Vancouver airport at midnight

From our What-A-Story files.

This story was contributed by a reliable source. We could not believe our luck, the K-landnews can boast of having a reliable source, isn't life beautiful.

We asked our reliable source to tell the story as a first person narrator. That means use "I", a common tool in story telling to give immediacy and urgency to a narrative.

So, here we go.

The last flight from Seattle, WA, arrives in Vancouver, Canada, just before midnight. Midnight is good for drama.

The passengers get off the plane and advance into an empty airport, where cleaning machines and brooms reign supreme. I have only a carry on bag, because my stay in Canada should take less than 24 hours.

I am slower than my fellow flyers, they all seem to know their way. For me, on the other hand, this is my first trip ever to Canada. It was not my preferred venue, I had tried to get an appointment in Mexico. But too many other non-residents in the US had the same idea, go to Mexico on vacation, and have the US visa renewed there. Fewer people picked Canada as their destination of choice, so it only took three months from making the appointment to the date of the appointment.

The post 9/11 requirement to leave the country in order to get a new visa stamp seemed to many of us yet another small victory for Bin Laden, or maybe it was just a Bush sponsored subsidy for the ailing US airline industry.

At Canadian immigration, the loose group splits, and I find myself the only person heading for the non-Canadians counter.  They have seats, wow.
Several rows of seats facing a long light colored wood counter. Not like the immigration halls at O'Hare or Newark, which look, feel and smell like they were modelled after cattle feed lots in Texas.

An empty counter.

Nobody in sight.

I step up to the counter, look left, look right, making sure to turn my head neither too quickly nor too slowly. I think that my appearance on the surveillance cameras ought to be measured enough to dissuade the Canadians from bringing out the SWAT team.

It works.

Nothing happens.

I wait.

Nothing.

Then I spot the small metal bell at the very end of the counter.

For entry into Canada, please ring bell.

That's what the xeroxed sign next to the bell should read. It really should say that!

No, it just says ring bell if counter unattended or something equally uninspired.  I feel like taking a picture, but I'm tired after a full day of work. And, who knows, a flash going off at midnight might bring out that SWAT team after all.

If I had to make that trip again today, I would take a picture and use my now vast understanding of Canadian culture and customs to defuse the SWAT team's advance. You know, the knowledge of culture you gain from watching all episodes of the Red Green Show and all of the Trailer Park Boys series.

I ring the bell, just once, daintily.

And here he comes, a spry, youngish Canadian immigration officer. It is definitely past midnight.

Good morning, sir.

Good morning.

He asks what my business is  and how long I'll be staying. I explain, pull out the appointment notification for the United States Consulate, Vancouver, BC, Canada.

He starts chatting, and while he reaches for the stamp and the ink, we are well into a subversive conversation. Do I look like a priest who can get a random Canadian border guard to confess their collective feelings about the change in US visa policy?
I guess, I do look like a priest, because he launches into an unequivocal statement about how the Canadians hate the US dumping people with expired visas in Canada. Mind you, not in big numbers, but those who are refused their US renewal are stuck in Canada for anything from a few days to six months or even more.

Despite the expressed gravity of the betrayal, he remains cheerful, and we agree that the Americans are, as usual, looking in the wrong places.

As I take back my passport, I see that I have a six months visa for Canada. It feels nice, that's twice the time I am used to for tourist visas in every other country I know. I will never check if six months is standard for Canada. Given that, at that moment, I am not feeling welcome by the US, I don't want to conduct a reality check only to find that the Canadians give you six months right off the bat.

Later that afternoon, I am back at the airport, heading south. The US and Canada operate a joint border control point at Vancouver airport, Americans shoulder to shoulder with Canadians.

This gives even more weight to the conversation in the wee hours of the day.

A smiling Canadian officer hands my bag to a silent American who hands it back to me.

The Canadian says: Bon voyage, monsieur.

I respond: Merci, au revoir.

The American remains silent, maybe at a loss because of the exchange in French .

I head towards the US Customs counter, thinking, you know as well as I do what a charade this is.

Is it this thought, or the silent treatment, I don't remember. In any case, before I know it, I violate protocol. Instead of standing at arms length from the narrow counter, I walk right up to it, lean forward, plonk both elbows on the blue surface and go: hello, what can I do for you, stretching out my right with the customs form.

My opposite is an old guy, old enough to be past retirement age, big enough to show he likes food, and he smiles, thus waving his right to admonish my cheeky intrusion into his space.

My customs card declares maple sirup and chocolate.

Is that all?

Yes.

Okay, and he motions me to pass.

A short while later, I am back in the US, and I feel sorry for them. Sorry that fear dominates discourse, sorry for those working side by side with the Canadians, knowing or at least feeling that they are not as close as they used to be.