Customs

We showed up at Customs Sunday morning, looking smugly at the RVs and trailers in line, thinking they'd be torn apart before entering Canada.

They were waved on through; we were sent to a shed.

Though he will dispute the point, I think it was all in Guy's countenance. He does not like people interfering, so when things happen like going through Customs where you will be quizzed, examined, doubted, second-guessed, and probed, well, his patience wears thin, his jaw becomes set, his heavy eyebrows furrow and join; in short, he unintentionally develops this threatening look on his face. And the powers that be, well, they just can't leave things alone.

This is my version:

The attendant in the Customs booth, sporting a snake tattoo which circled his left bicep, appeared cheerful.
"Where you folks from?" he queried. We answered truthfully, to the best of our knowledge.

He responded, "Bonnyville? Been a long time since I was there."

He asked how long we've been in the States. Guy replied curtly that it had been a month, citing the date we entered which was Jan. 26th. Then we were asked what we were doing there.
"Visiting". Again with the unfriendly (or so it seemed to me) response.

We were asked if we have any large sums of money.
"No".

We were asked if we made any large purchases?
"No".

Then Mr. Customs Man said, "Excuse me for a minute" and closed his window and spoke into the walkie talkie on his shoulder. He opened the window and told us to move ahead, and go in front of Door #2, it would open for us. I still maintain that if we'd been friendlier and offered at least a wee bit of extraneous information instead of being so secretive with our "No" "No" responses, we might have been allowed to go.

But I guess it was our job that day to see that these Customs folks all have a reason for being there, and that their jobs are essential and that every single one of them is needed -- no cutbacks please.

Three people in uniforms greeted us in a shed which looked very much like the warehouses in the movies where hapless neophytes who don't know they are in way over their heads are told to go, to meet up with the mob types who shoot them on the spot and leave.

They told us to pop the trunk, get out of the car and "wait over there" behind a glass, a safe distance away but certainly not out of sight. There were several padded chairs that would be quite comfortable in case one should have to spend a loooonnnng period of time sitting, waiting, at their mercy....

Guy stopped part way across the room and turned back to the car. He reached inside and grabbed his wallet which was left tucked between the front seats. Nothing suspicious there, it just hurts his ass if it's in his back pocket while he's driving over long periods of time. But he just grabbed it, didn't tell them he was going to do it, just reached in and grabbed it (like it was holding something suspiciously precious), and the girl attendant rifling through the Purell and hand lotion and eyeglass cleaner and sundry other items in my small purse, she noticed him, and stared hard at him whilst fondling my stuff. I secretly sighed with relief when nothing transpired; I thought for sure he'd be punished for his perceived (by me alone it turns out) insubordination.

Again we were asked, "Did you make any purchases?" and again Guy said No. By this time I was thinking: They keep asking the same question because they don't like the answer they're getting. Change the answer!!!

Surely they're thinking: What? these folks were in the US for a month and didn't buy anything? Sounds suspicious to me -- sounds like they're hiding something....

With this in the back of my mind I "corrected" my husband; "We bought hats," I explained, pointing to the two obviously recent purchases in the back window of the car. He glared at me. As annoyed as he was at the customs workers, he suddenly turned all his glaring on to me.
Well, I figured if you are too black and white, it just doesn't look right. Of course we'd purchased things. Sure, it was mostly food and entertainment, but we had picked up two cowboy hats from a ghost town gift shop, and to me, it just sounded better if you casually offer bits of unimportant information. Made it seem less like an inquisition was going on. And if I had to do it over again, I would still tell them we bought hats. Because we did.
I was almost embarrassed that they started digging through suitcases. I was so sick of travelling that I hadn't packed anything neatly, just tossed everything and anything into one bag or the other. Good luck finding anything in there, I thought.
As abruptly as the ordeal began, it was over. No climax, no turning point, no sudden discovery, no apparent motive for their actions, no concrete evidence to justify their intense scrutiny. They slammed the trunk and told us to go. No one smiled, not them, not us. I would have been polite and cheerful but I was busy being mad at Guy for glaring at me.
Why we were ever checked, I'll never know. What I wonder is, why did I feel so guilty? I must have looked it too, how can you not look guilty if you feel it? And the harder I try, the less innocent I look, I'm sure.
Neither of us likes customs agents. Well, yes we like them well enough; we just don't like what they have to do.

