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"I'm an International Arms Dealer"
A couple years ago I traveled with my mother and her boyfriend to South Africa for a safari we had been planning since high school. The plan was simple:
- Leave Laredo
- Fly to DFW
- Fly to London for a 24 hour layover
- Fly to South Africa
- Get on a bus and drive to the Limpopo Province
- Hunt
- Go home after ten days or so
Apparently in-between "Leave Laredo" and "Fly to South Africa" there was a problem.
According to an older rule with American Airlines, traveling in the air with ammunition is legal as long as your weapons are not with you. (Yep, apparently this was so after 9/11) ((I know, odd, however, I don't make the rules, I just twist, torture, manipulate, and finally lay them to rest.)). However, American Airlines didn't think that their passengers would want to fly American OVERSEAS WHERE LAWS ARE DIFFERENT.
The journey from Laredo to DFW was about as pleasant as flying coach gets in America. After a short delay in DFW (If anyone here has neither had to rush from one terminal to another or wait hours for your flight in DFW we need to talk) we boarded our flight to London. All was well in the world. I read and watched TV on the back of the seat of the person in front of me (my techonology has come a long way). My mother complained about not being able to sleep inbetween bouts of nodding off. Her boyfriend took some pills and was out like a light. The occasional mistake of a child burst into tears as their ears popped. The sad stewardesses squeezed into uncomfortable and terribly unforgiving skirts went aisle to aisle asking people if they needed anything. I enjoyed myself immensely.
As soon as we landed in London, after we were able to get off the now ridiculously hot airplane, we were surrounded by the awe and wonder of a foreign country. New signs, foods, strange languages, it was glorious. Then the shocking realization that we were just in America again with less crime, a better government and economy, and proper English, came about. We didn't care though. We were tired and excited for our twenty-four hour excursion into the city.
As we get into the baggage claim Great Hall of the airport we are presented with two options: Customs/Walk Outside. Before we chose though, I had to figure out how to work the trolley that held our baggage.
Now, if any of my readers are English, please, answer me this question: Why do baggage carts have brakes on them? Is there some sort of English Baggage Derby that's held across the pond that us Americans aren't privvy to?
So, after taking a tiny while to leran how to operate the baggage cart from hell, we (my mother) made our decision: Let's be good Americans and check-in at customs.
WORST.IDEA.EVER.
After walking into customs we are greeted by the nice sounds of absolute silence. Nobody is there. Nobody is assigned to work the customs office. I reapeat, nobody in the international airport is assigned to work the customs office. If you want to sneak a WMD, Himalayian whistle child, fighting cocks, heroin, illegal bannanas, anything, into a foreign country, please, by all means, do so through London. They obviously don't mind.
After we flag down a man who can only be described as the best friend to Simon Pegg in Hot Fuzz we begin the arduous task of going through customs.
(Now, before we continue, I must remind people of my only rule on this blog: I will never use someone's real name in my stories. This is done to protect themselves, as well as myself, so as these people don't lose their jobs, family members, what-have-you. With that in mind, I have to break the rule this one time as the name of this man is imperative to his personality and our conversation with him. Now then, back to business:)
When you go through customs you're asked to present your passports, answer where you're going, why you're going there, etc. Also, your bags are checked to make sure you're not carrying around illegal items into or out of the country. As we are going through the general "Why are you here?", "Where are you headed?", "Where are you from?" questions, our customs "official" and my group go through this conversation:
Luke: "'Ello, where might you be headin' today?" (I'm a terrible human being for typing in his accent.)
Parent: "We're on our way to tour London before going to Africa for a Safari."
Luke: "Oooh, Africa. I've never been there. However, judgin' by the sounds of your voices, I bet you're Americans."
[We agree.]
Luke: "I love America! Y'know, I love your Star Wars. After seeing that I like to walk around thinkin' Yoda's on me back and tellin' me things like, 'Use the fork Luke!'"
Yep, "Use the fork Luke". This man, this sad, proberly decently paid( since we're in the UK), airport worker, has misquoted, on purpose, one of the most influential science fiction movies of all time. Further more, he does it on purpose and won't shutup for the rest of our time together.
Luke: "Right, let's jus' check what you have in your bags and we can send you off to the city. You know though, you could have just gone ahead. Nobody comes into customs around here." (I wonder why?)
My bag is checked and cleared. No problem. I am now bored and reading pamphlets on safe sex and items prohibited on an airplane. Why those two pamphlets were mixed together I'll never know.
My mom's boyfriend's bag is next. (Let's call him Tex) As Jedi Luke is searching through Tex's bags he finds an interesting find: two large boxes of ammunition. Full boxes. Boxes that were purposefully placed in the bag with the intention to load into a gun and kill things with.
The look on Luke's face was priceless. Now if only we had the gun I'm suer he would have wished for Master Yoda to hand him a lightsaber. However, since he didn't have one, he grabbed the next best thing: a phone.
Three hours, two customs official, a pissed off parent, a tired me, and a now annoyed Tex later, we are told one simple thing:
We've committed a crime.
Apparently, U.S. and American Airlines laws state it is legal for us to declare and carry ammunition aboard a plane as long as the weapon is not with us.
However, we were now outside American laws. In the United Kingdom, it is illegal to be carrying ammunition inside of an airport and across the country's borders. What a way to start a trip. I am now a college-aged arms dealer who is travelling with a law enforcement officer and a doctor. I might as well be cuban and sending my lackeys to American with cocaine nestled in their bodies. I'm sure the penalty would be lighter.
After a longer period of time with this lovely girl from Americna Airlines on the phone we reach a conclusion: The law is a gray area and in honor of us and our stupid actions it will be rewritten.
