Border Patrol

It's lunchtime again, and I have a story.  Wait for it... it's on its way.

Once I took a ferry to Canada.  Canada is an exciting place, let me tell you.  Mostly because you need a passport or an enhanced driver's license to get in and out of there in a dignified fashion.  (Dignified means not with a police escort.)  So you must understand how important I felt carrying around proof of being US-American.  The border patrol officers were polite even when I missed the entrance to the passport check, which was located in a tiny white prefab building.  (Prefab means cheap and moveable.)  I did this because I saw a group of officers sitting right outside of the office.  Officers always look official even when taking a break, so naturally I assumed they would play a crucial role in getting me to the True North Strong and Free.  Well, it turns out they did.  As I walked over to them, passport-ready, one lounging gentleman officer said, "Could you do me a favor?"  I wondered in my heart what manner of greeting this could be.  Trying not to look nervous, I said, "Yes."  "Go up the ramp into the building."  "Ok."  Smile.  "Thanks."

And that is how I nearly missed Canada by two feet.  A narrow scrape, and quite worth writing home about.  If you, reader, are ever in such a place of foreign adventuring, wondering at the strange greetings of mild-mannered officers, please remember to be polite and smile and not be too embarrassed when they redirect you.  It happens to... well... me.