Border Crossing
I can honestly say my quick trip to the US was a resounding success:
1. I successfully acquired the US-viable gift card I sought, for a person for whom a Canada+US Home Depot card just wasn't going to cut it (see previous post). It may have seemed like a long way to go for a gift, but you know those times when you think of a pretty good gift, and then it serves as a complete mental block to being able to coming up with an alternative idea for that person? Yeah, it was totally one of those. I was going to go insane if I had to dream up something different. And the drive was nice — I got some sunshine — well, at least on the way down there, which brings me to. . . .
2. I managed not to get entirely caught in the impending blizzard of doom which seemed to lurk on all sides during the drive back. I had the radio tuned to the Seattle NPR station, and all they could talk about were the series of ice storms (mostly in the New England states, anyway) which were coming down from [GASP!] Canada, that frozen wasteland of donuts and hockey, to oppress these great United States. Not to be outdone, the Pacific Northwest was trying its hardest starting around 3pm to dump as much snow on its Starbucks-swilling denizens as it could, and pretended to blow from a vaguely northern direction, just to jump on the whole "blame Canada" bandwagon, I think.
3. I stopped back at my favourite Mexican restaurant in Bellingham where I'd eaten lunch at noontime today so I could tip the waitress I'd accidentally stiffed because I was so befuddled the fact that I seem to have become incompetent at paying cash in US dollars. Yes, I know I need therapy for being this guilt-ridden and obsessive, and she probably didn't even care all that much, but like I said, it's a regular must-stop place for us to eat on nearly every trip down south and I couldn't bear to be perceived as a bad guy there, and not to mention I now feel like I've earned like a bazillion-gillion bad server karma points. Next time some snotty looks-like-12-years-old-and-acts-like-it-too shitty Vancouver waitress like just never gets around to ever bringing our food or checking on us ever again (I can't tell you how many times this seems to happen to us here) I can omit the tip without feeling the slightest pang of guilt. Granted, the hostess at the restaurant did think I was completely crazy for coming back (or at the very least thought the waitress and I had some kind of thing going on) which prompted me, in a slightly neurotic tactic to save face (and of course because I love my enchilada-craving wife so dearly). . . .
4. Officially joined the ranks of those brave souls who have risked life and limb, hours of interrogation and torture by the RCMP and CSIS, and possible public ostracism and shame for life, to become one the few, the proud . . .
. . . the taco smugglers. Well, enchilada smugglers at any rate. I'm not sure if the taco-sniffing dogs were on holiday, or if my desperate look of a man whose home direly needed the fix of a little corn-tortilla-wrapped bundle of goodness prompted the border agent to take pity to let me through, but through I did go, and I can't describe the pride I now have at sharing this honour with such an elite corps of individuals.
I can't wait to see the look on the wife's face.
As long as she doesn't bring a customs officer with her.
In which case I might wait a little.
* Image taken from the great card game The Nacho Incident, which I can now play with the smile of a man who's experienced the adventure firsthand and lived to tell the tale.
1. I successfully acquired the US-viable gift card I sought, for a person for whom a Canada+US Home Depot card just wasn't going to cut it (see previous post). It may have seemed like a long way to go for a gift, but you know those times when you think of a pretty good gift, and then it serves as a complete mental block to being able to coming up with an alternative idea for that person? Yeah, it was totally one of those. I was going to go insane if I had to dream up something different. And the drive was nice — I got some sunshine — well, at least on the way down there, which brings me to. . . .
2. I managed not to get entirely caught in the impending blizzard of doom which seemed to lurk on all sides during the drive back. I had the radio tuned to the Seattle NPR station, and all they could talk about were the series of ice storms (mostly in the New England states, anyway) which were coming down from [GASP!] Canada, that frozen wasteland of donuts and hockey, to oppress these great United States. Not to be outdone, the Pacific Northwest was trying its hardest starting around 3pm to dump as much snow on its Starbucks-swilling denizens as it could, and pretended to blow from a vaguely northern direction, just to jump on the whole "blame Canada" bandwagon, I think.
3. I stopped back at my favourite Mexican restaurant in Bellingham where I'd eaten lunch at noontime today so I could tip the waitress I'd accidentally stiffed because I was so befuddled the fact that I seem to have become incompetent at paying cash in US dollars. Yes, I know I need therapy for being this guilt-ridden and obsessive, and she probably didn't even care all that much, but like I said, it's a regular must-stop place for us to eat on nearly every trip down south and I couldn't bear to be perceived as a bad guy there, and not to mention I now feel like I've earned like a bazillion-gillion bad server karma points. Next time some snotty looks-like-12-years-old-and-acts-like-it-too shitty Vancouver waitress like just never gets around to ever bringing our food or checking on us ever again (I can't tell you how many times this seems to happen to us here) I can omit the tip without feeling the slightest pang of guilt. Granted, the hostess at the restaurant did think I was completely crazy for coming back (or at the very least thought the waitress and I had some kind of thing going on) which prompted me, in a slightly neurotic tactic to save face (and of course because I love my enchilada-craving wife so dearly). . . .
4. Officially joined the ranks of those brave souls who have risked life and limb, hours of interrogation and torture by the RCMP and CSIS, and possible public ostracism and shame for life, to become one the few, the proud . . .
. . . the taco smugglers. Well, enchilada smugglers at any rate. I'm not sure if the taco-sniffing dogs were on holiday, or if my desperate look of a man whose home direly needed the fix of a little corn-tortilla-wrapped bundle of goodness prompted the border agent to take pity to let me through, but through I did go, and I can't describe the pride I now have at sharing this honour with such an elite corps of individuals.
I can't wait to see the look on the wife's face.
As long as she doesn't bring a customs officer with her.
In which case I might wait a little.