A Few Things I Learned in the U.S.

I learned . . .

That no matter how hard you try to keep the public washroom clean, there will always be some jerk to come along and throw paper towels on the floor, pee on the seat, or leave the toilet unflushed.

That the McDonalds in Twin Falls, Idaho could amazingly process a dozen or more vehicles at the drive-thru as well as three lines of customers at the counter in an efficient, swift manner, feeding a hundred people in a matter of minutes. Take note, Timmy.

That buying Canadian might be loyal, but it sure isn't economical. It seems a $20 bill in Nevada would buy a half tank of gas, but by opening the tank and waving the nozzle over the hole, you could spend the equivalent amount at the pump in Taber, Alberta.

That the Americans do virtually NO recycling. There are no places to put your empty bottles -- everything goes into the trash.

That the world is going to end in 2012. This, from a guest (plugging her new book) on the late-night somewhat eccentric talk show Coast to Coast. Yes, folks, she had the facts to back it up. Let's just wait and see though, why encourage her, and give her credibility by buying the book?

An Arizona paper showed a front page picture of two Canada geese hanging out at the local golf course. But the cutline did not acknowledge their genus and species; they were referred to as merely "wild geese".

The antelope, thought by some to be an endangered species in southern Alberta and Saskatchewan, is doing well in Nevada, with several herds in the hundreds grazing and dozing in fenced fields along Hwy 93.

The folks at Customs will haul your sorry ass into a shed to inspect your car and your belongings for no particular reason, but just because they can.

Stabbing vs Shooting

Well, we're back. And since we returned, there has been a preponderance of reported stabbings in the news. Even the mayor of Edmonton seems to want to empty our kitchen drawers so that we can no longer carve the Thanksgiving turkey; what? and let the bad guys win??
That seems to be the weapon of choice in this part of the country.
It's a bit different in The States; their weapon of choice is firearms. While we were there we heard of a nine-year old shooting his father and his father's male friend, killing them both. And we heard of an 11-year old who shot his father's pregnant girlfriend while she slept.
Their "right to bear arms" means you can walk into a store (or a counter in the gift shop at a ghost town!) and purchase a handgun for $97. With some sort of acquisition certificate, of course.
I found their driving to be aggressive and unpredictable (U-turns everywhere, blowing stop signs, no turn signals), but feared any form of retaliation such as honking the horn at them might trigger a road rage incident that would see them reaching into the glove compartment, glaring our way and inviting us to "Say hello to my little friend".
We spent billions trying to control the use of firearms in this country, and what do resourceful Canadians do? Go for the knife. I guess where there's a will, there's a way.

Coyotes vs Oilers at Jobing.com Arena

First of all, who calls an arena "Jobing.com"? There 's the Coliseum, Rexall Place, the Skydome, Maple Leaf Gardens -- names that sound somewhat like a sporting event might take place in them. But Jobing.com?

Last night we attended the Phoenix Coyotes-Edmonton Oilers NHL game at the arena where such things take place in Phoenix -- Jobing.com arena. We saw Howler the mascot, and we saw Edmonton win 2-1.

Ever wonder what goes on when the folks at home are watching commercials? Scantily clad girls come out and help clean the chips and powder off the ice.

This is the pre-game warm-up.


















There are two huge Coyote players in front of the Jobing.com Arena. It was like the town square, with lots of bars, shops and restaurants around.

Guy and Ben are turncoats, abandoning the Oilers for the night.

Howler the Coyote really got the crowds going!

Hey Rolly, I got your back! :-)


Six busloads of Canadian fans came over from Yuma, and hundreds of others, mostly snowbirds, came. A very nice facility, but what a helluva trip to get there, 45 min of freeway driving in heavy traffic.

