When approaching the Canadian border from Washington state, there is a sign, in all capital letters, that reads “THINK METRIC”. The “K” and the “M” are in bold-face font and underneath this imperative is an explanation that Canadians drive in kilometers per hour (hence the “KM”). “30mi/hr is now 20km/hr”, the sign chides.
Overhead, perched upon a large, white, rectangular arch, are the Canadian and American flags. It was raining when we crossed the border. The guard, an unsmiling woman with shoulder-length brown hair underneath her tan hat, asked us where we were coming from, where we were going, and why we were going there.
“Have a good trip,” she said, returning our passports.
It took us over an hour to travel from the sign that indicated we were approaching the checkpoint to the actual checkpoint to return to the US. The two are not even a mile apart.
“Maybe this is due to the Homeland Security fracas,” I commented. My window was rolled all the way down; my elbow was poking out of the car as it rested against the car door. I extended my arm and felt the Spring breeze trickle between my fingers; the sun felt warm and inviting on my skin.
The guard, a smiling, portly man in a tan suit, took our passports and skimmed them.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Seattle,” I answered.
“Why were you in Canada?”
“Vacation.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a doctor.” (My medical training has made me concise to the point of terseness.)
“You could use a vacation.”
We chuckled—we were being polite.
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“Psychiatrist.”
“Ooooh—then you could really use a vacation.”
I politely smiled.
He returned our passports and took a step back into the booth. For the next minute, he told us about his experiences working at a hospital in Portland, Oregon, where his job was to “hold down patients until the doctors could see them, order Haldol and Ativan, and ask the nurses to deliver the injection”.
“You’d be surprised,” he continued, “about the types of patient we saw there.”
I looked at him, sending him telepathic messages to let us go—we had just waited an hour to get to this point and he had just extended the wait time for the cars behind us by at least a minute!
He motioned for us to move on. “Have a safe trip back,” he said as I stepped on the gas.
He didn’t even ask us to declare what items we had acquired in Canada (for me, two loaves of bread (walnut and pumpkin seed), two cookies (the chocolate chip cookie was too cakey for my tastes), and an Inukshuk pin).
30 Apr 2007 |
If you’d followed the advice of the sign at the border that “30mi/hr is now 20km/hr” you might have gotten tagged with a speeding ticket just after you crossed into Canada. I think the sign is backwards. 30 mph is about 50 km per hour.
Comment by engineer | 1 May 2007 @ 9:22am
As a Canadian who grew up in Seattle, and made that same border crossing (in Blaine, I assume) many many times. And you know? It almost always takes an hour or so, even at noon on a weekday!
So, probably not just recent security issues…
Comment by misterbeans | 7 May 2007 @ 5:49pm
Well, as a Canadian recently returned from a trip to Washington State, I can tell you that their main source of revenue seems to be issuing speeding tickets to unwitting tourists. I was travelling north along SR 543 in Blaine to the truck border crossing into Canada. While stopped at the intersection with H Street near the border, I saw a sign on the other side saying alternative border crossing at Lynden with an arrow suggesting a route east along H Street. I turned right (east) onto H Street and within seconds there were flashing police lights in my rear view mirror. Talk about entrapment. The speed limit on SR 543 was 40mph, I think, and I had adhered to this limit so I was travelling below that on H Street. However, I was quite shocked to be pulled over. I had seen no speed limit sign. The bull dyke who gave me the ticket said I was going 37mph in a 25mph zone. I asked her where was the speed limit sign. She refused to answer any of my questions. After the robot left me with the $164 USD ticket, I backtracked and, yep, there was a sign. A small sign. Nothing that would really want you to notice it. I had been trapped by a speed trap. A cash grab. Further ahead of where I had been pulled over, there was another 25mph speed limit sign but it was obscured by tree branches. This is the type of situation that is a revenue producer. Clearly local government has no interest in protecting its citizens, or those children whose mothers allow them to play in the street, with these speed limit signs if they haven’t made them noticeable. A totally bogus cash grab. I hear ya.
Comment by Gale | 25 Aug 2007 @ 1:53pm