PART I

After burning out in Yellowstone, I decided to take a vacation from my vacation.   The only place to get respite from these United States was in our snowy neighbor to the north: Canada.  I drove toward the Prince of Wales hotel in the Watertown-Glacier International Peace Park that crosses the longest undefended border in the world.

Everything I know about Canada I learned from South Park.  As such, I expected the Canadians to be a jolly, friendly, if somewhat naive race of people with square, flapping heads living in perpetual winter.

``Hello,'' I said to the border patrol woman as I drove into the crossing point.

``Where are you going today, Sir?''

She didn't look friendly or naive.  She didn't have a flapping square head.

``Watertown.  On vacation,'' I told her.

``Do you have a reservation at the hotel?''

``Yes.''

She typed at her computer and brought up a CCTV feed of my car.

``This looks like a new car,'' she said.

``Yes,'' I said, trying to sound cheerful, but faltering.

``What are you doing in a new car with New York plates all the way here in Canada?''

Not sure why this drew suspicion, I answered: ``It's my father's car.''

``That isn't what I asked,'' she said, aiming her reflective cop glasses at me.

I broke, as any man would under the lightest interrogation, and all the details of the road trip spilled from me.

``--so you live in New York?''  she interrupted.

Now I knew I was in trouble.  I would tell her that I live in London and she would discover my dual citizenship.  While my Irish citizenship allows me to work in England -- and I deeply appreciate it for that -- it also causes me no end of trouble with government officials and airline staff.

``Let me see your Irish passport,'' she said.

``I don't have it.''

``Why not?''

``Well, I'm an American citizen so I only need a driver's license to travel to Canada.''

Wrong answer.  Nothing makes police officers angrier than when you know the rules.

``Pull your car over Sir, and see the officer in that building,'' she said to me.

``Johnny,'' she spoke into her radio.  ``I've got one for you.''




I sat in an interrogation room with a mustachioed border cop (also not square headed) playing a fun game with him called `tell me everything about your life.'  His questions came quickly:

``What's you name?''

``What's your occupation?''

``What's your income?''

``Where do you live?''

``Where did you live before that?''

``Before that?''

``Before that?''

``What are you doing in Canada?''

``Where are you going?''

``Are there any illegal substances in your car?''

``Are you sure?''

``Really sure?''

``Super-duper-no-foolsies sure?''

``What foreign countries have you visited in the past your-entire-life?''

``Turkey?  China?  Why would you go there?''

``Have you ever consorted with terrorists?''

``Do you plan to?''

``Have you ever consorted with communists?''

``Know anyone who does?''

``Have you ever committed a thought crime?''

``Do I look good with this mustache?''

To add to the fun he also made editorial remarks about the details of my life, such as when he discovered my occupation.

``Teacher, eh?  How can you afford to travel to Canada then?''

I wanted to point out the relative weakness of this provincial colony's economy when compared to the centre of her Royal Majesty's empire, and the exchange rate that resulted, but I'd gotten in enough trouble already, so I just shrugged.

He wrote everything I told him down, doubtless to be filed away in a folder titled Trouble Making Dual Nationalists.

Twenty minutes later when he'd satisfied his curiosity he gave me instructions.

``Drive your car into hanger number 2.''

``Kate,'' he said into his radio.  ``I've got one for you.''

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