I get nervous whenever I have to deal with anything official.
Or crossing the border.
Call it a weakness.
Yesterday, my youngest daughter and I decided to go on a Mother/Daughter weekend.
Across the border into the United States.
It was the first time we had ever done anything like it.
We were . . . quite excited.
The weather was good. The roads excellent.
Everything was perfect.
Except that I was acting as navigator.
Ahem . . .
My daughter and I had been driving for a couple of hours.
It had been a pleasant trip so far. Talking. Laughing.
We approached the border crossing slowly.
I should explain, here, that the Canada/US border crossing is massive, with buildings and outbuildings and offices. The business portion consists of several little booths, each with its own line, and a one border guard capacity.
How many of the little booths are manned depends on the volume of traffic.
We were crossing in the middle of the day.
On a Sunday.
There were only two booths open.
One for cars and smaller vehicles.
One for large trucks.
This fact will become pertinent in a moment . . .
I saw two green arrows.
One had a lineup of cars.
One was empty.
I’m all about getting through the border crossing quickly so I directed my daughter toward the empty line.
It was only after we stopped and looked way, way up at the border guard that I realized that I had guided us into the truck lane.
The crossing guard was shaking her head in an 'I can't believe this is happening' sort of way.
She sighed. “Everyone out of the vehicle, passports in hand!” she said.
We quickly complied.
The two of us stood there, looking up at the guard as she started typing.
Finally, she looked down at us. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“Edmonton,” my daughter said.
“Are you carrying any fresh fruit?”
“Any guns or tobacco?”
“Are you carrying anything that you will be leaving in the States?”
“Where are you going?”
And this is where she leaned down and fixed both of us with a steely gaze. “Do you think you can find it?” she asked.