How Do You Know These People?

Years ago, going over to Canada was easy and expected; it wasn't unusual for American kids to have Canadian friendships.  You'd meet at Crystal Beach Amusement Park or on one of the Lake Erie beaches, Fort Erie, or Niagara Falls at the godawful wax museum.  It was a badge of honor if you had a Canadian boyfriend, even though that meant few and far encounters unless he could drive.

People crossed all the time with their families to visit, and would spend the day at the Falls, or hit Fort Erie for the teacup shops or Chinese food.  Canadian ice cream is creamier, Canadian bacon is baconier.  The people are exceptionally nice, and you were pretty much safe unless you ran into another American.  Things changed, and now if I point out my school window to across the river at our neighbor to the north, the kids have never heard of the place, and that's a shame.  

Now a passport is required, costing over $100 per adult and $82 for all children under 16; you have to have one, regardless of age.  So for a family of four, it will need an outlay of $446 dollars just for legal documents; I wonder how much that has curtailed a Sunday drive over to Canada?  I wonder how many American kids have Canadian friends?  Don't ask if they can tell you where Ontario is.

I have a Canadian friend.  We met through the internet as we both belong to The International Buster Keaton Society.  International, folks.  She's a curling stone's throw away...ask me about curling stones later and Canada's new, clear plastic money.  A wonderful game for her is to mock my flat A's to the point that I tell her I'm gonna smack her.  Go ahead, smaaack me, she says.  I don't hear the difference until her mother does an American accent, and then I'm on the floor, rolling.

But we're friends and have several commonalities besides Keaton; she will spend time over Stateside, and I get over to Canada maybe three times a month.  The problem is this: alongside the overloaded bridge and truck traffic, you are lined up with sometimes up to one hundred cars wanting to get into the Canadian side.  So you inch up, inch up, watch the water gauge to see if the engine is overheating and 20 to 40 minutes later arrive at the Canadian customs officer for the interview.

Country of citizenship?  Where are you headed?  What are you doing there?  How long will you be in Canada?  Are you bringing in any food, firearms, drugs, or alcohol?  Have a nice day, ma'am; and I'm off.

Getting back in to home base is different; again the wait, but longer; sometimes you will be in one spot for 25 minutes, as the lines on either side of you progress to cars you passed at Netherby Road twelve miles back.  This can indicate many circumstances, the most likely being that the American customs officer is taking his or her duty on a marathon run.  They have been instructed to drill the entrants as if illegal aliens were stuffed in our tires.

"Citizenship?" United States.  "Where do you live?" Buffalo.  "How long were you in Canada?" Went over about 12:30 this afternoon.  "Where did you go?"  Chippewa Falls.  "Why did you go there?"  To visit a friend.  "How do you know this friend?"  We've known each other for two years, and met on the internet.  "Internet?"(raised eyebrow, possible sex traffic here), "How did you meet on the Internet?"
Oh boy, here we go. We both belong to the International Buster Keaton Society.  This brings a concerned look from the officer.  "What?" WE BELONG TO THE BUSTER KEATON SOCIETY.

Frowns.  "Buster Keaton? Who's Buster Keaton?" Crap.  He was a silent film star, a comedian, a director, a wri-  "And this person is a member of this club also?" Yes, yes she is.  "She? Did you go anywhere with her?"  We went to the movies.  "Movies?  You went to Canada to go to the movies?  Don't they have movies here in the States?"  Yes, but this was a silent movie.  "And this was that Buster Keaton fella?" Yes.  "Where is this club?"  Jesus, did I not say the word internet?  It's not a clubhouse sort of club, it's a group of people who interact through the web.  "Where is it based?"  I'm not going to say that we're all over the place, this man wants a solid answer to understand.  Muskegon, Michigan.  "Where?"  Muskegon, Mich-i-gan.  My government dollars at work.  "And you go there? With this person?"  Yes, and we sell Burmese aliens at the concession stand as housekeepers.

Last night, after the how do you know this person question, the young officer thought he was going to give me a hard time for some god knows reason.  I look pretty harmless, in my opinion.  It was after midnight, bitter cold, and I was tired.  "How do you know these people?" We've known each other for quite a while.  "How did you meet?" I didn't want to go through the Buster Keaton thing.  Didn't want to.  We just know each other.  Period.  Wrong answer.  Mr. Huffy then asked, "Have you ever lived in Canada?" No.  "Have these people ever lived in the States?" No.  Coup de grace, a la Perry Mason: "Then how do you claim an international friendship?" Bam on you, lady.

Okay, okay.  Deep breath.  We are both members of The International Buster Keaton Society. "What?"
We are both members of The blah blah blah blah blah.   "Who is that?"  Silent film star, yap yap yap, gurgle gurgle snarf.  This man is puzzled.  "Did these people give you anything?"  What?  No.  "Did you buy anything while in Canada?"  I frowned.  Movie tickets?  For some reason, his face changed when I frowned at him; he folded.  Did he realize that I thought he was going overboard and became embarrassed?  Did I look like his mother?  After that, he couldn't wait to get rid of me.  He typed in something on his keyboard, read whatever Magic 8 Ball answer appeared, and handed me my passport card without ever looking at me again.  Why is it so hard to get back into my own country?

You cannot make faces at them.  You cannot be annoyed at them.  You cannot tell them things that you would ordinarily say if a friend were asking these questions.  Besides, anyone that knows me knows who Buster is by now.  I've been asked what I do for a living, the school's address and phone number, how long I've been teaching, what is that in the back of my car (usually thrift store picture frames), why are they still there, why haven't I taken then out of the car (because I usually have my arms full of schoolwork or groceries), and, what do you mean by jewelry?   The women officers are much more reasonable, and if I say that I bought household items from the Burlington IKEA, they aren't going to ask me what a household item is.

Read these names:  Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Labrador; Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, and Saskatchewan. The three territories are Northwest Territories, Nunavut, and Yukon.  And that's Canada.  You are not allowed to own a gun, pull out into an intersection to make a left turn even if the light is green, and you have to go to a special store to buy alcohol, including beer.  They did away with the penny.  Their Cadbury chocolate is imported from Britain and if you can find the stuff brought in from Ireland, I understand that's even better.  I love their hamburgers, and the folks really do say "Eh?"

I guess we all just want to get home, find a home, make a home, keep safe.  By the time I returned to the parking lot outside my apartment building, it was 12:30 in the morning and still.  The winds and storm had calmed, and what ambient light existed made sparkles in the thick covering of snow.  Silent night.  Stille nacht.  I have one old frame left in the back seat, but I am not hauling it in this night; the frigid bitterness nips and grabs at me,  I want to get inside and email my friend of a safe arrival; we do that to make sure.

Inside are blankets and layers of wool, warmth that lulls and comforts like a mother's lap.  Put away the day and slip into the coracle of sleep; steer and paddle, be pulled by the tide out to deep waters filled with tales and dreams; with wishes and desires.  Your boat is sturdy, your heart is strong; listen to the water slip...slip...slip...slip along the sides, pull you towards destiny undecided.  Sleep well this coming night, beating heart.