Borderline

It was a dark and stormy night as the rented generic white Chevy, chosen for its inconspicuousness, rolled toward the Canadian border at midnight. I was the driver and I focused on my breathing, working to control any physiological signals that could prompt the border patrol to pull me aside for a more thorough inspection. My passport sat on the center console and I simultaneously grabbed it while powering down the window through which I would pass it to the agent manning this border oasis.

“What are you doing up here?”
“I’m here on business.”
“Where?”
“Seattle.” Crap. My first blunder.
“So what are you doing up here?”
“Just came out early to check out Vancouver for the weekend.”
He was buying it. “You have relatives or friends there?”
“No.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Holiday Inn, North Vancouver.”
“Awesome. You know I hear Shania has stayed there.”
“Oh, I know. Why do you think I booked it?”
“Party on, brother, and have a good time.”
He was ready to return my passport and then pulled it back.
“You don’t have any weapons, do you?”
“Not unless you count these fists.”
“Just make sure they’re only used in self-defense, Grasshopper.”
“Noted.”

My hands, indeed, remained relaxed throughout the weekend. The folks of both Vancouver and North Vancouver were very Canadian, yet receptive of their visiting neighbor from the south. After approximately 60 hours it was time to head back to take care of business, so I tossed my duffel bag in the trunk and my backpack on the passenger seat and made my way back to the nurturing bosom of my homeland.

I rolled up to the border and found it much more crowded at noon than at midnight, with the overhead signs indicating a 30-minute wait. While spending my last minutes idling in the great white north I noticed that about 90% of the cars in line displayed Canadian license plates. I sat smugly in my US licensed vehicle, US passport in hand, waiting for my turn to be waved into my homeland.

As I got closer I spotted a sign notifying us that all fruits, vegetables and meats must be declared. My heart started to race as I remembered the two apples and two bananas in the bag on the front seat. I considered quickly wolfing them down, but had nowhere to dispose of the core and peel evidence. The line moved forward and suddenly I was before two uniformed border agents.

“Where’s your car?”
What kind of stupid question is that, I thought. I’m friggin’ driving it, genius. Of course, my actual response was a dumbfounded, “What?” as I handed over my passport.

“Where’s your car,” he repeated, as if repeating it made it any less stupid. Then I realized he was trained to spot rental vehicles amidst a fleet of generic, supposedly inconspicuous Chevys. I suppose that’s because rental vehicles arouse suspicion, as I obviously would not use my own personal car to make a political statement by blowing it up at a US-Canadian border crossing.

“In Chicago.” Since he was so interested, I considered telling him that it was really my wife’s car, even though it’s in both our names, but I take the train or ride my bike to work every day and really don’t have a use for a car on a daily basis, but even if she didn’t need the car I still probably would have chosen to fly into Seattle and drive from there rather than make a half continental road trip out of it.

“So what were you doing in Canada?”
Jeez, none of your goddam business, dude, I just wanted to drink some cheap Molson and get a free prostate exam.

“I have a meeting in Seattle this week, so came out a few days early to check out Vancouver.”

“What did you think?”
I think it’s not worth the hassle of trying to get back into my own country, Chief. Now how about giving me back my passport so I can let you get back to checking out these shifty Canucks in line behind me.

“Pretty nice, got in some good hiking.”

“Take some good pictures?”
Are you fucking serious? Does my passport say Ansel Adams or are you trying to trick me into saying I was really up there getting some Canadian kiddie porn?

“Yeppers.”

“What did I tell you about ‘yeppers’?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I told you not to say it. When are you going back?”
WTF, you going to arrange for a car to take me from my hotel to the airport? Or did you just want to try to get together for a beer?

“Wednesday.”

“Turn off the car for me and pop the trunk.” His partner went around back to look for dead hookers or back bacon. Or both. Your best Canadian hitmen know that back bacon is often used to cover up the odor of dead hookers.

“Give me the keys.”
Crap. That’s it, I’m going to end up in Guantanamo Bay in an orange jumpsuit and nothing but some prayer beads and a copy of the Qur’an for the rest of my life.

“Are you bringing back anything purchased during your visit?”

“I have a couple apples and bananas – hope that’s not a problem.” I was totally screwed. I prepared to be waterboarded.

