Borderline Personality

Borderline personality disorders are as common as crows at Canadian customs. Last week I was crossing into Canada from Washington and, as usual, faced questions of incomprehensible value. 

Customs: Why are you visiting Canada?

Me: To visit friends. The husband is someone I’ve known for 65 years.

Customs: Where did you meet this friend?

(They always ask me that. The question seems to be automatic.  Must be in the handbook.)

Me: Well, we grew up on a peninsula near Los Angeles where many people had horses. He was fourteen at the time, riding a Shetland pony. That pony was mean. You had to watch him. He might bite you.

Customs: Do you have any firearms in your van?

Me: No. It’s illegal to take firearms into Canada.

Customs: Has this van ever had firearms in it?

Me: Ever? Well, the van is fifteen years old. I’m sure it’s had firearms in it at some point. It doesn’t have any now—I’m eighty-one and a retired college professor driving to Vancouver Island to visit friends. I wouldn’t attempt to bring firearms across the border.

Shortly I found myself in a gigantic room with about 100 empty chairs. A different customs fellow asked me to empty my pockets on a counter. I was wearing a traveler’s vest with about 15 pockets, pants with five pockets and a shirt with two pockets. I began to empty the pockets. He took my passport, my keys and my Swiss Army Knife. He asked me to pull up my pants so he could check my ancient legs for an ankle holster. Finally I was told to take a seat.

The Canadians searched my van for about 30 minutes, leaving the interior a jumble of things they had thrown about. In the end they gave back my keys, passport and Swiss knife. and I was sent on towards Vancouver. The only thing they confiscated was my firewood, and they said I could pick it up on my way back if I wanted it. I said, No, thanks.