I set off for Stratford (Ontario) on a bright, sunny morning, perfect for a long day's drive. I had my tent and related camping paraphernalia, plenty of books to read, my passport, and - a last-minute addition - a few sticks of firewood I threw in the back of the car on the off-chance that I couldn't manage to get one of my desired shows and would end up twiddling my thumbs after dark. I was looking forward to a lovely week in which I would see lots of theater, eat almost every meal al fresco, spend hours reading by the river and watching the waterfowl, browse in bookstores, and talk to almost no one. I didn't bother getting any tickets in advance; going solo means it's usually easy to get rush tickets, which are half-price, so I decided I would be relaxed about it and just take whatever tickets I could get. This had worked very well in 2006.
I've been to Stratford so many times in the last two decades that my car practically drives itself there, and I zigzagged happily through New York State all morning and into the late afternoon, singing along to CDs of show tunes. Best roadside advertising: "Antiques. Junque." Best thing stuck on the back of a car: a "Truth" (read: Jesus) fish eating a Darwin fish. I don't agree with the sentiment at all but I thought the idea was clever.
Everything was going absolutely swimmingly until I arrived at the Canadian border, right on schedule at 4:00pm.
After twentyish driving trips to Canada, I've gotten pretty good at the border crossing procedure, but it had been two years since I'd last been (I skipped last year in favor of Japan), and I knew procedures had tightened up considerably. I had the passport I'd never needed before. I had carefully rid myself of all produce (including the apple core) since I knew that wasn't allowed. Normally the questioning is routine and friendly, and the only thing I have to deal with is a customs official curious about why exactly I am carrying so many books. No longer. After a solid twenty minutes idling in the huge traffic jam the Lewiston crossing has become, I finally got to the booths. The friendly border people had been replaced by a sour bunch of unsmiling military types, black-clad from head to toe and looking like they'd escaped from a junior varsity SWAT team.
The first round of questioning by the guard in the booth focused on the extremely suspicious fact that I was planning to camp, with the highlight question being why, exactly, did I have a mattress with me? I carefully explained that it was for sleeping on, which I would think would be obvious, but perhaps they do other things with mattresses in Canada. Or maybe there's a cross-border mattress-smuggling problem. I was glad I hadn't taken off the tag. I also confessed to possession of a tent, tarp, and pillows, and to not planning to visit any friends or family whatsoever. I confirmed that I was not importing any of this, or the books, to sell. It didn't help; I was pulled out for the search. I wasn't overly alarmed by this. I've been searched before, and I still had ample time to get to Stratford for an 8pm curtain. Off I went to the little border station, where there was a whole crew of bored black-clad troops loitering around. And I just made their day. I hadn't known that they'd changed the rules to outlaw bringing firewood across the border. And, since I have a station wagon and the firewood was sitting right there, clearly visible, in the back, the guy searching my car found it within moments. Uh-oh! I was a firewood smuggler!
So now I had a macho border guard in my face lecturing me about my attempt to "smuggle" firewood across the border and informing me that I was not allowed to enter Canada with it. Okay. I wasn't particularly attached to four or five sticks of firewood, and I really had no desire to deforest all of Canada by importing American insect life. I said sure, confiscate it or whatever, no problem, didn't know the rules had changed, hadn't been a problem on previous trips, very sorry, my mistake.
Ha ha!
That would have been too easy.
No, said the guard. We do not confiscate firewood. It has to be thrown away.
Okay. I'll throw it away.
No, said the guard. We have no bins.
I looked at the garbage bin sitting approximately six inches from my left elbow.
No, said the guard. That is a garbage bin. I need a firewood bin.
Where can I find a firewood bin?
Nowhere in Canada. I have to drive my firewood back to the U.S. and dispose of it there.
No, they weren't kidding. I visualized the line I waited through to get here and the matching line going the other way. I still didn't have a time problem if I got on with it quickly. I agreed to turn around and drive back to the U.S. to throw away my firewood.
Ha ha!
