Fear and Loathing in San Jose, part 2 (original) (raw)

After a seemingly endless taxi around the runways of SFO we were finally allowed off the plane. Kensaro had thankfully dried up (from a tea spill, see previous post), which was a plus since neither of us relished the idea of US customs, especially not when one of us looked like he had an incontinence problem.
The first stage of customs, newly decked out with cameras and fingerprinting kits, proved oddly boring. They took no interest in me whatsoever, a fact I can only attribute to my Instant Respectability Kit - a woolen poloneck jumper, a hair band and a sudden propensity for speaking Queen's English.
My calm was soon to be broken however. After collecting my bag, I realised I'd managed to smuggle a contraband orange into the country in my hand luggage. Given that fruits and vegetables are one of the key items to declare - or rather not to bring at all - I decided to flee to the toilets in order to dispose of the offending snack.
In retrospect, I'm not quite sure why I was so worried. After all, it was just an orange (albeit a big fat juicy one) and I'd just need to rip it to pieces before disposing of the thing - at least that was the plan. I'd barely managed to pull it in half before it slipped from my hands, fell in the toilet bowl and was sucked noisily around the U-bend. Evidently the flashy automated flush system had detected an oddly citrussy deposit - or maybe it was just me flapping around near the IR sensors.
I rejoined my travelling companion outside, slightly ashen faced and painfully aware that I'd just been chased from an airport toilet cubicle by a rapidly overflowing bog. I consoled myself in knowing that at least it'd smell nice for the poor bastard who had to clean up.
The poloneck clearly paid off again at the final customs check. A customs official casually rattled off a list of substances, "Marijuana? Ecstacy? Heroin?". I bit my tongue, deciding that "Oooh, how much?" may be a poor response and shook my head, manhandling my gigantic kit bag past scores of bored-looking officials.
Thankfully (and I mean that most sincerely folks - jetlag and a cheap red wine hangover aren't a nice combination) vandringar and torrle were kind enough to drive to the airport to pick us up. After a quick meal of Pho (think Vietnamese noodle soup), we were back at Van's apartment, which I can only describe as a fascinating chimera of space-saving Ikea design and rampant unchecked botany.
Later, I caught a lift over to Centaur, Booga and Inu's place where a carefully administered concoction of Jamesons and bong abuse put me out like a narcoleptic on valium.