The customs officer responded like he heard Pavlov’s bell ringing. He might have let Matt off the hook with a warning or a stern look, maybe a lecture about courtesy and god knows what, but that option went up in smoke when Matt uttered his curse. Instead, the officer slapped the scratched aluminum table behind him. “Open up,” he barked, pointing at the suitcase. Matt hoisted the suitcase and the duffel on the table. Without waiting for permission the man zipped open the bag and emptied its contents on the table. As submissive as possible, Matt unlocked the suitcase and stepped away from the table in what he hoped would look like a respectful manner. The latexed hands of the customs officer grabbed through Matt’s laundry and when he couldn’t find fault,…