I wasn't getting off that easily. Now they had to really search my car. God only knows what else I might have! So now I had two guards searching while several others kibitzed. They had a jolly old time pulling my clothes out of my suitcase and digging through my underwear. They riffled through my cash and pulled the cards out of my wallet (I'm glad Canada is well-defended against library cards). I started to reflexively object to that, and got Mr. Macho in my face again telling me they had the right to search everything. They had the right to search my laptop. They had the right to look at all the pictures on my camera (I hope they liked the pictures of gnome bowling from Denvention). Entering Canada is a privilege, not a right, and if I didn't like it I could just go on home.
At this point, I would have been thrilled to, if they'd just let me. And Stratford wonders why they're getting fewer Americans this year!
I didn't point out to the guards that they were actually doing a distinctly half-assed search, and that if I had really been trying to smuggle stuff in, they would have missed all the basic hiding places in my car, even before getting to clever stuff like sewing things into the seat cushions. Security theater, for sure: much tossing around of stuff and looking busy, but they didn't even open the wheel well where I had a whole pile of interesting (legal) items which did not include the full-size spare that is supposed to live there. At this point I was pretty sure that this was more harassment than any actual worry that I was a dangerous smuggler. (If not, I'm a little insulted: if I were going to smuggle, I'd be a lot more competent about it!)
They finally, reluctantly, decided I had nothing else illegal. Was I free to go back to the U.S. now to throw away the firewood?
Ha ha!
Getting thrown out of Canada is harder than you'd think. Now I was a Case. I could not go back until my Case had been reviewed. I was given a slip of paper and stuck in a little holding area in the border station with a bunch of other people and yet another bored-looking guard sitting behind a computer who told Mr. Macho that it would be awhile before she could deal with me, and promptly left the room. We all waited. And waited. The guard, whom I mentally dubbed "Karla", came back and ignored everyone. Another guard came in and ignored everyone. I hesitantly went up to him and asked politely if I could please have my paper stamped or whatever so I could go back to the U.S. Not a chance; he was not dealing with my Case. We all waited some more. Eventually Karla started haranguing some of the other folks in the room, immigrants who apparently were lacking the Canadian equivalent of a green card and weren't carrying their provincial health insurance paperwork. Jolly. Better my Case than theirs, I suppose.
Finally, around 5:00, Karla called me up for interrogation. Why was I coming to Canada? Where was I staying? What city was the campground in? (I had no idea; it's out in the country, campground-style.) Was I visiting friends or family? Why did I have books in my car? Was I planning to work while there?
And, finally, with the triumphant air of having come up with the ultimate trap question:
How was I going to use the mattress if I was staying in a tent?
I really had no idea how to answer this, and I'm sure my answer came out somewhere on the condescending/sarcastic scale. I very carefully said:
"I put the tent up, and then I put the mattress inside it and sleep on it."
I tried to keep an utterly neutral tone, but I'm not that good at hiding my feelings, and my immediate feeling was that Karla was an idiot. I'm a fairly imaginative person, but I'm really at a loss to know what else would do with a mattress while camping besides sleep on it. I'm also still trying to figure out what the Canadian border patrol's obsession with mattresses is all about.
I was informed that I had a bad attitude, but she finally stamped my paper, and I was officially ready to be thrown out of Canada. Mr. Macho escorted my car through a U-turn and swaggeringly informed me that I was still in the custody of Canadian customs, and that when I came back I should see him personally 'cause they were going to do the whole search over again. Joy.
I seriously considered just turning around and driving home. If home hadn't been a solid eight hours away I might well have done so. I drove back over the bridge. I considered tossing my firewood in the river, but I wasn't sure where the exact border was. I joined a long line at the American booths. I was pretty sure I was on U.S. territory at that point and I considered quietly pulling over and piling my firewood at the side of the road, but it obviously wasn't going to save me any time. At least I was catching up on my reading.
