The border police were nice; though I hadn’t yet tanned from the next five days of travel and neglected to shave.
The first guard looked at my passport; smiled and waved me though. Then his supervisor stopped him and waived me over for a closer inspection. He smiled and asked to see my papers, “Where you headed?”.
DHS: “Why are you driving through America?” he asked.
ME: “Marlboros, sir; and I’d heard it was faster. And here’s the thing, dude; I’ve got about five ham-and-cheese sandwiches with me”
DHS: “Okay? What do you mean ‘about?’”
ME: “Well; I’m not allowed to bring food am I?”
DHS: “Don’t worry about the sandwiches,” he hands me my passport, “have a nice day, sir.”
Be polite and everything will be all right. That’s usually what I try to do in those awkward situations with passport-Gestapo.
I’m either a genuinely awkward or a generally ludicrous individual; depending on my mood that day. Neither character trait seems appropriate for dealing with the Gestapo.
I’ve seldom had a problem at the border; they look at the numerous squiggly stamps on my passport and the situation progresses in one of two ways:
- They wave me through and barely look at it OR
- They REALLY look at it
I’m of a blend of European ancestry; some Irish, some French, a splash of British; anyone with European ancestry is a blend of numerous other human qualities. I’m not sure which genetic sub-group causes it; but if you stick me in the sun for a few days without a razor; I’ll appear to be from whichever country you choose to believe I’m from.
I go from Irish to Iraqi in about a week. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Thankfully I’d been sitting indoors all winter and shaved before I left; let’s see how I look in five days. The drive is 53 hours; spread out amongst twelve hours behind the wheel per day; and if I stick to a perfect schedule I’m looking at 4.2 days to be exact.
It will take about that long to reach Edmonton; but I bet I can do it in four.