The Border

Oh, our not so friendly neighbors to the north, when did we stop liking each other? We decided to skip through Canada because it's shorter, mileage wise. Bad idea. I am still on New Zealand time and still have the delusion that I can have a casual conversation with anyone, even a border guard. Our little chat went like this:

"Hello" I say.
"Passports" Pause. "Where are you going?"
"Nova Scotia." (Well, we were eventually but just to Niagara for this trip. Whoopsy daisy.)
"How long?"
"Uh, maybe a couple of weeks . . . we're riding the bikes int-"
"Where are you staying?"
"Camping mostly"
"Reservations?"
(Many.) "Uh, no . . . not yet."

Then he hands us a yellow ticket and instructs us to park the car at Customs. We're being searched. As I hand my yellow ticket to the officer I peek at what's written on it: Halifax, 2 weeks, Nowhere to stay, No plans. We didn't do well. I cracked a joke and got a blank stare from one officer and a soul-piercing scowl from the other.

One hour later we are ushered to "Immigration". We don't really think of ourselves as immigrants to Canada, but the 16 Amish people in the room did. In fact, we were the only people around who believed in electricity.

We have a lovely conversation about why I've lived in 10 places in 4 years, how beautiful New Zealand was, and how much money is in my checking account. Not fun.

"Thanks, have a great afternoon."
"Next."