn’t part with it. I tossed
it into my luggage, zipped it up, and looked for my husband.
I spotted him several yards away, leaning on his bag,
shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he took in the whole scene. I couldn’t help but think he’d had plenty of
scenarios in which to practice that stance in the 12 years since we’d met, and
to be perfectly honest, his whole smug look was getting a little annoying.
He shrugged and took his time gathering his bag,
carry-on, and jacket. By the time he’d met back up with me, I was somewhat over
losing my cheese.
Two flights, one layover, and several hours of driving
later, we returned home, where I was finally able to unpack my bag. I opened it and was met with a beautiful
whiff of smoked cheese, which can be attributed to the brown paper, which had
served as a sort of air freshener for my bag.
I don’t think we’ll ever get the smell out. My husband swears he’ll never use the
suitcase again, which works out well for me, because there’s only one thing I
like better than the smell of smoked cheese—
—and that’s eating smoked cheese. Which, on my next trip out of country, I’ll
make sure I do all of BEFORE I hit the customs line.
This is so funny, Shay. I can totally see you doing this! I'm a cheese freak to, and I would have done the same thing. Smoked Gouda is worth fighting over.
ReplyDeleteIt's an exaggerated version of what actually happened, but still based on the truth. I do love my cheese!! Haha
DeleteI would also break the law for cheese. In fact, I think people who smuggle cheese across borders are lactose-y heroes.
ReplyDelete