Back to the grind

     Well. There have been a few things that have transpired since my last blog. The whole Saudi gig. Had a great job offer, which was contingent on my ability get a Kingdom of Saudi (KSA) visa. The company knew the rules had changed (HR related positions can only be filled by KSA nationals) but I still got the offer, then oil tanked KSA actually started enforcing the rules. Curse crown prince Mohammed bin Salman, the evil person behind this rule.
      I've cycled through just about every part of DC you can imagine. I've photobombed more pictures around the National Mall than you can conceive. Imagine me riding back and forth in front of the Lincoln Memorial, with a big goofy grin and flashing the peace sign. Better yet, go and check your pictures if you've been in DC in the last year. A betting man would say I'm in one of your pictures. Photo bombing is fun, but after a year, even that wears thin, so I'm going to take a quick trip down to Aruba to windsurf and lick that salt off my lips again. I've been to Aruba once before, visiting brother Ed, Sabine and their two kids.

     And this is what happened the last time I went there.

How ceiling fans became train sets...

     I cleared immigration and waited impatiently to pick up my two pieces of luggage in Aruba's international airport.  Customs was next. I had a a nondescript grey suitcase and a large cardboard box which contained two ceiling fans, wrapped as Christmas presents. Using this very rudimentary ruse, I had hoped to avoid duties of 22% placed on new goods brought in to Aruba. 

     All of the other tourists were going through customs without being checked, but as I nudged my box along the floor, I saw one of the officers motion with his eyes towards me. A very large man took the cue from his colleague and asked me to step into one of the inspection cubicles. I cheerfully obliged, this was the first time I had ever been checked when traveling with my 5 year old daughter.  The pinnacle of respectfulness, a father traveling with his daughter, who could be more trustworthy, less likely to smuggle goods into the country?

     The customs officers, however, did not see it this way. They were like bulls, the box I had brought in, a red cape waved in front of them. It screamed out, "Inspect me, inspect me!" But still I thought, "Who would open a Christmas present, a train set for two cute nephews?" "What's in de box mon?" intoned the customs officer, in a deep baritone voice with a beautiful Caribbean accent. "That," I began confidently, "is a train set. A Christmas present for my nephews. I'm bringing it in myself so I won't have to pay for the postage later." The two promised nephews were right outside, waving excitedly and adding legitimacy to my story. Confidence builds. "I'll have to open it," he said." Oh go ahead," I said airily, implying I had absolutely nothing to hide. After all, he wouldn't disturb the wrapping paper on the boxes, would he? Of course not. Those ceiling fans, to me, to me at least, looked exactly Christmas presents. "How many boxes inside?" He asked.  "Oh there's just one," I lied. There were two, but they fit so neatly into one box that if he didn't look under the other box, it would appear as if there was only one. As he lifted the first one out of the box, he saw the second underneath it. He looked at me and said, "You said there was only one." "Inside, yes, there's two boxes but it is all packaged inside one box. That's what I thought you were asking." At this point, I was thinking of that old adage, oh what a tangled web when we weave when we first deceive. That was me all right. Sinking deeper and deeper into the dark hole that I was digging for myself, each lie becoming more and more ridiculous and me becoming more and more entangled in my web of lies. I felt like a fish thrashing around in a net, the more I thrashed, the more I was caught. 

     I know what you're thinking, "Cut your losses short! Tell the truth before it's too late you fool!" And I must admit, the thought did cross my mind, albeit briefly enough for me to remember that it had come and gone. "I'll have to open them," he said sternly. It was said in a manner as to imply the same thing you were thinking. But I didn't stop there. Oh no, I was in too deep at that point. He tore off a little bit of the wrapping paper and looked at me. I said, "I packed the in different boxes - ceiling fan boxes." Then he opened the boxes. Surprisingly enough, there were no train sets in the boxes. Just brand new ceiling fans. He looked at me, and with a slight smile on his face, said, "You said these were train sets." All hope lost, I began with a new lie.  "My brother told me to sat they were train sets," I blurted out. "He didn't want to pay the duty. Well almost true.

     You see, the night before I had come to Aruba, I called and asked my brother about the ceiling fans that he wanted me to bring. He had instructed me to take out all of the pieces and scuff up the blades a little to make them appear as if they were used. Too much work, I thought and a bold faced lie at that. And I'm not a liar, now am I? Aruba, you see, imposes duty only on new items, not used items. I would get around this little barrier by disguising the ceiling fans as Christmas presents saving myself a great deal of work and saving my brother the 22% duty on the ceiling fans in the process.

     But the customs officer was like a drift netter, and I was caught in the his net, drowning in my pitiful lies. So, when he asked me how much the ceiling fans were, I told him, for the first time that day, the truth. "They were fifty dollars each." I even had the receipt in my pocket to prove it, but I felt a little bit embarrassed to produce it. I felt like it would make me look even more dishonest than I really was.  In the end, he charged me double duty, assessing the fans at $100. Each. I paid, and finally made my way out of the airport to greet my brother, sister in-law and their two kids. As I left, I passed by the custom officer and said, "Hey, sorry about the train set story." He just laughed, a deep booming laugh and said, "Wecome to Aruba mon!"

     This story was told to two of my brother's colleagues, and a few nights later, at dinner, someone else said to my brother,  "Hey, how are those new train sets working?" All of the 8 people at the restaurant had heard the story, some had heard it more than once. It was quite amusing, after all. Many people at the International School of Aruba now refer to ceiling fans as train sets. And I can just imagine the customs officer going home and telling his wife and family about the ridiculous pack of lies that he heard that day at work. This story, so ludicrous, spreads through the island of Aruba. 

     Like I said, I'm going back to Aruba for a few days of windsurfing. I'll be checking the papers to see if there are any houses for rent that have train sets in every room.

     Aruba is windy. I went there to visit family, but also to windsurf. In November. Which is the least windy month in Aruba. This was before the Google machine. So the windsurfing sucked.

     This is how much it sucked. That's me and my daughter in Aruba. And for those not versed in windsurfing, you don't windsurf without a harness or with a child on the nose of your board, even if she's cute. Unless you're really not windsurfing. And yes, there is some windsurfing snobbery there. Apparently, the wind blows 11 out of 12 months in Aruba. Just not in November. Which is when we were there. That blows.
     And before the Google machine (and cell phones) information, like when is it windy in Aruba, was not so easy to come by. And when I was gone for a month, I tried to call my wife in Saipan. I couldn't get in touch with her. I called her at all hours. all. hours. No answer. When we finally got home, I  asked her, in perhaps not the most gentle manner, where the hell she had been for the past 3 weeks - she replied, in a very gentle manner, they had two typhoons and a tropical storm since I was gone and had no power. Our phone was an answering machine, reliant on power. Ouch. Well. So good to see you and be home again honey and...whoopsie!
     Warren Buffet and John Bogle don't need to work, but they still do. I'm certainly not them, but I'm in the very fortunate position to work only if I want to. And the quick trip to Aruba is because after 1 year, 281 days, 22 hours, 44 minutes and 02 seconds (as of this writing) of yet another failed attempt at retirement, I'm going back to work shortly after I return. Gwyne still works, I might as well avoid the horror of another season of cycling through the rogue groups of 8th grade civics classes touring the National Mall, pushing, poking, prodding and texting each other while ignoring the multiple bell ringings of the retiree cyclists - sometimes politely, sometimes not so much - asking them to pay attention to the world and get the hell out of my way. Yeah, I'd rather go to work than have to deal with another season of that again.