Hey, folks -- I'm H.E. Pennypacker, a wealthy industrialist. I'm also from Canada, which means I don't really "air my grievances" as much as I "make polite suggestions in a subdued manner, with an undertone of passive-aggressive snarkiness."
It also means I spell "colour" with a "u" stuck in the middle. Hey, I dig it.
In the dead of winter, when most of Canada is locked in 24-hour-a-day darkness, some of us like to zip down to Florida for a little taste of summer: namely, Spring Training baseball. The games don't count, but it's a great excuse to sit in the sun, drink beer, and strike up random conversations with the fellow snowbirds in your section.
Of course, that means dealing with US Customs agents, whether it's at an airport or at a land border-crossing. Sometimes they're decent folks who realize you're not going there to blow up part of their country, and they let you go on your merry way. Other times, they just get the biggest goddamn boner from giving you a hard time... it makes a fella want to ask for a reach-around.
Case in point: last March, my buddy Bob Sacamano and I decide to zip down south for a few days to watch some ball and smoke some cigars. We cross the bridge into Michigan and dutifully line up at the border, engine idling, expensive Canadian gasoline burning all the while. Finally we get to the booth, roll down the window... and from the very first second, I knew this guy had it in for us.
Border Guy: "Citizenship?"
Both of us: "Canadian."
BG: "Where ya from?"
Me: "We're both from Toronto."
BG: "I need to hear your passenger say it himself."
Bob Sacamano: "Yeah, I'm from Toronto too."
BG: "Where ya goin'?"
Me: "We're driving to Flint, then flying to Florida."
BG, his tone turning snarky: "How do you two know each other?"*
Me: "We went to university together."
BG, even more sarcastically: "Oh, is that so?"
Me: "Yes, sir."
BG, pointing to the customs building: "You ever been told to go in there before?"
Me: "Um... no."
BG, jerking a thumb to the side: "You've been selected for a search. Pull in that parking lot."
(forty-minute delay ensues; nearly miss the flight; get 90-mL bottle of sunscreen taken away at airport because the dolts screening carry-on items don't know that 90 mL is actually less than 3.4 fluid ounces, the limit for liquids)
* This is a question I'm getting a lot more frequently. What am I supposed to answer? "Well, we met at this little camp in rural Afghanistan once. Nice folks who ran that place, incidentally... said they were from Saudi Arabia. Something about 'jee-had' -- I don't know what that is, I was just there to do a little hiking. Sure did like their automatic assault-rifles, though, and someone named 'Al Law'."
What did we do to this guy? We're just two dudes from Canada, looking to escape our igloos for a few days (and trying to secretly spread the metric system to the American people). I mean, sure, Bob Sacamano had a moustache at the time, but does that mean we want to wreck your country? Hell no.
Besides, if we did, who would supply us with all our reality-TV shows? You can only really take "Are You Smarter Than Doug From Saskatoon?" so far.
You live in an igloo?
Why Flint? WTF in the world could you want to do in Flint Michigan?
Posted by: jackie | December 21, 2007 at 12:29 PM
Flint: small airport, cheap flights, inexpensive parking, same driving distance as Detroit for me. What's not to like?
And yes, I live in an igloo. Nice one, too -- 2 bed, 1 bath, great view of the polar bears roaming midtown Toronto.
Posted by: H.E. Pennypacker | December 22, 2007 at 03:13 PM
You ever run any pick up hoops in Flint?
Posted by: jackie | December 22, 2007 at 04:40 PM
Basketball? I got game (or at least I used to), but I've never chosen Flint as a place to flash my skills.
Posted by: H.E. Pennypacker | December 23, 2007 at 11:25 AM