Getting to the border was relatively painless and the "30 minutes" wait time on the signs was surprisingly accurate. Until the immigration officer in his little kiosk uttered those terrifying words: secondary processing.
Yes, next to the border there's a whole other border, a longer, more tedious, traditional border where you park your car and join a massive queue in a grey government building, shuffling forward inches at a time towards the all-powerful stony-faced officials behind the long desk at the front. "Where's the fast lane for British subjects?" I asked the armed guard at the door. His silence did not reassure me - the Queen will be hearing about this.
Over an hour later a man stapled additional forms into our passports and charged us $6 each for the privilege. It seems to be free to fly into the US but you have to pay every 90 days to drive in. Whether I'll be reimbursed for the lost hours of my life wasn't discussed (and, to be fair, I usually charge less than $6 an hour). Giving birth to a US citizen was meant to stop this kind of thing happening, but I suppose I have to look forward to the day when Pete says "I'll see you in California" and leaves his struggling parents to fend for themselves.
Amazingly, these border shenanigans made the usual insanity at the bank seem pedestrian ("no, I'd like you to let me send my money to myself!") and although I like to spend longer at a destination than it takes to travel there we turned around quickly in case of more hassles going back. Thankfully the Queen's authority still carries weight in civilised places, and after a trifling 15 minutes queuing in the car at the Canadian border we were waved through and my worries melted away like the chocolate peanut butter cups from Trader Joe's that I was smuggling in my underwear.
Welcome? Are you sure?
