A Well Kept Man

Let me first begin by apologizing to all of the children out there who look up to me as a role-model, father figure, and all-around American cool guy extraordinaire.  I did not want you to hear about this on Entertainment Tonight, so I decided to use this blog to announce that I, A Well Kept Man, have been found guilty of attempting to import French beef into the Federation of Switzerland.  As you may have noticed from previous posts, I tend to whine about the cost of domestic beef in my country of residence.  As a result, I may or may not have on occasion traveled across the border into France to purchase reduced priced meat (as well as ice cream) to feed my family (no meat or ice cream has ever been resold for a profit, nor loss...please direct any questions to my lawyer).  

Anyway, as I ventured back across the border today with my cache of 2 kilos of 85% lean ground beef (for my readers in K-12, if beef is composed of fat and delicious hamburger, how much of the beef I purchased was not hamburger?), I began to feel good about my situation as I was now about two miles into Switzerland (i.e. not at a border crossing) meaning I was free of the worries that plagued the Von Trapps as they crossed the Alps into Austria.  Unfortunately for me (and the other Swiss residents) my story did not end with a stunning rendition of Climb Every Mountain by Rogers and Hammerstein (more appropriately it ended with the oft sung That's the Sound of the Man, Working on the Chain Gang...).  You see, unbeknownst to me I failed to check the Swiss import regulations of beef before returning from my trip.

About 2.1 miles into Switzerland, a temporary road blockade had been constructed while I was vacillating between flavors of ice cream (mint chocolate, or vanilla with caramel and pecans), which was being utilized as a makeshift checkpoint looking for contraband, illegal immigrants, and apparently, slowly moving cows (really slow moving cows).  Anyone want to guess how much beef you are allowed to bring back into Switzerland upon your return?  Let me first begin with letting you know how much I brought back.  My car was loaded down with two kilos of ground beef.  Now for those unfamiliar with the metric system, this sounds like a lot, and if you watch the tv show COPS, people get sent away for a long time when they have two kilos of controlled substances.  But for those that understand the metric system, you would realize that this is only slightly less than 4.5 pounds, or in grill speak, sixteen hamburgers (at approximately 1/4 lb. for each burger, figuring net weight after cooking...Mythbusters foiled again!!!!).  I figured as long as you weren't hauling an entire dead cow in your trunk, you were probably ok....WRONG!

After pulling my car into the appropriate parking spot, I was asked for identification (of which I provided a U.S. Passport).  The officer spoke no English, so it was up to me to ascertain what he wanted.  Realizing that he probably doesn't read my blog, I figured I should comply with his request.  At this point he also demanded my driving permit and residence permit.  I don't have the former (so I gave him my Minnesota Driver's License) and I left the latter at our apartment (which I relayed to him in French by saying "apartmento"...which is Spanish so he probably suspected I was a terrorist or something).  After fifteen minutes or so he returned to the car and asked for me to step out of the automobile (he may have told me to keep my hands in plain sight, but it all seemed to move so fast).  He motioned for me to open the boot (that's trunk for those that aren't British or Australian) where he managed to discover my contraband meat hidden in the wheel well where the spare tire is normally located.  Now I am sure those reading this were like him and assumed I was trying to hide something (which I wasn't...I put stuff in there all the time to keep it from moving around in the gigantic trunk) so he then began to check every possible hiding spot in the car.

He opened every door, folded down all of the seats, made me open the hood (or bonnet for those that aren't American....by the way, who would be stupid enough to put meat under the hood on the engine?  I suppose dinner would have been ready by the time I got home, but I don't think the special sauce on the Big Mac is 5W30 motor oil.), checked the glove box...finally, he realized that I was just a moron or something because he tried to tell me I was only able to bring a demi-kilo back with me (basically one pound of beef).  I then tried to wow him with my French and told him I was married (Je suis marié) hoping he would think my wife made me do this and take pity on me (or to lessen my fine since it was going to a good cause).  Apparently he wasn't married, didn't care, or had been there once too and figured I needed to learn a lesson as he then explained to me I needed to follow him to headquarters.

The ten minute drive to headquarters was an extremely tenuous time for me as he had my passport, driver's license, and what was left of my pride.  I couldn't decide what I would tell Alli, nor did I know if they were going to impound my vehicle, fine me, or both!  Upon arriving they took the meat to their official scale to weigh it (just in case I switched the stickers on the package to a lighter weight of meat...Right....cause I am smart enough to switch labels, but stupid enough to let them find the meat and hope they won't notice that fifty pounds of ground sirloin was really only 500 grams.  Unbelievable!), where I came in at three times the legal limit.  

So twelve hamburgers did me in.  Not the twenty-five bottles of wine I could have been smuggling (which is legal by the way...apparently the Swiss don't care for their wine either), twelve stinking hamburgers (I say stinking because by the time this adventure was over I am pretty sure I don't want to eat it...sun + raw meat = bad results...trust me).  After filling out some forms (in triplicate, naturally) and verifying that I could keep my now warmish meat, I paid my fine (90 CHF, $75 US) and went on my ornery way (ice cream now just regular cream with floating bits of mint chocolate).  By the way, the frosting of this Customs cake was them belittling me for not having a job.  We went through a five minute ordeal, in French mind you, trying to determine my profession.  I could have said the easy thing (engineer), but I figured that he already knew the answer so I answered truthfully that I am sans job (I actually said something to the effect of "J'ai ne pas, no job, my wife works" to which the officer rolled his eyes, and walked away).  This will probably be my last trip to France to buy groceries for a while, at least next time I will make sure to stay under the legal limit of beef and beef-related goods.