Cardboard Sign

You always like to help out, right?
But it turns out that isn't always a good idea. A Good Samaritan stopped to help some guys whose truck had gone in the ditch just west of town. Once he'd pulled them out, they beat him with a tire wrench, grabbed his keys and ran off with his nicer, newer vehicle.
Anyway, the other day we were making our way from Yuma to Apache Junction, and had just stopped for lunch in Gila Bend. On our way back to the interstate, we saw a somewhat unkempt man by the side of the road holding a cardboard sign that said, "OUT OF GAS PLEASE HELP". A small jerry can rested at his feet.
So what do you do?
Lots of things run through a person's mind. I know mine was overacting, and since I tend to be cynical at the best of times, the scenario was not good. His appearance bothered me. Was he a busy, hardworking farmer who'd left his wallet at home? Or perhaps a labourer dressed in work clothing? Was he alone? Had he really run out of gas?
Somehow it just didn't add up, and a guest on Oprah once said, "If it doesn't add up, if you get a bad feeling, then GET AWAY!!" What bothered me was the sign. Anybody who runs out of gas usually doesn't have a piece of cardboard in the back seat and a jiffy marker on hand. Surely he didn't anticipate running out of gas, thus making the sign before leaving home?
You hear horror stories, and if you're like me you can make them up in your own mind without help.
If he was truly out of gas and in a genuine pickle, then I feel kind of bad. But I'm not wasting a lot of time worrying about it. Hopefully someone else came along and helped him out.
There was no room for him in our vehicle anyway. Our trunk is jammed, and the back seat is carrying the overflow. He would've had to sit in the front beside me and there's no way that was going to happen.
I briefly entertained the thought of throwing a $20 out the window, but the wind would've blown it away; besides he needed a ride, not money. Or so he was trying to lead us to believe.
So what would you have done??

Brief Update

I'd planned on posting more often, but I've encountered two problems: Internet access isn't as accessible as I'd thought it would be, and I've been too busy going places, seeing things and doing stuff to post. Some things are worth waiting for, and I hope this is the case here. Once we get settled next week I hope to catch up.
Some things to look forward to:
Pictures of the Hoover Dam, fish and ducks at Katherine's landing near Laughlin, and some lies about how much I won gambling.

Golf Grief

Ever wondered exactly where the mallards might go once they leave Bonnyville? If you look carefully you can see them.

Someone really liked this course, and had to phone home to tell Mike what he'd been doing on this fine January day.

I may look calm, relaxed and cheerful, but I assure you, I am not. There's the small matter of seven lost balls eating away at my mind/heart/gut/memory.

Like I said, a pretty little course. I forget the name, but will post it when I dig it up.

The holes were short and so easy to play. But the balls could get lost in a shadow!

GOLF GRIEF.......

On January 31st we did something new; we went golfing. There was a nice little par 3 course in Laughlin, complete with mallard ducks and mudhens that reminded me of Jessie Lake back home, minus the odour.

I learned something about myself; after I lose a ball or two, there's a subtle shift from wanting to finish the hole, to a game of Gimmee. As in, gimmee my ball back, like it's more important to retrieve or reclaim a lost ball than it is to continue with the game. The balls aren't that expensive, but I just can't accept that I have smacked it into a hidden place and can't recover it. I want everyone to stop playing, so I can find my ball(s) and then continue on.

On this particular course, the shots were ridiculously easy. Yet I managed to whack seven balls right into the water, rocks and trees, as if drawn by a magnet.

I've seen people throw clubs. Shame on them for displaying such a lack of self-control. Yet I found myself wanting desperately to do just that. Don't tell anyone, but I did toss a wedge furiously. But there was no release or relief, which pissed me off even more. Then some mudhens clumsily flip-flopped their way in front of me, reminding me that no matter how stupid they looked, hey, THEY hadn't lost seven balls. . .

The game lost its appeal after that. I didn't play out the last couple of holes. Someone's going to find those seven balls, or maybe not. I don't really care. All I know is, I don't have them!

Still, it was nice to be out there hacking instead of at home shovelling or shivering.