Customs Wars, Part the Third

I used to believe I had seen every creative spelling of my name possible.  I believed this for a very long time, all the way up until Friday, in fact.  Because on Friday, I got a letter from the German Customs informing Herr Timo Marie Jjagum he had received a package from one Jean in America, and would he come pick it up at his earliest convenience?

You see where this is going.

I've done this before, as you'll recall, not once, but twice, albeit never as a man. However, there was a slight kink in the works, namely, that the package was from Jean of all people, who victoriously posted this to my Facebook after sending it:

"I sent you a package.  I had to explain to the post office guy what was IN the package.  It was awesome."

I had hoped against all hope the post office would deliver it without trying to tax me for it, but no such luck.  And unfortunately, the Customs office was already closed by the time I got the letter. Which, of course, meant I spent the entire weekend imagining the whole host of terrifying things the package could contain, each more mortifying than the last.  By the time Monday rolled around, I was no longer even sure I wanted to know what was in the damn thing, and briefly considered letting it sit the obligatory fourteen days, until Customs shipped it back to Jean at her own expense.  But in the end, my curiosity won out, and I headed down to the Customs office, prepared for battle and determined to be victorious.  Or my name wasn't Timo Marie Jjagum.

As soon as I walked in, the nice guy whom I've dealt with on the previous two occasions looked up, recognized me, and left the room.  Which left Mr. Asshole, who, despite his name, rather closely resembled a Neanderthal.

Hello," said I, "I've come to pick up a package.  And frankly, I don't understand why my packages keep coming through here.  My host family is constantly getting packages from the US and Canada, and you guys never pick up theirs, you only take mine."

"You're from America?"

"Yes."

"Well, you see..." and then he proceeded to serenade me bullshit about illegal child laborers in the US and China bringing about the End of Times by sneaking packages marked as gifts into Germany. And how did I know the sender?

"She's my former roommate, look, here, her number is in my phone."

"I don't need to look at it."

"If you're not going to look at it, then you can't try to tell me I don't know her."

"I'm going to need you to open up this package."

"It's supposed to be a surprise, which I would rather not spoil by opening it up in the Customs office.  And if you'll turn your attention to the back of the package, you will notice it tells you a) the contents, b) that the contents are worth exactly one dollar, and c) that the contents are labeled as a gift.  I believe all of that constitutes a package that is supposed to be delivered, not one which gets kidnapped by you people."

"Much smaller packages than yours also come through here.  Are you trying to tell me we should allow such packages to go through the system!?" he said, horrified.

"Hahahahaha...yes."

Then he yelled at me about how I'm trying to cheat German Customs, and I'm showing disrespect with a flagrant ignorance of the security risks I'm implying the Customs office adopt.

So I opened the package...and triumphantly shoved Justin Bieber Silly Bandz in his face.

"Do you think this is worth more than 45 Euros?"

Glowering silence.

"Is this a security risk, do you think?"

"What's the piece of paper?"

"One is a letter.  The other one is a collage entitled 'Unnecessarily Attractive People Modelling Safety Gear.'  How much do you generally tax those?"

He said nothing, just shoved the release papers at me, and I signed them.  I hit the door with a pleasant, "Pleasure doing business with you," and laughed all the way home.

Herr Timo Marie Jjagum, for the win!