At 5:30 I pulled up at the U.S. customs booth. The guard started in on the usual line of questioning about citizenship and such. I cut in to explain that I was being thrown out of Canada for possession of firewood, but that I was still in the custody of Canadian customs and just needed to throw away my firewood and turn around. The only word the guard heard was firewood, and it sure woke him up. All of a sudden I had a furious guard lecturing me: didn't I know I wasn't allowed to bring firewood into the U.S.A.? I would have to immediately turn around, return to Canada, and throw it away.
At this point I had a vision of myself driving back and forth across the Lewiston bridge forever, never able to enter either Canada or the U.S. because of my possession of my poor, stateless firewood. I was cursing the impulse that had made me throw it in the car so many hours before and wondering how hard it would be to throw it off the bridge after all, and whether the two customs forces would compare notes and figure it out if I did.
I tried to explain that it was extremely American firewood which had never been any further into Canada than the border post. It was so American that Canada wouldn't let it in. I waved my official still-in-custody piece of paper at him. He demanded to know how long I had been in Canada with the firewood. I told him about 45 minutes. That finally got through. He calmed down and let me explain the situation and then actually became helpful. He took my piece of paper away. He allowed me to carefully pile my firewood on the curb next to the booth and explained that it would be taken away to be officially tested and destroyed. I was all in favor of that. Test my firewood. Examine my paperwork. Run my passport. Riffle through my underwear. Whatever. Just let me get back to Canada and get on with my trip!
It was, overall, more efficient than being thrown out of Canada had been. He showed me the border U-turn shortcut. I drove back over the bridge and into the Canadian customs traffic jam again. At this point I was starting to panic. I knew from experience that if I drive aggressively and don't hit traffic I can get to Stratford from the border in two hours, but I was just about out of margin.
At 6:00pm, I pulled up at the Canadian custom booths again. And my stellar run of luck continued: who should now be manning the booth but Karla! Without even looking at me she started in on the standard list of questions about citizenship and so forth. I sighed and explained that this was my second time through after being thrown out for firewood and that Mr. Macho had ordered me to report back to the border post to be searched again. Now she was looking at me, and she certainly was just as thrilled to see me as I was to see her. She asked if I had disposed of the firewood. I said yes. She asked where. I said in the U.S. She asked where exactly. I explained carefully that I had put it in a small pile on the curb next to the far left-hand customs booth. I had visions of them sending a patrol of bored guards across to check. What would I do if they had already taken it away?
She interrupted my reverie by telling me to go. Go? I said I had been ordered by Mr. Macho to report back to him be searched again. Karla just about blew a fuse. She was releasing me! Why was my attitude so bad? Did I want to be searched again? Hadn't she told me to go? Did I have to be told twice?
Apparently, yes. But not three times. I zoomed out of the booth and drove very carefully past the border station, half-afraid Mr. Macho was going to burst out and send the entire border patrol after me for driving into Canada without being personally searched by him again. I was just about out of gas after over an hour of idling in traffic jams, hungry, pissed off that I had just lost two solid hours because of my idiotic impulse to bring along firewood, and right on the edge of losing any possibility of catching a show that night if I hit the slightest bit of traffic.
I'm aware that as border-crossing horror stories go, this is pretty mild. I'm also aware that as a U.S. citizen, I don't have a leg to stand on as far as complaining goes. Being searched badly and sent on a loop around the bridge doesn't even begin to compare to, say, being sent to Syria and tortured or the other fun'n'games that U.S. officials have gotten up to in mistreating visitors to the U.S. Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander, and I probably should just suck it up and deal. In retrospect, it's even funny, though I was completely incapable of appreciating the humor at the time and will never try to cross at the Lewiston border crossing again.
But it makes me sad. I think the U.S.-Canada border used to be the longest undefended border in the world. The Canadian officials used to be friendly and welcoming and pleased that I was visiting their country for culture rather than shopping. Of all the consequences of the Bush administration's "War on Terror" insanity, this is among the most trivial, and Canada is entirely justified in being just as paranoid-nasty as we've been. But I mourn, nonetheless, for the trust and friendly border relations that seem to have been lost. And I really have to seriously question the judgment of the border patrol. Do they have so many terrorists or drug smugglers disguising themselves as tourists with camping equipment that searching them is an intelligent use of their time?
