Woe Canada

Day 7 of our extended vacation took us from Michigan to upstate New York, by way of the Canadian highways of the province of Ontario. We entered into Canada as a two-car caravan: Beni, Olivia, Grandma Randi, and I were in one car, and G and Aunt Liz were in the other one. Both of our vehicles were packed to capacity: ours with the various items needed for a two-week trip; G’s car with all of her earthly belongings. (She’d sold her house two days prior and was temporarily moving what she could fit in her car to her parents’ house in Rhode Island.)

It’s no wonder that we were “randomly selected” for further inspections at the border crossing—it must have looked as though we were finally making good on our promise to move to our neighbor to the north as the result of our last national election. We entered the inspection zone and were asked by a border agent to get out of the car, at which point things got interesting because Olivia refused the agent’s request.

As I went to remove her from her seat while sternly reminding her about the importance of obeying the commands of law enforcement officials, she went completely berserk. She cried and screamed with the force of a dozen Celine Dions. Feeling like I myself wanted to cry, we were all spared that sorry sight by the kindly agent. Sensing that we were nothing more than a family traveling through with an overtired child, he quickly went through the compulsory questions about what we did or did not pack before sending us on our way.