Oh Canada

Today, it was a long 3 hours in the Customs and Homeland Security office in Detroit, Michigan right next to the Ambassador Bridge to Canada. It's the only port of entry to our neighbor to the north where you actually drive south into Canada. My mission was to obtain my Canada FAST card. The "Fast And Secure Trade" plastic that allows me to quickly and easily travel with freight back and forth across the border. I had filled out lengthy paperwork weeks beforehand to prompt a thorough background check and now it was time to show up in person for my appointment only time at one the designated border crossings. My choices were Seattle, Washington, Buffalo, New York and Detroit, Michigan. I chose Detroit because I was fairly certain freight would take me there. I got that part easily correct. It was now time to be interviewed, photographed and finger printed to complete the procedure. The days of just showing your driver's license and answering affirmative to the question "are you an American citizen" are apparently over to gain access to Canada and the United States. I'm glad they have a process for weeding out terrorists, but I'm not used to this kind of scrutiny, just to go to Canada. Heck, I once canoed my way into Canada at Boundary Waters on the Minnesota/Ontario boarder. That's right, we were fully outfitted, on the water in Portage Canoes. They just wanted to see if we had fishing gear and the appropriate license to go with it. I wonder what they'd do now if an entourage of camel jockeys paddled by.

I arrived at an official building with paperwork under arm and encountered a room full of various looking people apparently there for a variety of reasons. Some guy walked in with the prettiest long blonde hair you've ever seen with one of those plastic beret type things going over the top of his head to hold the hair straight back...something that a woman would wear. He appeared to be middle aged with Aerosmith "Dream On" lines on his face. It seemed kind of funny to me see a guy with a wavy golden blonde mane held back with a dollar store hoop and I had to suppress my urge to laugh out loud. At that point, they probably would not have issued me the card and I would have had a time of it explaining that kind of spontaneous laughter. No joking around in this hall of federal efficiency. There was no small talk going on either between the contestants as everyone seemed hesitant to say anything in this place. A sign on the wall in a conspicuous place warned that cell phones were to be turned off and that any communication, including texting would have to be carried on outside. Government fear was thick in the air and the look of concern covered everyone's faces. Everything and everyone looked so official and orderly.

I was called for my appointment and was greeted by a gruff black woman seated behind plexiglass with a voice hole. She quizzed me about my background to see if my answers matched my application and then motioned to an oddly arranged row of plastic chairs along with an order for me to take a seat and wait. The way they had these attached from underneath chairs set up, you would have to climb over one if you wanted the seat in the corner. I found that kind of odd in this edifice of bi-nation wisdom. An hour and a half later of watching an industrial looking clock on the wall tick, I was called into the office, this time by a no nonsense Canadian official to be grilled under bright lighting. She reminded me of an evil woman on a James Bond movie. The one with the knives coming out of her shoes. They had a camera pointed in my eyeball and asked all kinds of probing questions. I felt like a criminal trying to get this card. At the end of the process, my gruff border agent official friend read me a list of do's and don'ts that took a half hour to complete. I had to sign a document about 4 times saying I was presented with the mantra and understood it in its entirety. She said if I didn't follow the rules I could be detained or locked up for an indefinite period of time. She emphatically added that WE have the facilities here. OK, gotcha, so there's a dungeon with shackles underneath all these cubicles, plexiglass and impeccable steel gray industrial carpet for rule breakers. The officer then gave me a piece of paper that said I had permission to leave. I flashed back to Hillside School in 1969 and the bathroom passes.

It was a major CF leaving this place as there was no signage to direct you out amidst a maze of construction barriers and fences. My next move was a wrong turn and before I knew it, I was on the ramp to the bridge to Windsor, Ontario Canada! Crap. No room to turn a big truck around on the American side just beyond the toll booths where I displayed my permission slip, so they gave me orange colored paperwork to turn around on the Canadian side. Fear flashed before my mind with a thought of what if they don't let me back into the US? Over the bridge I traversed to Canada, only to receive more paperwork from the Canadians to make the U-turn. Next, I had to wait in a long line to get back on the US side where I endured another series of questions by customs agents to get back in America. My instructions were to shut the truck off and answer the questions honestly and correctly because the Customs Officer didn't like surprises...like finding out you were a wanted felon or were attempting to bring non-declared goods to the United States. I think he was lying when he said he didn't like surprises, because I believe these guys live for hauling border maggots off in cuffs and leg shackles. I'll bet he was thinking a hog tie and carry off by six officers would be even better!

I passed this inquisition and was instructed that I had permission to proceed. I saw two guys in turbans in a truck next to me in the customs lanes on the way out and I wanted to yell over "thanks a lot!"

Back at the truck stop in Ann Arbor, as I was backing into a parking spot on a full lot of trucks in the pouring rain, some lout in a US Express truck cuts me off, almost hits me and takes the spot I was aimed in. Sometimes, in these lots, it turns into a game of chicken with tractor trailers. In this case it was ok, because just that moment, a better spot opened up and I lurched forward and missled her in. What a day! I'm about to fall off to diesel dreams and hope tomorrow is a better day.