Customs Trubbl

Mom Says:

After circling above the Paris airport for what seemed like weeks, the Air France plane landed. Agent Octavian, Alex and Pero were in Paris, the City of Lights, the city of fashion, and—most important from their point of view—the city of international espionage set to melodramatic accordion music.

The excitement began almost immediately, when they went through customs. First, the quarantine officials pulled them out of line, poking and prodding Octavian and Pero until Alek had showed them the animals' European Union Pet Passports and immunization records. Then two officers wearing a badge with a globe on it pulled them into a small room with a small table and a single chair and left them there with the advice to “Soyez-vous comfortable.”

So they did. Alek sat on the chair, Octavian curled up on the table and Pero sprawled under it. They dozed, their eyes flickering when steps of voices neared. Half an hour passed. Finally, a little man with a goatee entered.

“Ah, Monsieur Octavian. My apolojeez for zis delay. Zeez dayz being what zey arr, we must employ ze caution, no? Even wis ze respectobbla beeznis personne, like yourself. You arr frree to go. Adieu.”

Flanked by chauffeur and bodyguard, Octavian strutted through the airport, his silky black tail held high. He was far too world-weary a traveler to be tempted by the enticing movement of the baggage carrousel. (Well, mostly.)

As they stood waiting for their hired car, one of the uniformed customs officials trotted up to Alek and handed him an envelope. “One of your papers, Monsieur, which we accidentally retained. Au revoir.”

A silver Citröen rolled up and the driver hopped out and saluted Alek, so he hastily slipped the envelope in his pocket, and went into chauffeur mode.

L’aeroport, adieu!