Smuggling Absinthe

If one is smuggling two bottles of Absinthe into the United States for the benefit of one’s booze crazed comrades and one is singled out by the airport’s dope sniffing dogs because they like the smell of the food in one’s pack and, in the middle of Amsterdam Schipol Airport, the head of airport security looks at one’s papers and asks, “What were you doing in Morocco last year?”, the correct answer — no matter how tired, cross and sarcastic one may feel — is not “smuggling hashish.”

I am lucky to have made it home with my body cavities unsearched, even if the bastards did keep my Absinthe.

This entry is part of my journal, published November 17, 2003, in New York.