At the border

I thought I would share the story of my border crossing back into Canada from my trip back to the States over the holiday.

Going over the border has become a vexing experience for me. I hate going back to the US because the US border officials always look at you like you are going to cause the collapse of Western society simply by entering the country. I start worrying about if I got on some "Neer-do-well" list because of the Dominican Republic pen pal I had in the second grade. Coming back into Canada is also worrisome because I'm not a Canadian citizen and they could, if they wanted to, deny me entry, which would really mess everything up.

So when I hit the border, I am usually pretty nervous, either because I am being looked at like the greatest assassin the world has known, or because I am trying to get into foreign lands. And then there is the "declaring" of stuff. I don't know what to declare, to be honest. Do I tell them about the granola bars? Do I tell them about the cookies I baked for the trip? What about the beef jerky? Does it have Mad Cow? Is it MAD JERKY?!?! *deep breath* See, I don't deal with border crossings well.

The US crossing wasn't so bad, but when I came back to Canada, ah, that was different.

I drove down with Justin, but he stayed in the States longer to be with his family, and I had to get back because I had a paper due by the first. He was going to fly up with his sister in a few days, so I drove back on my own, with the Wegies (that is another story). So I left the country with one person and two cats, and I am returning with just the two cats. This is important to remember. Sadly, I did not remember that. Well, I guess "to remember" isn't the right verb, but... I don't want to spoil the story.

So... it doesn't help matters that by the time I got to the border I had been driving a good 14 hours, so I was a little goofy just from being on the road too long (see former post about the Dumb Bunnies). I stopped at the little booth and handed the guy my passport. He looked at it and started in with the standard questions... Where do you live? What do you do? etc. So then he asked "How long were you in the US?"

At this point, I have to make a quick aside. Since I am a -resident- of Canada, I get the Canadian resident questions, not the visitor questions. A visitor question is "How long will you remain in Canada?" Only your home country asks you "How long were you away?" However, now the US asks me how long I'll be in the US and Canada inquires as to my whereabouts. It is like getting new parents...

Anyway, back to the story. Border Guy asks me "How long were you in the US?" and I say, exactly, "Oh, I think we left on the 21st." Border Guy (we know him pretty well now, let's call him BG) ... so BG pauses for a moment and asks, and I have to stress this here, asks this with complete calm, "So... do you have someone in the trunk?" Refer to the above paragraph where I discuss how nervous border crossings make me. Imagine my surprise when he asked this little question of me. Did my blood pressure go up? Sure. Did my face turn white? Probably. Did all those little men who pull the levers in my skull all start running around in a huge panic, bumping into each other, screaming, and jumping out of my ears to save themselves? You bet.

I was going over, again and again in my head, why he would EVER ask me that question. Perhaps there WAS someone in the trunk! Perhaps I had been dripping blood all the way back from Kansas! Why is he asking me this? Why?! Why?! Why?!

The look on BG's face sorta changed from complete calm to slight concern. I said as calmly as possible, an acting job for which I am certain to be overlooked at the Oscars, "Um, no... no one in the trunk..." I was looking around the car. BG started looking around in the car too. So then BG asks, again, quite calmly, "So where are you hiding them?" A few more little men jumped out of my ears. What was he talking about?!? "Hiding?" I said.

BG had another officer in his cubiculum with him. The other officer (hey, we know him pretty well now too, we'll call him AO) , er AO, was sorta smirking. I remember that now... didn't then. Of course, I was down a few little men, so I wasn't thinking very clearly. "I'm not hiding anyone," I said, probably looking like a mink in a fur trap. Finally, I did myself a very big favor and asked, "Why...?"

"Oh," BG said, "you said, 'we', so I was just wondering where the other people were."

After taking an non-scientific poll on the matter, I realize now that BG was joking. Those Canadians, God love them, just love to be funny. It is as if Canada is a great garden of comedians and the US plucks the juiciest and ripest for themselves, leaving some low-hanging fruit like our friend BG to give me fits at the border.

I tried to laugh a little bit. "I drove down with my boyfriend, but he's flying up later," I said, at this point grinning like I probably did have someone in the trunk, and that this was a silly cover story my Boss, Don Guido, told me to say. Seems plausible. At this point, BG seems to actually be thinking that I must be up to something, because I didn't seem to have gotten his joke. Perhaps I am smuggling something!! Canada: saving the world through humor! BG looks around in my car a little more, just to make certain the empty passenger seat didn't suddenly transmogrify into a kilo of cocaine, but then he decides I was tortured enough and he gives me my passport back. AO is still grinning like a fool behind him. AO isn't a comedian himself, though he seems to like the sketch comedy routine going on in front of him.

So I continue on, stopping off quickly to stretch my legs and get my blood pressure down. And I nearly looked in the trunk, just to make sure...

Keep on keepin' on.