I'm thrilled that I helped get a law rewritten. My mother's pissed. Tex is experiencing jetlag and just wants a drink. Luke thinks he's now saved Tatooine from Jawa arms smugglers. London is safe. And our trip is still on day one.
According to an older rule with American Airlines, traveling in the air with ammunition is legal as long as your weapons are not with you. (Yep, apparently this was so after 9/11) ((I know, odd, however, I don't make the rules, I just twist, torture, manipulate, and finally lay them to rest.)). However, American Airlines didn't think that their passengers would want to fly American OVERSEAS WHERE LAWS ARE DIFFERENT.
The journey from Laredo to DFW was about as pleasant as flying coach gets in America. After a short delay in DFW (If anyone here has neither had to rush from one terminal to another or wait hours for your flight in DFW we need to talk) we boarded our flight to London. All was well in the world. I read and watched TV on the back of the seat of the person in front of me (my techonology has come a long way). My mother complained about not being able to sleep inbetween bouts of nodding off. Her boyfriend took some pills and was out like a light. The occasional mistake of a child burst into tears as their ears popped. The sad stewardesses squeezed into uncomfortable and terribly unforgiving skirts went aisle to aisle asking people if they needed anything. I enjoyed myself immensely.
As soon as we landed in London, after we were able to get off the now ridiculously hot airplane, we were surrounded by the awe and wonder of a foreign country. New signs, foods, strange languages, it was glorious. Then the shocking realization that we were just in America again with less crime, a better government and economy, and proper English, came about. We didn't care though. We were tired and excited for our twenty-four hour excursion into the city.
As we get into the baggage claim Great Hall of the airport we are presented with two options: Customs/Walk Outside. Before we chose though, I had to figure out how to work the trolley that held our baggage.
Now, if any of my readers are English, please, answer me this question: Why do baggage carts have brakes on them? Is there some sort of English Baggage Derby that's held across the pond that us Americans aren't privvy to?
So, after taking a tiny while to leran how to operate the baggage cart from hell, we (my mother) made our decision: Let's be good Americans and check-in at customs.
WORST.IDEA.EVER.
After walking into customs we are greeted by the nice sounds of absolute silence. Nobody is there. Nobody is assigned to work the customs office. I reapeat, nobody in the international airport is assigned to work the customs office. If you want to sneak a WMD, Himalayian whistle child, fighting cocks, heroin, illegal bannanas, anything, into a foreign country, please, by all means, do so through London. They obviously don't mind.
After we flag down a man who can only be described as the best friend to Simon Pegg in Hot Fuzz we begin the arduous task of going through customs.
(Now, before we continue, I must remind people of my only rule on this blog: I will never use someone's real name in my stories. This is done to protect themselves, as well as myself, so as these people don't lose their jobs, family members, what-have-you. With that in mind, I have to break the rule this one time as the name of this man is imperative to his personality and our conversation with him. Now then, back to business:)
When you go through customs you're asked to present your passports, answer where you're going, why you're going there, etc. Also, your bags are checked to make sure you're not carrying around illegal items into or out of the country. As we are going through the general "Why are you here?", "Where are you headed?", "Where are you from?" questions, our customs "official" and my group go through this conversation:
Luke: "'Ello, where might you be headin' today?" (I'm a terrible human being for typing in his accent.)
Parent: "We're on our way to tour London before going to Africa for a Safari."
Luke: "Oooh, Africa. I've never been there. However, judgin' by the sounds of your voices, I bet you're Americans."
[We agree.]
Luke: "I love America! Y'know, I love your Star Wars. After seeing that I like to walk around thinkin' Yoda's on me back and tellin' me things like, 'Use the fork Luke!'"
Yep, "Use the fork Luke". This man, this sad, proberly decently paid( since we're in the UK), airport worker, has misquoted, on purpose, one of the most influential science fiction movies of all time. Further more, he does it on purpose and won't shutup for the rest of our time together.
Luke: "Right, let's jus' check what you have in your bags and we can send you off to the city. You know though, you could have just gone ahead. Nobody comes into customs around here." (I wonder why?)
My bag is checked and cleared. No problem. I am now bored and reading pamphlets on safe sex and items prohibited on an airplane. Why those two pamphlets were mixed together I'll never know.
My mom's boyfriend's bag is next. (Let's call him Tex) As Jedi Luke is searching through Tex's bags he finds an interesting find: two large boxes of ammunition. Full boxes. Boxes that were purposefully placed in the bag with the intention to load into a gun and kill things with.
The look on Luke's face was priceless. Now if only we had the gun I'm suer he would have wished for Master Yoda to hand him a lightsaber. However, since he didn't have one, he grabbed the next best thing: a phone.
Three hours, two customs official, a pissed off parent, a tired me, and a now annoyed Tex later, we are told one simple thing:
We've committed a crime.
Apparently, U.S. and American Airlines laws state it is legal for us to declare and carry ammunition aboard a plane as long as the weapon is not with us.
However, we were now outside American laws. In the United Kingdom, it is illegal to be carrying ammunition inside of an airport and across the country's borders. What a way to start a trip. I am now a college-aged arms dealer who is travelling with a law enforcement officer and a doctor. I might as well be cuban and sending my lackeys to American with cocaine nestled in their bodies. I'm sure the penalty would be lighter.
After a longer period of time with this lovely girl from Americna Airlines on the phone we reach a conclusion: The law is a gray area and in honor of us and our stupid actions it will be rewritten.
I'm thrilled that I helped get a law rewritten. My mother's pissed. Tex is experiencing jetlag and just wants a drink. Luke thinks he's now saved Tatooine from Jawa arms smugglers. London is safe. And our trip is still on day one.
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