Bad Luck and Boarder Crossing

The laws of irony state that if, in the morning, after several increasingly frustrating discussions with a number of idiotic people, you announce that you may be the only smart person left in the world, then that very same evening, you will find yourself stranded at the Canada/US border with no money, a faulty cell phone, a purse full of tap water, and a damp passport that expired two years ago, wondering how to ensure none of your associates never hear about your own little bout of stupidity*.

The best part of all this is that there was absolutely no reason for me to actually be in the States, anyway.


I have a history of bad luck with borders and identification. Actually, scratch that, I have a history of shockingly good luck combined with a naivety that my father is constantly in awe of. This naivety has saved me in situations where any lesser, more sane individuals would surely have been arrested under suspicion of illegal activity.**


So, after spending several years pretty short on identification, I finally managed to get my passport renewed this year. It arrived in the mail about three weeks ago. It was a very exciting time for me. There's nothing quite like realizing you are finally legally allowed to leave the country you weren't really planning on leaving anyway.

When I found out that C was driving a friend of mine to the States to catch a train, I decided I would tag along and test out my new passport. Packing my purse with a large book, my new passport (supposedly), and a water bottle that was already planning a mutiny against me, I set off for what was going to be a much shorter trip than planned.

The thing is, I didn't actually look at the passport I had grabbed until we were hours outside of the city, slowing down to pass the duty free on the way to the US border. Even then, it took several casual glances at my unexpectedly youthful-looking picture to realize the passport I was holding was oddly similar to the one that had expired two years ago. Oh for the love of God. I had taken the wrong passport with me.

 I wasn't about to try my luck at crossing the border with an ID that expired years ago and my hare-brained story about simply grabbing the wrong one, so C dropped me off at the Duty Free and promised to be back in 2 hours after said friend got to the train station.

Luckily I had my book. I set up shop in a quiet corner of the store, not realizing that to the outside world I appeared to be a purple-haired degenerate with no car, no passport, and no intention of buying anything--none of which made the shop keepers appreciate my presence there. I also had no cellphone reception, and there were several people I desperately needed to text so I could get their sympathy for my unfortunate situation.

Every few minutes I would get up and wander around, holding my cell phone out in front of my like a divining rod (to make it clear I was only trying to get a phone signal, not trying to case the joint for some sort of illegal cross-border activity). Then I would sit down and read my book, chuckling quietly to myself (it was a funny book), which I'm sure did not make me any less suspicious.

Then I managed to empty most of my water bottle into my purse. At first I thought it wouldn't be so bad and I could let the clean change of socks I had in my bag soak everything up, but then I realized my purse was not water-proof and I was making a fairly large puddle of water on the padded Duty Free seat I wasn't supposed to be sitting on anyway, which was not winning me any points with the workers there.

After using all the paper towels from the Duty Free bathroom to clean up my mess, I decided I'd caused enough trouble over there and went over to cause some confusion at Canada Customs instead. I tried to just casually drop in and read a book, but you can't do that sort of thing at a customs office.

front desk worker: Miss?
Me: Oh don't worry, I'm just waiting for someone.
Him: How did you get here?
Me:
Him: Can I see your passport?

At which point I peel my sopping wet expired passport from the purse lining it's been clinging to and hand it to him. He pretends not to notice the state it's in (thank you), hands it back to me, and allows me to have a seat.

C comes to retrieve me just past 11 at night. On the way back I decide if anyone asks how the trip was, I'll say it was fine.


*the answer, of course, is to blog about it.
**No, really, officer, I swear my uncle gave me permission to drive his car, it's just that I don't remember any of his relevant contact information to prove it to you, nor did I realize I was about to cross the border and would need a letter from him. I thought I could turn around at the Duty Free!