#264 Last in Line

I went to Canada recently and I couldn’t help but notice that the alert color of the whole terrorism thing seems to have settled into a pale puce. What I’m about to tell you is knowledge at least as common as how to make a nuclear bomb but still, if you happen to notice a terrorist reading or listening to this, call the appropriate authorities. So just between you and me. In order to facilitate the ease of your international crossing a few tips: Dress nicely. It would help if you were over 45. A conservative haircut is a must. If you don’t have a tie on look like a person who would be comfortable wearing one. Walk on to the ferry. If you’re really intent on blowing yourself up, where you leave your car to its final resting place is of no concern. Nettled parking authorities don’t bill exploded corpses. Don’t rent a vehicle. Rental agencies have security like you wouldn’t believe. Getting into Canada is no problem. Apparently, their concern that a terrorist hiding in the United States is going to sneak into Canada and blow up a government building is less than their concern for fishing treaties. Coming from Canada is the big issue. Before I’m allowed to walk on the ferry I have to go through a small checkpoint in Victoria where I’m asked to produce my drivers license and birth certificate and declare whether I bought anything worth taxing. I give the customs agent an honest and open look and say no. At this point, I expect to be asked to put my little rolling suitcase up on the stainless steel counter. Nope. The line is long, the ferry can’t wait, and I’m through with a cursory peek at the birth certificate and a snide comment about the rendition of my drivers license picture. Hmm. I seem to remember an x-ray machine when I flew from Seattle to Spokane. I ride the ferry back, for the most part unnoticed by any ferry personnel. I buy a coffee and keep my bag close the whole time. Did I mention there were no sniffing dogs? At the other end, I get in line behind a couple of scruffy younger people. For contrast. A gal was having her bag groped by a female customs official. The customer was a little nettled, apparently at the custom-o who seemed to feel this was the time for a “random” check. The guy right in front of me was next. He had various bags, among them a soft sack slung from his back that looked like it contained gelignite. He looked vaguely middle eastern. She asked him a couple of questions and then passed him through. Then me, I gave her my best service club honest manly look and prepared to hoist my bag up. Nope. She took less time glancing at my I.D. than a bartender during happy hour on wet t-shirt night and then waved me on with a “have a nice day.” The guy ahead of me made a bee-line for the bathroom. He apparently had an urgent need to unload something. I moseyed out to the street. I wonder if Seattle has any large buildings?
America, ya gotta love it.