None of this was helping with my stress levels, and I go to Stratford to reduce said levels. So I started racing for Stratford. Up the QEW. Highway 403. Route 6 towards Guelph. Highway 401. Route 7 & 8. I was about twenty minutes from Stratford and starting to think I might actually salvage my evening after all when I heard a metallic clunk.
That's when my left rear tire went flat.
perhaps they do other things with mattresses in Canada
Wouldn't you like to know.
The last time I crossed that border was after the Boston worldcon in 2004. On Labor Day. By the time I finally made it to the booth, I was asked the usual questions by a very prissy Canadian official who, when I answered that I was born in Canada but that my citizenship was American, equally prissily explained that, if I so desired, I could ask for my Canadian citizenship back. I felt it better not to tell him that it was none of his business, that I had chosen against a dual citizenship, but I was bored and just wanted to get going.
On my way back, one week later, I dreaded having the American official decide that I was a member of the Front de Liberation du Québec. "You're an American, but you speak funny? Do you think I'm stupid?" Luckily, all I got was a stone-faced official who let me thru fairly easily.
When I go to Montreal's worldcon, I'll probably be flying in, but I expect that airport's customs will be a very pleasant experience. Not.
Bush has a lot to answer for.
Posted by: Serge | August 26, 2008 at 11:05 AM
By the way, may we ask what was in the wheel well besides the wheel?
Posted by: Serge | August 26, 2008 at 11:20 AM
re. mattresses:
Yeah, I would like to know!
Why were you driving to Canada after the Boston worldcon?
There was nothing exciting in the wheel well. Not even a wheel, ahem. Just a few random car tools and an air compressor to reinflate a low tire. The latter is not useful in the case where one's tire has been gashed open by an unknown object on a highway.
Posted by: Susan de Guardiola | August 26, 2008 at 01:36 PM
Why did I drive to Canada after the worldcon? It had been 9 years since my aging mom had seen her eldest child and she was quite unsubtle about it. It was also a chance to see a few friends. Mostly that in fact because I was never very close to my genetic relatives.
I wonder what would have happened if you had hidden wood inside your mattress.
Posted by: Serge | August 26, 2008 at 02:40 PM
They would have missed it on the search they conducted. But it would have involved damaging my mattress, which I was not interested in doing.
Posted by: Susan de Guardiola | August 26, 2008 at 02:57 PM
Ah yes, that extensive and thorough search worthy of Shakespearean Security Theatre...
Posted by: Serge | August 26, 2008 at 03:11 PM
Wow. Who knew you couldn't take firewood over the borders? You know, I bet that has to do with NAFTA and Canada's softwood. And why else would you take a mattress with a tent? The last time I went to Canada was probably more than 10 years ago and on the way in, they asked me if I was bringing any non-personal items and I said "Gifts! Would you like to see them?" (I'd purposely not wrapped them yet) and she said no. On the way back, he asked if I was bringing anything in to the country and I said "Books!" and he passed me on.
You should ask Jim about roads that go over borders with no guards.
Posted by: Marilee J. Layman | August 26, 2008 at 04:47 PM
The impression I got was that the firewood rule had to do with foreign insects.
The problem for me is that to travel to Stratford in any rational way, it all comes down to one of three border crossings (Lewiston, Niagara, or Fort Erie). The Great Lakes make any other crossing point impractical. If I just wanted to go to a random location in Canada, it would be easier. I did once drive home over the lakes via the Thousand Islands region, which was lots of fun and very scenic but took a lot of extra time.
Posted by: Susan de Guardiola | August 26, 2008 at 08:36 PM
The firewood issue definitely would have been due to potential insect infestation and/or disease.
I think you got unlucky. Lewiston is the border crossing my husband and I almost always use (generally separately, when we're going to visit the other), and problems either way are rare. He has crossed with weirder items than a mattress without any issues.
