I read a report the other day about customs officers opening a rather foul smelling package in Munich airport and discovering a rotting monkey’s head. Now I stopped reading at that point because I had no need, nor wish, to know what someone would do with a rotting monkey’s head. Of course, it could have been a perfectly good, dead monkey’s head before it got caught up in the red tape which is border customs these days and without any knowledge of witchcraft (ok - I live with one) or anti-impotency remedies (I may need one next week!!) I have no idea what it was for. It could, of course, have been sent to some poor soul as a sort of mafia-esque gesture similar to finding a severed and extremely bloody horse’s head snuggled up beside you in bed. No idea.
It’s just a wonder that I haven’t been stopped as I’ve entered Nice airport during the last ten years. I haven’t ‘smuggled’ anything in as revolting as a monkey’s head but I’m sure the old French customs guys would have had a fit if they’d seen some of the British/Sottish foodstuffs secreted in my bag. Some of it, I have to admit, not allowed. Luckily I’ve only ever been stopped once at Nice and this was when I was on the New York flight and had nothing to do with food.
Now at Nice Airport, the customs people generally sit and read their papers or play Solitaire on their PCs, so humdrum is their daily routine but when the Delta flight arrives from New York, the staff numbers treble, papers are put aside, PCs are switched off and the incoming bags are scrutinised with a zeal which the French generally reserve for looking at their food. It was on one such day when I arrived from New York with a package so big I could not possibly have concealed it. It was a 200 CD player – one of those things like a juke box – stores 200 CDs and plays all your tracks in order, in genre or randomly – a beautiful bit of kit. Anyway, as I surreptitiously tried to disappear into the crowds pouring through the two-person-wide exit, I felt a hand on my shoulder and the request to stop and answer some questions. What was it? Where did I buy it? Had I paid tax? Did I have anything else? And then the question, the answer to which floored him, how much did it cost? ‘$199’, I said. ‘No way’, he replied. ‘Yup’, I said with a slight smirk on my face. He got out his calculator and said it couldn’t possibly be true. ‘I had a receipt’, I said with a self-assured satisfaction that something was amiss – on his side.
As it turned out, I was, once a dollar to Franc/Euro conversion had taken place, well under the limit for imported goods. He simply shook his head in disbelief and waved me onwards.
But back to foodstuffs. Amazingly, I’ve only ever been stopped on the ‘leaving' leg of a trip. I was stopped at Glasgow when the x-ray machine highlighted two very distinct shapes – so distinct that they started to clear the security area until I looked at the screen and said, ‘they’re not bombs – they’re haggis. Laughter and relief all round as they checked the two round haggis with the distinct little knot on the top which looked for all the world like a round bomb with a fuse.
I was stopped a couple of weeks ago when I was leaving Luton for Nice when the strange solid block on the x-ray made the slightly wary security guys open my case to find a 3 kilo block of Scottish Lorne sausage (subject of a separate blog posting). I had some job trying to prove it was sausage, I tell you.
But the food which I am so glad has never been discovered is the cheese I bring back. The Winchester extra-strong cheddar. The blocks of Red Leicester. The Waitrose white Stilton with cranberries or apricots. I suspect that if I was ever discovered bringing this in, I would be thrown into prison and never heard of again. Importing English Cheese into France – mon Dieu – sacrilege.
No comments:
Post a Comment