Rejected

I’m writing late today because instead of waking up in bed at 3 am, I was slouched in a chair in a waiting room of the Canadian Immigration Service. We had crossed the border to pick up Daughter at American Airport, taking Cousin with us.  The flight was delayed, and we crossed Border and rolled up to the immigration booth about 1:30 am. Contrary to what the officer had told me last time, handsome husbands are NOT enough to slide one through without paperwork, so inside we went. I knew the drill. And although driving through at that hour means quick access to the booth, it doesn’t mean there’s much happening inside the building. Apparently the kind of officers that listen to sob stories are sparse at 2:00 am. So we waited.

Eventually we talked to the right person. We were told to have the paperwork next time (paperwork from 25 years ago wins out over living breathing husband: there has GOT to be a lesson here somewhere). So I was getting in--Welcome to Canada—but my American car was not. And Cousin’s dad got the phone call, and Cousin’s mom had to listen in, and NO mom wants to listen in on a conversation that starts with Daughter’s name and ends with the word “car.” I am SO sorry about that.

Back we trudged across the American border. (I am SURE that Rejected Cars trudge.) Polite Canadian Officer sent Polite American Officer Nice Piece of Paper saying how we were returning because of Rejected American Car. Polite American Officer said, “Do you want this paper back, because you don’t need it, and slowly crumpled it up in both hands and tossed it. Hmm.

On we trudged into Border Town, found a hotel, had breakfast, and went to bed. This morning we got up early and started thinking. Who to call now? And one name came to mind, another angel named Bill who since his wife died of cancer has dedicated his life to being angel to many people going through treatment. He’s official. Tag and everything. New friend Laura lent us some pavement to dump Rejected American Car, Bill picked is up in her driveway (she wasn’t home), and we headed back to the immigration booth. But this time I was prepared. When the officer asked for the paperwork, I handed him my phone. Yep, I have learned. Hostess Mom had messaged photos of  Important Paper. These did the trick, and voila, we are Carless, but home. There is a lesson in here somewhere.