Posted by: Carol Witt | August 27, 2008 at 10:47 AM
Still, Carol, if they are truly that concerned about insects sneaking into Canada, why don't they have a mechanism in place to dispose of that evil wood in an efficient manner? Yes, I am a computer programmer, and I know how silly my question is.
Posted by: Serge | August 27, 2008 at 05:11 PM
And foreign insects are just like ours. What makes either country think they contain insects and disease at the border? There's miles and miles of joined forests over the border.
Posted by: Marilee J. Layman | August 27, 2008 at 06:28 PM
I didn't address the lack-of-sane-disposal-options part because I don't understand it either. Security theatre isn't just about humans!
Posted by: Carol Witt | August 29, 2008 at 01:09 PM
Carol... I have this co-worker who is a Republican and we rarely talk politics. Last time we did, she started griping about California's former governor, Gray Davis, and I gently suggested that maybe we should stay away from the subject. But, not long ago, we talked about the Security Theater at airports and she agreed with me that this was all BS, just something being done to show to the public that Something Is Being Done. It probably was a safe political topic because this affects her as much as it does everybody else.
Posted by: Serge | August 30, 2008 at 07:03 AM
Serge: *nod*. Security theatre affects the guards too. My husband has discussed it at the Canadian border (he wouldn't try to at the US border). He said they smiled, shrugged and sounded sheepish about having to go through with it.
I'm sure there are some US border guards who agree about the security theatre, just as there are some Canadian guards who act like jerks and bullies.
Posted by: Carol Witt | August 30, 2008 at 01:40 PM
Carol... Indeed. Bullies and decent people aren't limited to this or that side of a border. My own experience with the Security Theater has mostly involved airports, and the people in charge haven't behaved like jerks, not while I was around anyway. Last time I flew, one Middle-Eastern ahead of me was wearing a traditional scarf, and the security people had one female member pat the woman's hair, but the security woman was gentle about it. Still, the whole thing is stupid. If you wear a scarf, they have to check you out, but do they do so if your uncovered hair looks like something from Hairspray? Of course, you can't ask them because you yourself might become an object of suspicion, especially if they saw the original version of Hairspray.
Posted by: Serge | August 31, 2008 at 08:27 AM
Carol:
The sad thing is that until this trip I would have testified vehemently that there were always much nicer people and attitudes on the Canadian side of the border. I've crossed regularly for nearly twenty years, and while I've occasionally had my car searched, I've never had an experience like this before. I usually cross at Niagara (for the view of the falls), but I've used Lewiston before and never had any problems. And I've brought things like an entire Pennsic wardrobe across! Once in Vancouver I crossed with 15-foot mechanical wings! (I'm convinced I got searched that time because the guards wanted to know about the wings. I think I recruited my searcher for the 1991 Westercon.)
Do you and your husband live on opposite sides of the border or am I misreading your posts?
The lack of sane disposal options for confiscated materials still ticks me off. What would have happened if I'd been carrying produce, I wonder? Not that I'm willing to make the experiment!
Posted by: Susan de Guardiola | September 06, 2008 at 07:14 AM
Once in Vancouver I crossed with 15-foot mechanical wings!
That's a rather steampunky way of flying to Canada.
Posted by: Serge | September 06, 2008 at 09:52 AM
My husband became a Permanent Resident of Canada this year, but almost all of his clients and connections are in the US, and only so much of his work can be done from home. He also has a house down there that he's trying to renovate on his own in between working and seeing me.
The fifth anniversary of our first date was in August, and we have been married for just over 4.5 years. The distance has been tough, but we think we're worth the effort. At least we're within a day's drive of each other.
One of the people I drove to Kalamazoo with had an orange in the lunch she packed (she had never been to the US before). The guard tossed it in the garbage can outside his booth and we moved on. It may have caused a different reaction had she brought more.
Posted by: Carol Witt | September 06, 2008 at 12:09 PM
(still confused) Carol, you live in Canada?
