Where are the Marx Brothers when you need them?

I got my boxes today.

But oh, dear reader, it was not as simple as that declarative sentence might sound!

On July 27 my father and I dropped off 10 boxes (nice regular size book boxes in case you are trying to picture the moment) near the Cincinnati airport. The way it was supposed to work was that the boxes would travel by truck to Chicago, then fly by cargo freight arriving in Amman 6-8 days after I dropped them off.

I don’t remember if I mentioned it before, but the day I left for Amman, there was a glitch in this smooth process. The shipping company did not have the security clearance for Homeland Security, and so notified me that they might have to return the boxes to Cincinnati, and I would have to sign this document in person. Not quite frantic yet, I explained to the shipping agent I was set to leave six hours hence for a new country! I couldn’t be there for this new plan. The man said he had to verify I was who I said I was. He wouldn’t call the school in Jordan (“I’m not calling another country for you!”) so I suggested my former employer at Hackley. (“All right, but you better be who you say you are!”) A couple of hours later he and I spoke again, and he asked me cryptic questions, checking my answers with what had been said by my former employer. I passed the security clearance! I faxed the signature, and I was good to go.

The part that made me nervous was the warning he gave that once the boxes landed at Amman, I had to claim them within three days, or they might be confiscated.

Okay, okay, all of that is back story. That is simply the landscape against which I will paint today’s story and learning experience…

At the 6-8 day mark I emailed the US shipping agent inquiring about my boxes (“I don’t know anything about it once it leaves US soil,” he barked. Well, in an email it is hard to gauge the tone of voice, but I certainly sensed a snarl or a bark.) So a woman named Rita here at KA was put in charge of helping me find/track/claim the boxes. She said, “I think they land on August 6.” On August 6 I went and asked. Rita said, “Well, not yet, we’ll see. I bet soon, John.”

A day or so later I told her of the dire 3-day warning. She said in her fabulous husky accent, “John—don’t be so scared. The boxes will arrive. We’ll get them.” You know, in just reading the words, you miss the thrill and drama of the accent. Say it again to yourself in a kind of throaty-Arabic-Bette-Davis accent. See! It’s much better.

Back to the news of the day: yesterday I learn the boxes have arrived! Sam, the wonderful driver and new friend, will accompany me to get the boxes and present documents so as to expedite the customs clearing.

This morning we leave at 10:00 a.m. for the 25 minute drive to the airport.

We return to school (with the boxes—I will spare you the excruciating suspense) at 2:50 p.m.

You might ask—why did it take nearly 5 hours???

Oh. The farcical bureaucratic ballet I witnessed today was priceless.

For one thing, the cargo area is nowhere the airport I have used the couple of times so far. It looked like we were driving through the desert to Saudi Arabia. And the security clearances to get to the cargo area were bizarre! There were three check-points to pass—one where Sam and I had to leave the car, check all the IDs in our wallet, get special security badges to wear…all of this reminded me of the trips I took to Eastern Europe in the 1980s.

We clear those hurdles and arrive at the cargo hangar—about the size of a proud suburban Home Depot store. And now the fun begins…the first stop is to look for the papers in the file, and I notice about a dozen men huffing and fussing with files, not sure if they were doing anything, just fussing. Lots of furrowed brows, staring at my passport, the landing documents, and finally—the papers are found.

I am whisked down a loooooooong hallway (it felt like the long hallway in “Willy Wonka”—the real movie, not the Johnny Depp one) and meet a man who will help me. Sam and I walk in, and there is such chattering and busybusybusying—sort of like an Arabian stock market trading floor. He looks in the file and gets on the phone, looks at the passport, and then we go down to the cargo floor. I see boxes there—there are boxes to be had in Jordan! Many, many boxes.

I lost count at the number of men who had to approve this pick-up. I wanted to count after it was 2 or 3, because I thought it would be funny to recount, but I seriously, and I mean seriously, lost count after 12. There is lots of very important stamping of papers going on. We go through supervisors (Sam wondered if the Prime Minister had to come and stamp the papers) and oh, the head supervisor is on a bathroom break. We’ll have to come back in 15 minutes!

Sam and I go to the employee cafeteria and have a Pepsi. He is such a gem. We had talked the whole way to the airport about many things, mainly relationships, and how much he likes to learn about relationships from watching “Oprah” and “Dr. Phil.”

A man comes to say—“It is time Mister John to get your boxes.” That previously occupied head supervisor says, “Welcome to Jordan—today and every day.” Thank you, thank you—may I see my boxes???

While we wait for them to get the boxes, Sam and I watch the incredible number of inspectors at work—there must be dozens of them, opening every box, inspecting every single package. One group had some women’s dresses, presumably for a store, and as they inspected, some of the men were trying on the women’s hats. Sam wonders why they don’t just scan the boxes, and stops an employee and asks why not. “It gives more people jobs,” he explains. Okay.

My boxes come on a forklift. 1-2-3-yes, yes, all 10 are here! They made it!

Now a round of inspectors have to come and—I don’t know do what, see what, but they open every box, look at every book, take the few CDs and DVDs I packed to be stamped (I kid you not!). I packed a cookbook called, “The Cake Doctor” cookbook where you add stuff to enhance cake mixes, well, you get the point. One inspector picked it up, and asked, “Who is this Cake Doctor?” I kid you NOT!

The boxes are left on the floor, my things around them, and we need to get more stamps upstairs on the papers. Sam says it is safe to leave all the things there on the floor.

This is when I wonder if the Marx Brothers ever came to the cargo area in Amman for a movie…what a farce!

Just as we go to the last man for a stamp, the “muzzein” cries out for early afternoon prayers. We are 10 feet away from the man who can help me liberate my boxes, and he leaves the office for prayers.

Sam and I go to have another soft drink in the cafeteria. He tries Mountain Dew at my suggestion and loves it.

Twenty Minutes later, we get the signature from the head man. We go downstairs, we get a few more signatures and stamps—and we get to take my boxes and head back to KA.

Yeah, I got my boxes today.