August 2005

As our flight took off I turned toward Dia to mouth the words “We finally made it out.” I caught myself when I realized that the nice guy next to her might understand what I was saying and take offense. No need to insult random people when it’s only one event that ruins the trip, especially since he was nice enough to let Dia use his cell phone to call home after our minor crisis. It went down like this: we said our goodbyes to Dad and Sis and made it through the metal detector only to be stopped by some customs official/baggage screener/guy-with-power-trip. Apparently we’re not allowed to leave Serbia with any type of painting or artwork unless we have a paper from the Government stating that it’s not worth more than a certain amount. First of all, had we responded “delicate shortbread” to his inquiries we wouldn’t have had a problem at all. And if it were art valued over EU$1,000? We wouldn’t have been allowed cross the border with it? But we could have shipped it or placed it in our luggage? Simply fascinating how the bureaucratic machine works. At the time it was more frustrating than anything as we futilely sought “special exemption” from the Airport Director then ran to check it with the rest of our luggage which had long-since departed. But since our package had been officially rejected as a carry-on item, there was no way it could be checked in now that the contents had been identified as contraband; never mind the fact that they would have been perfectly content accepting it less than fifteen minutes prior with nary a raised eyebrow. It was simply the shortest way to say “We don’t feel like doing any additional work”, but I could hardly expect anything less from the Belgrade branch of Lufthansa Airlines — which appears to be as dead-end a job as one can find in the entire industry. The overly made-up shrews behind the counter did give us one helpful piece of advice: to leave the package with the Lufthansa office and have someone come pick it up. So we left the package along with the Palic phone number with the office manager (hoping to hell that she didn’t just keep the paintings for herself), the idea being that Lili could reach Zoli and Kari on their cell phones in time for them to return to the airport — before they made the entire two-hour trip home. And that about brings me full circle: the guy on the plane next to Dia, who was text messaging so furiously he could have been having text-sex, was kind enough to put his rendezvous on hold so Dia could phone her mom with the story. Apparently it worked. Immediately after arriving in Frankfurt, where we are currently enjoying another lenghty layover, Dia phoned home and confirmed that the message was relayed and our paintings should be safely on their way home. Good thing we called from the plane to make sure, since the manager obviously didn’t bother calling the number we left, and it’s doubtful they would have bothered driving another four hours for three local paintings that held only sentimental value. Even if they had, there’s nothing to guarantee that someone wouldn’t have stolen them by then. Fortunately, it all worked out. Though we can’t enjoy them for a year — we dare not have it shipped via the corrupt postal or even DHL services — it’ll grace our parents’ house and we’ll simply pick it up next time.