There are plenty of horror stories about international shipping, particularly when it comes to customs. But let me tell you, the problem goes both ways. Shipping into the United States isn't always a picnic either, and I learned the hard way that you can't take U.S. customs for granted.

One particularly surprising incident happened a few years ago when I was working for a company based in Stockholm. It was planning to exhibit at a tech show in Las Vegas, and as the firm's trade fair coordinator, I was in charge of logistics. Granted, I was fairly new to the industry, and though I had shows in China, Germany, and Turkey under my belt, I had no experience with shows in the United States. Even so, I figured how hard could it be?

In an effort to show management how capable I was and save the company a little money, I opted to forego the help of a freight forwarder at the documentation stage, and I planned to bring one into the picture only when the shipment left our facility. Our shipper strongly advised me against that, but I was a dumb young thing who was devastatingly overconfident, so I had declined. Besides, as I pored over pages of customs rules, I thought I had the task well in hand with everything identified and described in great detail on our customs declaration forms. I counted everything – sheets of paper, screws, and tchotchkes, which were pocket-sized notepads with attached ballpoint pens. And by my accounts, I handed off bullet-proof documentation.

With all dozen or so shipping crates labeled and numbered sequentially, I sent them off to begin their journey with plenty of time to cross the ocean, clear U.S. customs, and get to Las Vegas.

About 10 days before the show was to open – and right about the time the truck with our goods should have been getting on the road for Las Vegas – I got a phone call from a customs-clearance agent who was working in tandem with the freight forwarder to get our goods past the U.S. border. It seemed there was something amiss on our documentation, he said, and officials needed more information before they would let our items through.

He further explained that the hangup was, incredibly, over ballpoint pens. Apparently, the United States has a list of thousands of toxic chemicals barred from entry, including the ink in some pens. As such, agents needed to know not just where my notepad and pen sets were manufactured, but also where the ink inside the pens came from and what was in it. They were not going to release any of our crates, the customs clearance agent said, until we provided the right answer.

The fact of the matter was that I had no idea how to find out what the chemical components of the ink inside of a pen were. The tchotchke had come from China, so I knew I'd probably have to seek the answer there, and it would likely take some time. I asked the agent if he could get the rest of the shipment through and have customs just hold the container with the pens in it. But because I had so efficiently labeled all the crates as one of 12, two of 12, etc., customs officials viewed it as one large unit and wouldn't separate it.

I emailed the company that I had ordered the items from to see if I could reach someone to help. But it was already nighttime in China, so I wasn't holding out much hope that I'd hear back that day. Sheepishly, I called our rep from the freight forwarder to see if he could give me some insight. I could tell he wanted to say, "I told you so," very badly, and I was grateful that he didn't. Rather, he told me that the company I'd ordered the pens from would have the information I needed, and that I just needed to keep trying to contact it. This sounded like a terrifying solution given that my shipment was being held hostage over extremely detailed information and I was expecting a language barrier with whomever responded to my desperately urgent communique.

Even though it had only been an hour since I'd sent my first note, I sent a second email that sounded even more frantic than the first. Then there was nothing else to do but wait. When I went to bed that night, I set my alarm for the middle of the night so I could get back to dealing with the Chinese company as soon as its business day started. I woke up bleary-eyed at 3 a.m. and checked my email, hoping for good news. But I had nothing from the company. I decided to give up on email and started digging through the company's website looking for a phone number to call instead.

The line rang about 20 times it seemed, and then finally someone picked it up. A nice woman whose English was surprisingly good took my name, the product information, and my email address and said she would send the ink details. Unfortunately, she didn't say when.

Two days went by, and three more calls netted me nothing but assurances that the information would be forthcoming. Finally, three days after I'd first emailed the supplier, electronic documentation arrived that the Chinese receptionist said contained the information customs was requiring. Fully admitting that I was out of my league at that point, I forwarded the documents to the customs clearance agent, hoping it was the information that would set my freight free.

It turned out that it was, but it took two more days to get the shipment cut loose. The timing would be tight, the freight forwarder said, but he assured me that the truck would arrive at the venue in time for setup. Eating a big, heaping helping of humble pie, I thanked the rep and told him next time I'd have him prepare the shipment. It was the kind of close call that taught me that sometimes being good at your job means knowing when someone else is better.