The ruckus coming from the trunk area intensified. The back door opened and I was waiting for the drug sniffing dogs to discover the meth stash that porter working for Hertz stuck under the floor mat when his shift supervisor surprised him last week. Instead the agent had finished his examination of the trunk and was now searching under the back seat like a jealous girlfriend looking for a pair of unfamiliar panties. Then the passenger door opened and I told him, “Gas, grass, or ass, buddy, nobody rides for free.”

Well, I said it in my head. He didn’t look like the joking type and he pounded on the dashboard as if it were a soda machine that had just stolen his quarter. Fortunately, no hookahs fell out and he finally seemed satisfied with his vehicular molestation.

His buddy, still in possession of my keys and passport, seemed to run out of small talk and reluctantly turned them back over to me, obviously unaware of my unpaid parking ticket from back in 1990 and my activities during that night in Memphis in November of 1996. But I digress.

I finally got waved through and gave the Mrs. a call to relate my traumatic experience.

“You have a goatee, probably haven’t shaved all weekend, and I bet you’re wearing your bank robber hat and sunglasses, aren’t you?”

“….. yes.”

“Well, of course they inspected your car.”

Screw you guys, I’m going back to Canada where I’m welcome.

Here is what they did to my normally well-organized bag.

Grindcore

Because it was there.

I took advantage of a business meeting in Seattle by flying out the weekend before to head up Vancouver way and get down with some Canucks and freebase some back bacon. Unfortunately, my timing kind of sucked – it was too early to ski or snowboard and too rainy to hit the mountain bike trails. And although the US dollar is recovering a bit, those Canadian hookers are still on the high side.

Instead, I packed my hiking boots and decided to do some line dancing in Calgary. Or hiking in North Vancouver. Yeah, that sounds better.

I did some research and determined I should check out Lynn Canyon and Grouse Mountain. Lynn Canyon supposedly had a suspension bridge, a cool creek and some decent trails. Grouse Mountain had The Grind, slutty teenage girls and Romanian prostitutes. Oh, sorry, that’s myspace.

My plane touched down quite nicely late Friday night at 9 pm. I got my rental car and after putting on my tire chains I started north. I checked into my hotel a little after midnight and on the lobby wall was a picture of none other than my hero Shania Twain, celebrating her stay at that very hotel in 2003. I could barely sleep knowing that I could be sharing a bed with her. I was hoping they hadn’t changed the sheets in the last five years. Eventually I dozed off with images of her Any Man of Mine video dancing through my head.

I arose refreshed and downed my protein shake (not a euphemism) mixed with the new dark chocolate raspberry flavored frappacino. It was raining, but Shania had inspired me to conquer the Grouse Grind that day and not even a rabid Eskimo could stop me.

The Grind is a trail that goes straight up the side of Grouse Mountain. It gains 2,800 feet over a short 1.8 miles. As a point of reference, the mighty Sears Tower is 1,450 feet tall. So it would be like putting a rickety wood ladder up against the Sears Tower and climbing to the top. Twice. In the rain. While juggling, doing a tap dance and singing the Catalina Magdalena Lupensteiner Wallabeiner song. But I digress.

There are numerous accounts of people having to be rescued each year while attempting the climb. Mostly overweight men in halter-tops and stripper shoes bringing along a 40 of Olde English Ale for hydration. Told you Canada is a weird place. I had planned ahead and was wearing my moisture-wicking halter-top base layer under my waterproof shell and ditched my stripper shoes for my hiking boots. I notified the local press that I would be attempting to break the trail record of 24 minutes and 22 seconds in case they wanted to cover it live or interview me at the top.

After what seemed like an hour of hiking, burning legs and a maxed out heart rate, I saw a sign indicating the ¼ point. I checked my watch and saw it had only been 20 minutes. I considered setting up a base camp and taking on the rest the following day, but my hotel room was already paid for and I forgot the bring the blueprints for a lean-to shelter so I ventured upward. As promised, it got steeper.

During this leg, I continued to get passed regularly by other hikers. Including a man carrying a baby on his back. I was moving as if I were carrying an imaginary refrigerator on my back. Not one of those mini dorm room fridges, but a nice stainless steel Viking side-by-side fridge with an ice dispenser and built-in plasma television. Eventually, I saw the ½ point marker. I found a log and had a seat before my heart, pounding as fast and loud as a bass drum at a Slayer concert, gave out in a wet, messy sort of explosion. As hikers continued to approach and pass me, I sucked in a deep breath and offered a pleasant “good morning” so as not to alarm them with my distress. After about 10 minutes, I ventured upward. As promised, it got steeper.

