“No”
“Did you pack all of your bags yourself?”
“Um . . . . yes.”
Our friend and colleague Renata was in the airport customs. She was on her way to Chicago for an orchestra teachers’ convention. Knowing that we were moving back to Chicago in four months- she had graciously asked if she could take a bag back to Chicago for us.
Not surprisingly, we have accumulated just a bit of stuff over the last two years. We arrived with eight suitcases and four carry-ons. But we have significantly more than that now: clothing, some home décor items, and a just a few souvenir items for my classroom back in Chicago. Shipping is expensive, so we were very thankful when Renata made her offer.
I tried to think of everything to make sure that her delivery went without a hitch. I weighed our suitcase twice to make sure it was well under the fifty-pound weight limit. I labeled the suitcase with our name and Chicago address. I even drew a map on a big sheet of paper for the courier who would be driving the suitcase out to the suburbs.
What I didn’t think to do was tell Renata what exactly was inside the suitcase.
The immigration officer explained to Renata that they randomly stopped every twentieth passenger. And she was number twenty. After asking her a few basic questions, they asked her if these were her suitcases. “Why, yes, they are.”
“Would you mind opening this one?” They started rummaging through her . . . ur, my stuff.
HAHAHAHHAHAHAHHA RENATA KWONG!?
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