At The Border

Last year when I ventured into Canada I took my new old van. Invariably the border guards would ask me to open the sliding door behind the driver's seat. The door not being automatic (it's a new old van, as I say) it took the act of a contortionist to get the dadburn thing open, for them to peek inside from their seat just quickly enough to go, "OK, thanks, close it." Repeat the process.

This curling season as I cross the border I purposely drive my newer older van, my 1996 Chevy. Why? Because it ain't got no stupid sliding door on the driver's side. You want to see more closely into my vehicle? Get out of your guard booth and walk around to the other side. I'll gladly use the power locks to unlock it for you as I perch comfortably in my Captain's chair behind the wheel.

It's only been three weeks, but they've yet to ask.

Any little way to protest, I'm protesting.

The rather strange interrogation

A few years ago I met an old curling friend for golf. After a short discussion we decided to play in Canada. I crossed over the border one Sunday, we played 18 holes, went to a pub and grub for a couple pints and some, well, grub, decided to hit the links again soon, and parted ways.
It was next, in my return to these United States, that the story became in my mind kinda weird.
I stopped at the guard booth and dutifully handed the attendant my enhanced license. "Citizenship?" he asked brusquely.
You just swiped my license, so you know the answer to that, I thought brusquely myself. But I obediently answered, "U.S."
"Purpose of your trip?"
"I was golfing with a Canadian curling friend."
The man turned to look at me and asked, I thought rather harshly, "What have you got against golf in the United States?"
"N, nothing," I heard myself stammer. "We just decided to golf in Canada."
He began staring me down, and I have to admit I was starting to feel intimidated, "Why would you decide that?"
"Well, no big reason. It seemed cheaper for me cross the border and pay in Canadian dollars, that's all."
"So what's your problem with US dollars?" continued the interrogation.
I wasn't sure how to answer that, as I truly love US dollars as much as any red blooded American. I responded meekly, "It just seemed cheaper."
The guard harrumphed, and turned to look at his monitor. "And how did you meet this 'curling friend'?" I swear you could see the quote marks hanging in the air.
I really wasn't sure how to answer that; from his tone it didn't appear as though there was a right answer. "Uh, well, curling?" It sounded even to me like I responded with the lilt of a question. That's not gonna help here, I thought with no small fear.
He asked, "Do you have your clubs with you?"
"Yes. In the back of my van." I stupidly indicated where the back of my van was with a twist of my head.
"What kind are they?" he demanded.
I answered incredulously, "Clevelands." Where's he going with this?
The guard turned again to me, handed me back my license, smiled broadly and said in the happiest tone, "Good choice. Have a nice day!"
I don't know about you, but it struck me a rather bizarre return interview.

The Ballad of Marty's transmission.

It had begun so innocently. I was trying to get to a bon voyage party for a curling friend who was leaving Canada for an overseas teaching position. I crossed the border and my car stopped 'pulling', that is, going forward. A hose had ruptured in a transmission line, spewing transmission fluid everywhere and leaving my van immobile. C'est la vie. It happens.

That issue was calmed soon enough. A friend on that side of the river recommended a mechanic who could fix the problem. And he did, for $325 Canadian, including the tow from the Roseland Curling Club where I left my van to his repair shop. A good price, honestly.

I drove her from July until two weeks ago, when my van again stopped pulling near Muncie, Indiana. But two quarts of transmission fluid later, C'est la guerre, she pulls once more, all the way to home to Detroit.

Then she, my 2000 Chevy Venture, stops pulling right as I was about to get onto the ramp in Detroit from where there was no re-entry into these United States. I managed to get her off the expressway and onto a side street, where I might have her towed to my mechanic. He, my mechanic, found the same hose had ruptured as before. He fixed it, and all seemed well.

Then last night, for it is last night now, as I returned from my Monday night curling game, I could not pull away from the customs booth on the US side as I returned from curling. Now as I've complained much about US customs, it is only fair that I give them credit as due. They cleared me, quite succinctly and deferentially, as I hoped. But then my van would not move. And the guards saw that I had a transmission leak. And they pushed me beyond the toll booths so that I might have an easier time with a tow.

That tells me that the border patrol are not really bad folk after all. I'm not so ready to think the NSA evil anymore. They rushed to help a US citizen obviously innocent of any crime to simply get home.

And that is why I am dismissive of the fears of my libertarian and progressive friends. Innocence breeds trust. It's as simple as that.

A strange border crossing

A couple of weeks ago I met an old curling friend for golf. After a short discussion we decided to play in Canada. I crossed over the border one Sunday, we played 18 holes, went to a pub and grub for a couple pints and some, well, grub, decided to hit the links again soon, and parted ways.
It was next, in my return to these United States, that the story became in my mind kinda weird.
I stopped at the guard booth and dutifully handed the attendant my enhanced license. "Citizenship?" he asked brusquely.
You just swiped my license, so you know the answer to that, I thought brusquely myself. But I obediently answered, "U.S."
"Purposely of your trip?"
"I was golfing with a Canadian curling friend."
The man turned to look at me and asked, I thought rather harshly, "What have you got against golf in the United States?"
"N, nothing," I heard myself stammer. "We just decided to golf in Canada."
He began staring me down, and I have to admit I was starting to feel intimidated, "Why would you decide that?"
"Well, no big reason. It seemed cheaper for me cross the border and pay in Canadian dollars, that's all."
"So what's your problem with US dollars?" continued the interrogation.
I wasn't sure how to answer that, as I love US dollars as much as anybody. So much so that I get paid in them. I responded meekly, "It just seemed cheaper."
The guard harrumphed, and turned to look at his monitor. "And how did you meet this 'curling friend'?" I swear you could see the quote marks in the air.
I really wasn't sure how to answer that; from his tone it didn't appear as though there was a right answer. "Uh, well, curling?" It even sounded to me like I responded with the lilt of a question. That's not gonna help here, I thought with no small fear.
He asked, "Do you have your clubs with you?"
"Yes. In the back of my van." I stupidly indicated where the back of my van was with a twist of my head. I told you I was golfing; why wouldn't I bring my clubs home?
"What kind are they?" he demanded.
I answered incredulously, "Clevelands." Where's he going with this?
The guard turned again to me, handed me back my license, smiled broadly and said in the happiest tone, "Good choice. Have a nice day!"
I don't know about you, but it struck me a rather bizarre return interview.