On The Border; Or, Is My Life an Unending Episode of South Park

We arrive at the US / Canada border.

The dutiful Canadian border guard asks "what is the purpose of your visit?"

"Lunch," I answer.

"Do you have any weapons ... handguns ... rifles ... shotguns ... bazookas ... nuclear weapons ... mace ... pepper spray ... personal protection devices ... etc?"

"No."

"Yo-kay," he says. Welcome to Canada.

Pam asks, "How far to a restaurant?"

He says something like 30 minutes or maybe 30 miles.

Pam leans toward me and says, "Let's turn around."

I drive about 20 yards to the sign pictured here at the Waterton Glacier International Peace Park. We take the photos you see. We turn around. We wait.

The US border guard asks where we're from ... "what was the purpose of your visit ... how long were you there ... do you have any fruit ... vegetables ... meats ... Canadian back bacon ... etc."

"Lunch. Too far to go. No. No. And. No."

"Welcome home."

 I have been to Canada twice. With the most recent trip, my time there totals -- in aggregate -- nearly an hour. Half of that time was certainly spent waiting on line to clear passport control. The last visit was at Niagara Fall during the height of the SARS scare. Everyone at the Canadian border was wearing paper masks. Someone in the family panicked and said "we must turn around now. Everyone is wearing a mask. Let's go."

Oh, Canada.

Perhaps we'll try Montreal next. For about 20 minutes.