Stress levels at the line
Without any reason to cross an international border, I’m always a little bemused by some of the things that I hear about. You know, the coffeemachine/watercooler stories about how things went for someone else as they crossed through that zone of turbulent weather. The hot/cold divide where thunder storms are likely to develop. The special place where the Canucks are armed with clipboards and the Yanks with automatic rifles. Is the border a line between cultures, a line of defence, or a place to pay yet another round of taxes to governments with deep pockets? It seems to depend on the day of the week.
Over the long weekend, thousands of people made their way south, in search of sun or cheap suntan cream. There are strict rules about what you can and cannot bring “across the line”, set out in proper legalese for all to study and comply with in their decision to check out how the other 90% live. Those who have the task of surveilling the border know a little bit about how the smuggler thinks. Wait times can hit the several hours point on long weekends.
That’s why they randomly search cars, based on an instinct about who is telling a bigger lie, and that’s how they know about all the good places to cache contraband. I don’t think they’re too worried about the fifteen shirts you’re wearing (it’s colder up here), or the slightly scratched largescreen TV that you have in the back of the van “in case you want to watch a little hockey during the drive home”. No, these days they have bigger and better fish to fry.
Some poor man from Vermont came north over the weekend (reciprocity), and when he returned south on Monday past, the patrol on the US side asked him if he’d had any recent medical interventions. Now let’s be clear; nobody is coming north to the “land of the waiting list” on a weekend for anything in the local hospital, so he answered “no”. Let’s not think about alarm bells, because those were already ringing, it seems.
He had received a medical exam earlier in the day on the south side that involved isotopes. Something to do with intestinal fortitude. The average science student knows a little hit about the “half-life” of an isotope, but older gentlemen with tummy problems are less in tune with the concept. The man was “hot”, if you know what the radio announcer meant.
Sensors near the border had determined that a radioactive source was approaching, and the portcullis went down. He was taken inside the booth for an interview session while the “team” inspected his vehicle and baggage. Nothing found, so the blame returned to his shoulders. He finally admitted, under certain duress, that he’d been to his local hospital BEFORE going north, and that he had drunk some sort of barium milkshake that tasted terrible. The culprit was unmasked. Give the order to stand down the air force.
I hope the trip across the border didn’t upset his stomach any further.
