Single in Sandpoint: O’ Border Patrol: Adventures in the Great White North

Canada. It’s all we hear about these days. Canada with its pristine scenery. Canada with its stronger beer and free health care. Most important, though, Canada with its Winter Olympics.

     With all this Canadophila going around, I just feel like it's necessary to say that I've been going to Canada since before it was in style. I started going in high school, using my cousin’s ID to cross the border, and took advantage of the younger drinking age.

     It was a different time then. All you needed was a driver’s license to get across, and (for some reason) the border patrol’s suspicions weren’t aroused by a carload of teenage girls on an international trip to “visit friends.” Yes, it was a simpler time, even.

     So as a public service to any hopeful high schoolers today I will say in all caps: THAT IS NOT THE CASE NOW. In no way at all is it the same.

    They have really upped their game at the border, and you need to brush up before you try to cross. Maybe you should watch a little “SVU” or “Judge Judy.” Get yourself in the authoritarian mind-set. Whatever you do, do not go up there thinking it’s going to be a breeze! OK?

     Public service aside, I’ll tell you that about a month ago my family and I decided it would be fun to go up to Canada, pretty much just to use our passports. The plan was to drive up through Bonners Ferry, cross the border in Creston, then drive to Kootenay Bay for the FREE ferry ride back to the border in Washington. The trip takes between four and five hours, typically. Perfect for that Saturday when you have no plans and a desire to flee the country.

     My story starts when we pull up to the Canadian border guards and were met by a tall dark hunk.

     I'm serious as a heart attack: He looked EXACTLY like a guy on a soap opera that I used to watch. I will call him Matteo.

     Matteo proceeded to ask us all the normal questions: where we were headed to, could he see our passports, did we have any fruit or vegetables, etc. Then things got a little weird. He asked us if we were going to an Olympic event.

     We were, like, “Um, no the Olympics doesn't start for a few weeks, right?”

     He stared back at us with disdain. Weird.

     Matteo then directed us to pull our car ahead and wait for him. Apparently he didn't approve of the situation. Terrorists and kidnappers usually drive right up to border patrol with three children holding valid passports in plain sight. Right?

     After about 15 minutes Matteo sauntered up to the truck and asked me to get out. He then took me into the Canadian Border Patrol office for questioning. He asked if my kids were safe with my husband. I was a little confused by the question, since they’re probably safer with him behind the wheel than either of their biological parents.

    I played along: "Yes, sir he is their stepfather, my husband.”

     Matteo then asked if I had my children's biological father's phone number. I gave it to him. His follow up question kind of floored me.

     "Why don't you have a signed note giving you permission to take your children to Canada?" he asked.

     I told him I was sure their biological father didn't care if they went up to Canada for the day, and I didn't know that I needed a note. He walked me back to the truck and asked my eldest daughter to get out of the car. It was her turn to sweat it out back at the station.

     Matteo interrogated my daughter for about 5 minutes, making sure to ask important questions like: "Do you like traveling with these people?" (A question many parents may not want to hear answered by their children. Especially in the midst of an international incident.)

     When he was done it was time to call the Ex. Matteo dialed his number and – Of COURSE – the Ex didn't answer.

     Matteo gazed at penetratingly at me with his deep, brown, brooding eyes and the theme music from "All My Children" started playing in the background.

     "I'm sorry ma'am but he didn't answer."

      (Cue the ominous drums!)

     I was sure we were all going to international prison (wherever that is) for attempted child trafficking. Damn us and our stupid plans to expose the kids to Canada. Clearly this border hunk was the evil kind, and now he would probably throw my children in an orphanage and I would never see them again.

     I pictured myself in a Canadian asylum, screaming and cutting my own hair with a plastic knife.

     At that point I briefly considered telling Matteo that my husband forced me to cross the border, “Please call the Mounties!”  At least then the children would be safe, right?

     That’s when my sharp little 10-year-old daughter saved the day. That’s when she piped up: "My Dad probably isn't answering because he doesn't know if you are a bill collector."

     Out of the mouths of babes, so says the Bible.

     Perhaps Matteo had a father who didn't like to pay bills, or maybe he just realized that there can be more than one last name in a family. Whatever the case, he had a change of heart and let us continue our journey into Canada.

     (Cue the violins!)

     Still, despite escaping incarceration at Guantanamo, or wherever, the mood was kind of somber. My kids didn't appreciate the shake down and my husband had developed a complex. “Do I look like a wife-beater or a kidnapper?” he kept asking me.

     We pulled into the town of Creston and things continued to be strange. There were hundreds of people lining up and down the streets of the town (which is smaller than Sandpoint) and there was a huge parade going on. Why?

     According to my understanding, Canadians have the same basic holiday schedule as we do (plus Boxing Day, minus Fourth of July).

     We parked the car to get lunch and enjoy the parade, when there it was: The Olympic Freakin’ Torch. Apparently we had accidentally entered Canada on the same day as the torch parade – at the exact moment it was passing through the tiny, remote, Kokanee-brewing town of Creston.

     Matteo's question about "Olympic activities" made a lot more sense.

     The kid's impression of Canada was starting to improve, and let’s face it, seeing the torch is pretty cool.

     I was starting to feel like maybe we’d make it out of the country and live to tell the tale. We decided to take the kids to Dairy Queen, because let’s face it, there’s nothing more fun than discovering the menu differences at fast food restaurants in foreign countries.

     That’s when I learned about "poutine," pronounced "poo-tin.” Poutine is not only the most hilariously named menu item I’ve ever come across, it’s also probably one of the sickest.

     Poutine originated in Quebec and is now a Canadian dinner staple. The dish features French fries covered in "cheese curd" and smothered in brown gravy. I was told that SEVERAL fast food chains in Canada feature poutine.

     So folks there you have it. If someone tells you they’re going up to Canada to get a little poutine, you don't have to slap their filthy mouths.

     The rest of the trip was just scenic, beautiful and without threat of incarceration. In other words: You wouldn't want to hear about it.

     This is just my way of letting you know that if you’re going to take a little trip to Canada, make sure you have your story straight – and say "hi" to Matteo for me. If things get a little sticky, offer him some poutine.

Once again dodging the asylum,

Scarlette Quille