I don't have any problem with them stopping me on the firewood. But I do resent their inability or unwillingness to distinguish between an honest mistake and an attempt to seriously smuggle. It would take stupidity beyond belief to attempt to smuggle by putting the contraband in clear view (from outside the vehicle!) in the back of station wagon. While they were busy harassing me, any number of real smugglers (terrorists, etc.) could have been cruising on by, firewood-free.
Gah, I was so annoyed!
Posted by: Susan de Guardiola | September 08, 2008 at 04:58 PM
I can see the woodchuck being stopped at the border then, after being asked if he can chuck wood, is x-rayed in case he did chuck wood.
Posted by: Serge | September 08, 2008 at 07:15 PM
Wow. This is giving me SERIOUS second thoughts about going to WorldCon in Montreal next summer.
Posted by: David Bellamy | October 03, 2008 at 05:58 PM
David:
1) don't cross at Lewiston
2) don't bring firewood
Honestly, in almost twenty years of regular crossings, I've never had an experience like this before.
Plus, I'll be in Montreal, so all the fun people should come and we can have a dinner party or something!
Posted by: Susan de Guardiola | October 03, 2008 at 06:03 PM
OK. That sounds good. I spoke to you at Denvention on the street, but I don't think you recognized me. See you at Darkover.
Posted by: David Bellamy | October 05, 2008 at 09:56 PM
Errgh. I apologize profusely. I am fairly good at faces and extraordinarily bad at attaching names to them. So while your face is known to me, my being able to successfully put a name to it at any given moment is a gamble, even with you standing right in front of me. This has nothing to do with your memorability and everything to do with me having a mind like a sieve, especially when (as at worldcon) I am in a world of stress and more scatterbrained than usual. I have to apologize for this a lot, sometimes under even more embarrassing circumstances.
On the bright side, calling me on it here is a good way to make sure I study up before Darkover, and I actually do better with names when I have them printed (paper or screen) in front of me, since it gives me a visual memory to refer to. I do much better with visual input than with sounds, unless the sounds are set to music or attached to intense emotions (but not so intense I get distracted). So oddly enough, seeing your name in dark blue slanted boldface on my screen will do more for my ability to remember it than a couple dozen personal encounters.
Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Posted by: Susan de Guardiola | October 06, 2008 at 02:46 PM
Hey, maybe we should have a small Rixo get-together at Darkovercon. Maybe Marilee wants to make a small road trip?
Posted by: Susan de Guardiola | October 06, 2008 at 02:48 PM
Hmmm, that's far enough to drive that I'd need to stay overnight, and I can't afford that right now. Sounds like fun, though!
Posted by: Marilee J. Layman | October 06, 2008 at 09:02 PM
Actually, there's currently an insect problem with firewood, and you violated the quarantine just by bringing wood from Connecticut to New York. I think possibly the law as well, though by turning it in to the US border guards, you did the right thing as far as safe disposal is concerned.
Not that this explains, condones, or excuses the idiocy you encountered.
My own worst border crossing involved borrowing a friend's car so I could go antique shopping, and having trouble finding the registration at the border. I was brought in on suspicion of Grand Theft. I still had a better time than you (but then, I was crossing at Niagara, where they are used to tourists, and before the border change). Next worst was when I admitted that I was performing in a show when asked why I had all those odd clothes in the back of my car.
Best was when I was driving my friend Trish back to her home in Toronto, and she had had her passport stolen the day before (along with ALL ID) and cheekily told the guard "I'm going to say "about" and you'll let me through." -- He agreed that she must have been born and raised in Toronto and waved us through.
Posted by: Michael Bergman | March 26, 2009 at 02:53 PM
I was searched once while carrying 15-foot mechanical costume wings at a crossing near Vancouver. That was fun. I think I convinced the guard to come to the con for the weekend.
Prior to the recent changes, I'd crossed the border regularly with no more than a decade-out-of-date expired college ID several times. I wouldn't try that now. I've also crossed with firewood in both directions in the past; the guards said it was a new law.
Posted by: Susan de Guardiola | March 26, 2009 at 03:06 PM
Say, Susan, planning to bring anything wooden to Montreal in August?
Posted by: Serge | March 26, 2009 at 03:12 PM