During this leg, my butt became number than a sub with a spanking fetish and my neck cramped from looking up to the trail ahead. Hikers continued to pass, including a couple women who looked like they stepped out of a Mop n’ Glo commercial and a man about the same age as John McCain. I tried not to become discouraged as I was positive I must have missed the ¾ point marker. Unfortunately, about 10 minutes later I came upon the said ¾ marker, and made another pit stop where dementia began setting in and I started to strip off my clothes and sing Celine Dion songs. This prompted an attack by a flock of nearby grouse (hence the name of the mountain), and I was sent scrambling for my clothes and abandoned my set list. I ventured upward. As promised, it got steeper.

Surprisingly, the last ¼ didn’t seem as long or painful. Same thing I used to hear from sex partners. Finally, I emerged from the trail and onto a paved driveway circling the lodge at the top of the mountain. I cried a bit. Because I accidentally shot myself in the eye with the pepper spray I was carrying to fend off bears. After it wore off, I spent a half hour wandering the trails and exhibits and enjoying the best view of Vancouver from anywhere on the North Shore.



Realizing that rolling down the mountain side is probably not the safest or most effective method to get back down, they sell one-way tickets back down on the tram for a mere $5 Canadian. I think that’s something like $1.23 US so I took them up on their offer and enjoyed the ride back to the parking lot below.

My time was 1 hour, 20 minutes. I only missed the record by 56 minutes. Fortunately, the press was busy covering a girl scout cookie sale that day and didn’t show up for my failed attempt. But I’ll get the record next time.

America's Hat

Canada is a weird place.

At least BC. At least that part between the US border and North Vancouver.

First, after bribing the border patrol with a sixer of Elsinore I started my drive to penetrate their proud land. I quickly encountered some flashing yellow lights on a sign about ½ a block before an intersection warning me to get ready to stop because the light was aboot to turn yellow. Serious? Isn’t that what a yellow light already is? That’s like ordering cheese on your grilled cheese sandwich.

Then, while still in my car, I next encountered a flashing green traffic signal. I could only assume it means to step on it, which makes sense since everyone seems to drive the speed limit or less and could probably use some encouragement to pick up the pace.

Speaking of speed limits, they’re posted in km/h. My car had those listed on the speedometer, but they were printed very tiny in a color called “nearly invisible especially at night”. So I used the rule of thumb to take the km/h and multiply by 6.2 (rounded down to 6). So if the posted speed limit was 50 km/h, then that would be 300 mph. Hmm. That seems high. So I just divided by pi (again rounded down to 3 to be safe). Yes, 100 mph. Unfortunately it was difficult to maintain that speed since most of the native drivers were barely going 30 mph.

To make matters worse, pedestrians seem to expect drivers to yield to them. I can tell you that several of them won’t be making that mistake again.

I had to refuel and gas was only $0.98. I was shocked to discover that my rental Cobalt had a 49 gallon tank. It barely looked 13 gallons.

Speaking of money, they have a bunch of coins instead of paper currency. So you go into a store, pick up a couple dollars worth of back bacon, hand over a $10 bill and get back a handful of coins. So now instead of just sticking a bunch of bills that weigh about the same as a piece of paper the size of a paper bill, you have to lug around a pocketful of coins. I wish I’d have known so I could have brought along my medieval coin bag.

Judging from the languages on the signs, Canada also appears to have a problem with illegal immigration. Except instead of accommodating Mexicans with Spanish signs like the US offers, Canada places French on their signs until they can build that wall along their border to keep the French from illegally entering. Although I heard from many Canadians who would prefer to look the other way since the French take low-paying skate sharpening jobs that might otherwise go unfilled or possibly increase the cost of those services.

Okay, there were a couple cool things. First of all is that every restaurant, bar, school, church, firehouse, doghouse, homeless shelter, barn, library, jail cell, strip club, bus stop, gym, and hiking trail has a high-def, big-screen television broadcasting a hockey game.

And finally, Red Bull gets it. In the US, they just talked us into mixing it with vodka so we could stay up all night to maximize our drinking. In Canada, they take it to the next level by suggesting that after some Red Bull and vodkas it’s a good idea to don some skates and participate in a little competition called Crashed Ice.



I only hope it makes it as part of the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver.