I have found that the best policy is to be absolutely upfront and honest; declare everything, even stuff you know is perfectly fine for you to possess, like the odd bottle of wine or olive oil. Don’t try to hide anything. Don’t be nervous. Follow the rules. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to be nervous about.
My problem is that I’m usually so irritable, they figure I must really be nervous. If I’m nervous, I must be hiding something. Whoops. Then I’m detained as the agents go through my bags. That makes me more irritable.
Getting past customs has often been a problem for me because I tend to like organic stuff that thrills me. A bunch of dried culinary herbs from the south of France. Chestnut leaves from a tree in Périgord Noir. An olive branch with leaves and olives still attached from the Tunisian island of Djerba. Some capers and caperberries snapped off a bush on an Aeolian island. All of that stuff winds up in my toilet kit. And I forget about it. Until I reach customs.
Recently, one customs curmudgeon relieved me of some drop-dead delicious fried pork rinds from Jaén in Spain, where the pork is miraculous, the single most worshipful substance on the face of the earth.
I stumped the agents once, though. Having arrived at Kennedy Airport one afternoon from Sicily, I had in my possession a foodstuff that looked like a canoe paddle. I felt it wise to keep my mouth shut as long as possible. Which is pretty hard for me.
After two or three customs people had wordlessly palpated, turned, sniffed and rubbed the object, one of them finally gave up and had to ask that it be identified, a surrender they rarely offer.
I have found that the best policy is to be absolutely upfront and honest; declare everything, even stuff you know is perfectly fine for you to possess, like the odd bottle of wine or olive oil. Don’t try to hide anything. Don’t be nervous. Follow the rules. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to be nervous about.
My problem is that I’m usually so irritable, they figure I must really be nervous. If I’m nervous, I must be hiding something. Whoops. Then I’m detained as the agents go through my bags. That makes me more irritable.
Getting past customs has often been a problem for me because I tend to like organic stuff that thrills me. A bunch of dried culinary herbs from the south of France. Chestnut leaves from a tree in Périgord Noir. An olive branch with leaves and olives still attached from the Tunisian island of Djerba. Some capers and caperberries snapped off a bush on an Aeolian island. All of that stuff winds up in my toilet kit. And I forget about it. Until I reach customs.
Recently, one customs curmudgeon relieved me of some drop-dead delicious fried pork rinds from Jaén in Spain, where the pork is miraculous, the single most worshipful substance on the face of the earth.
I stumped the agents once, though. Having arrived at Kennedy Airport one afternoon from Sicily, I had in my possession a foodstuff that looked like a canoe paddle. I felt it wise to keep my mouth shut as long as possible. Which is pretty hard for me.
After two or three customs people had wordlessly palpated, turned, sniffed and rubbed the object, one of them finally gave up and had to ask that it be identified, a surrender they rarely offer.
I have found that the best policy is to be absolutely upfront and honest; declare everything, even stuff you know is perfectly fine for you to possess, like the odd bottle of wine or olive oil. Don’t try to hide anything. Don’t be nervous. Follow the rules. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to be nervous about.
My problem is that I’m usually so irritable, they figure I must really be nervous. If I’m nervous, I must be hiding something. Whoops. Then I’m detained as the agents go through my bags. That makes me more irritable.
Getting past customs has often been a problem for me because I tend to like organic stuff that thrills me. A bunch of dried culinary herbs from the south of France. Chestnut leaves from a tree in Périgord Noir. An olive branch with leaves and olives still attached from the Tunisian island of Djerba. Some capers and caperberries snapped off a bush on an Aeolian island. All of that stuff winds up in my toilet kit. And I forget about it. Until I reach customs.
Recently, one customs curmudgeon relieved me of some drop-dead delicious fried pork rinds from Jaén in Spain, where the pork is miraculous, the single most worshipful substance on the face of the earth.
I stumped the agents once, though. Having arrived at Kennedy Airport one afternoon from Sicily, I had in my possession a foodstuff that looked like a canoe paddle. I felt it wise to keep my mouth shut as long as possible. Which is pretty hard for me.
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