Social media was abuzz with people vowing to curtail all travel ‘down there’. We’d already invested in our trip so …enough already.
A perfect way to see their country would be to hop the train, so we booked our roomette and set sail, er, uh, hit the tracks. Hubby was less enthusiastic about the sleeping arrangement (that’s his story to tell, I can’t stop laughing), but raved about the train trip. And when we travel, we’re proud to use Canada luggage tags and attach those little stickpins to our jackets. Everyone loves Canadians – or so I thought.
News flash! We are not beloved by everyone. Our cabbie for instance. ‘Canadians,’ he harrumphed. Yes, he actually harrumphed and there’s no other way to describe it. He said, I’d like to go up there and be as ignorant as they are here. Marv and I exchanged ‘the look’. This guy’s a wack job. Beyond rude.
We gave the driver the address. He said, Oh yeah, that’s twenty-five miles from here. Well, we don’t call my husband ‘Mr. Google Earth’ for nothing. That’s nine miles from here, he said, then loaded our luggage into the trunk while the cabbie jiggled the change in his pockets and watched. In the backseat, I squeezed next to Marv. Only because I couldn’t fit my legs behind the driver’s seat, which was all the way back, broken, and twisted.
Hubby had to interrupt the old geezer’s insulting sarcasm to direct him over to the far lane. We turn left here, Marv told him. The old guy chuckled as if we’d caught him trying to take that twenty-five mile route. At our destination, we said thank you like true Canadians, unloaded our luggage, and yes, tipped him (gag).
For a couple days until our rental car arrived, we were hoofing it. A super way to explore the area. We followed directions for a short cut to the store and ended up in the desert with groundhogs (that’s what hubby said they were but I have my doubts) racing around our feet. We walked miles in every direction. Hot, tired, and cranky (that would be me), we returned empty-handed to accept their apologies for forgetting to mention the path up the embankment. The next day Marv said, follow me. Mr. Google Earth led me directly to the store. Sidewalks all the way.
It must have been the horror stories about travelling stateside that had me scrambling for passports at the mere sight of border patrol stations on the highway. Watching the German Shepherd investigate a car in front of us made me want to holler, Ditch the Advil! My husband has a habit of dropping loose pills into his pockets. The name of the pill is right on them, he says. Dogs can’t read…duh.
The Shepherd took after someone that was pulling away. His handler skid across the pavement trying to hold him back. There were shouts for the car to stop. It did. The dog lay down, his nose pointing to the trunk. Good dog. Here’s a cookie.
Mostly, our vacation was super fantastic. Well, aside from the airport incident on the way home.
Marv didn’t make it through security. It was his carryon – the laptop – they told him. Immediately, he turned to me and said, What do you have on YOUR computer?? Wow, thank you, dear. Help them handcuff me. After a thorough scan of the carrying case and a cursory glance at the computer itself, they let him through. We made it as far as the gate. A voice over the loud speaker directed us to the courtesy desk. Run! flashed through my mind.
Actually, they didn’t want to drag us off to interrogation, only to switch our flight. Phew.
My imagination was getting the best of me. It was crazy to even think of anyone hassling Canadians – the good guys.