The Customs

The airport was unusually hectic. Grumpy customs officers scurried across the asphalt, carrying documents and speaking in short, curt sentences. The center of their attention was a massive pallet piled high with scrap metal, all strapped down with heavy-duty bands. A forklift driver and his boss anxiously shuffled from one customs officer to the next, talking nervously to each other and trying to work something out with the unpleasant officers. Finally, they reached an agreement, and the scrap metal—which looked even more weathered and green from all the legal red tape—was finally moved to the plane’s cargo hold. Just then, we were called to board, and eleven hours later, we landed at O'Hare.