Good fences

Having the road nearly to myself made the drive from Helena to the border really special. Though a west wind did its best to shove the Saturn onto the right shoulder, the view of the Grand Tetons more than made up for having to fight the gusts.

Crossing the border has been on my mind for the past few months. I am unhappy about the fact that a passport will soon be required when we visit our neighbors to the north, neighbors that include relatives for many of us.

My love of freedom makes me despise the creation of barriers and restrictions.

When I arrived at the border, only one lane was open for business. Tourism is apparently the reason for having five or six gates; but the season has not yet begun and a single officer manned the first booth.

Three cars preceded me and I expected to slide past the agent in a matter of seconds.

But each vehicle was held for what seemed like minutes. It was like being in line at McDonalds when every car in front of you is placing orders for their whole office. I consciously avoided feeling impatient -- crowds are just not part of the Montana/Alberta experience.

When it was finally my turn, I found myself facing a huge, unsmiling officer wearing a flak jacket and a frown. It was more than intimidating, I felt uncomfortable.

The agent barked questions and didn't seem to like the answers. When he asked what I had in the back seat, I realized that the lack of organization that created a jumble of luggage, loose clothing and other containers might look to this fellow like a great place to hide an IED or even a weapon of mass destruction or two.

The interrogation reduced me to stammering idiot status. This wasn't the kind of audience old Wandering Dave tends to charm.

I began to suspect that I wasn't passing level one inspection; and my fears were soon realized as I was handed a form and ordered to report to an immigration officer inside the building.

I felt a bit out of breath and increasingly flustered as I entered the large room and discovered that I was one of just a few "customers." Three uniformed officers were behind the immigration counter and one gave me a signal to approach.

"Do you have a picture I.D.?"

My wallet was exactly where it was supposed to be: in the little cardboard box I keep on the passenger's seat. It was nestled comfortably along with other items I need from time to time during my travels.

Red-faced, I rushed out of the building to retrieve it.

I took a quick look at my driver's license just to confirm my suspicion that it did NOT contain my current address. Though I did notify the DMV online of my move, now over a year ago, I received only new registration documents for the Saturn, no new license for myself.

"Where do you live?"

Ulp! He was getting right to the point. I was certain that strict honesty -- which is my general policy -- was imperative in the current circumstances.

"Southern California," I replied. It was an answer that was true, but didn't specifically address the address issue.

At about this point in the proceedings I realized that every official in the room -- about a dozen Canadian officials -- was wearing body armor. These folks were contemplating suicide bombers and all kinds of maniacs.

"Is this address correct?"

Oh boy! I was certain that my interrogator, who was dividing his attention between me and his computer, knew full well that I had moved.

"No," I whimpered. I didn't offer an explanation, deciding less was more in this deteriorating situation.

"What is your current address, then?”

Now who knows their own address and phone number? I believe I got the street number right but couldn't for the life of me recall the zipcode. I finally guessed -- correctly, it turns out; but I admitted that I wasn't certain.

My knees began shaking as I imagined what I might have to endure if I was taken deeper into the bowels of that now forboding building. What kind of interrogation chambers might lie within these walls?

"How much cash do you have with you?"

I was beyond wondering what privacy rights I might have and I blurted out a number.

Apparently not satisfied with the total, my tormentor asked about traveller's checks and credit cards. I handed over my bank card.

"Is this a credit card or a debit card?"

"It's both," I suggested.

Perhaps the matter of credit versus debit is one of the ways agents are able to trap terrorists or smugglers. I believe it more likely that it is merely a pet peeve of my personal agent. In any event, he stiffened and told me in firm, almost demanding tones that no card can be both a credit and a debit card.

Before thinking, I noted that when using the card I was sometimes asked to sign a receipt and other times to provide a pin number.

My imagination may have run away with me a bit, but it seemed at this juncture as if everyone in the room stopped whatever they were doing and focused all of their attention on me. I became aware of the fact that I was almost the only civilian and American citizen in the building.

I knew I was in Canada, our friendly neighbor to the north, but visions of torture, false imprisonment and years of being held without the benefit of Habeus Corpus raced through my mind.

"I've been doing this job for 14 years," boomed my interrogator. "Are you telling me that I'm wrong?"

I've never felt more intimidated by a public official. "Oh, no." I wailed. "I'm sure you are correct. Certainly you know more about this than I do."

Reflecting on the experience, I realize that several factors probably combined to empower this man to torment an innocent guest. I fumbled with documents, had imperfect memory regarding not only my address, but the license number on the Saturn, and I probably revealed my discomfort -- which tends to encourage bullies.

I wanted to give HIM the treatment. I know how. I've done it before. But my desire to be out of there was stronger than any desire for self-respect. So, I went along with the third degree without protest.

I provided all kinds of information about my work history, marital status, finances and travel plans. I can't imagine the details this man demanded of me were proper unless he truly suspected me of some kind of wrongdoing -- which seems to be very hard to imagine.

I'm certain that answers to many of the questions asked of me were already revealed on that computer screen.

I wonder how much information the agent had at his fingertips and how necessary it is for what I consider to be relatively private information to be examined on the occasion of my having crossed the border and not having passed inspection by agent number one.

At last, I was passed along to agent number three. This fellow was as impersonal as the others. He finally collected the form that the first agent had given me and the second had initialed and pointed to the door.

This experience wasn't fun and is only interesting in retrospect. I believe I felt something for the first time that many in this world have endured again and again. Welcome to a new age where fear trumps common sense.

By the way, not one of my inquisitors bothered to say, "Welcome to Canada."