Passport Please?

Crossing the border is an experience that always makes me feel like I've done something wrong. Even if I haven't.

Sunday was no exception.

The way up into Canada involved an hour-long wait, not unexpected as all the Canadians returned home after plundering our stores and gas stations.

On the way back into the States, however, my border guard must have been slightly bored with the lack of traffic at 10 p.m. Here's how the inquisition went:

BG: Where are you from?

Me: Bellingham

BG: Is this your car?

Me: Yes.

BG: What were you doing in Canada?

Me: Meeting a friend for dinner.

BG: How do you know this friend?

Me: From my previous job.

BG: What do you do now?

Me: Work at the University.

BG: Doing what?

Me: I'm a transcriber.

BG: So you take notes.

Me: Something like that.

BG: Where did you eat dinner?

Me: Red Truck Brewing or something or other (Later I realized it was called Dix).

BG: Hmm. (Walks around car) Is your trunk open?

Me: Let me open it.

BG: (Investigates trunk, walks back around) I drink the same kind of milk (reference to the glass milk jug in my trunk).

Me: Really.

BG: Have a nice night.

Me: You too.

[End encounter]

Apparently, I appear to be a drug transporting, car stealing, unemployed woman who happens to drink milk. (Why I couldn't have just said that instead of writing out the long and boring conversation, we'll never know.)

I had an easier time getting back into the states a few years ago when the only identification I had with me was a driver's license.