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Not So Smart Aleck "Never be bullied into silence. Never
allow yourself to be made a victim." "What is your purpose in the US?" a border guard enquired brusquely at Maine's Van Buren crossing. I want to see if you're cutting trees as fast as New Brunswick, I thought. But I answered, "We want to check out your autumn colours." Eyes narrowed, he rephrased his question, and stated it slowly - like I was a titch daft. (Or maybe he thought I was French, and if he spoke deliberately enough, I would understand?) Nope. Not me. I haven't seen enough disposable diapers in the ditch lately, I thought. But I answered, "We want to see New England's fall foliage." All border guards - I know now - are trained in mental telepathy. He read my smart aleck mind, and figured we were two plumb crazy Canucks, shy a few eggs of a full carton. Who else but someone certifiably insane would be riding in such seriously cold weather? To see leaves? Give me a break. "Take your bikes around the corner," he said, pointing to the side of the building. I turned to Sharon. "Did I win a prize?" "I don't think so," she mumbled. "Maybe you should take care of the questions from now on." "Gee, ya think?" We wheeled our little bicycles to the side of the building as instructed. A sullen officer met us near an area of narrow bench-like tables. Before I even leaned my bike over, he unzipped a rear pannier and began groping about the dank interior. I hoped he didn't discover any long-forgotten banana corpses. "Any switchblades?" "Aren't those illegal?" He frowned. "Do you carry a gun?" "Nope," I responded. "Too heavy." "Any ammunition?" "For the gun I don't carry?" I said, then sighed, remembering whom I was speaking to. "Sorry," I apologized. "Nope. No gun. No ammunition." "Go inside!" he barked, sending me for an attitude adjustment. Being a comedian quick with answers wasn't always the best when dealing with border crossing guards. In the future I would try to remember to engage brain before opening mouth. Leaving the officer to probe touring cyclists' curiosities, Sharon and I began the long march to the office. Jeez. I hoped a strip search wasn't next on our list of pleasantries. "Know what the queer guy said when officers conducted a rectum search for drugs and didn't find anything?" I whispered to Sharon. "I'd like a second opinion." "Shaddup, already," Sharon grinned. "Passports," an agent demanded as we approached the counter. (His request was unusual - Canadians required only a driver's license or birth certificate to enter the States.) But, because Sharon and I planned on heading overseas, we indeed possessed passports. The officer, taken aback slightly when we handed him passports, flipped open the shiny new booklets. Scanning the personal information, he punched some data into a computer. "You're a teacher?" he sniffed, eyeing my unkempt hair. I sort of had the Don King thing going that morning. Sharon had been bugging me for the past month to get a haircut. Good thing I cut off my ponytail, I thought. "And you're a Chartered Accountant?" he practically snorted at Sharon. The disheveled female presence before him appeared markedly different from the passport image with coiffed hairdo and natty business suit. I nodded my condolences. When the officer finished his questions, I quizzed him. Might as well not make our unscheduled stop a total wash, I figured. "Where's the best place in Van Buren to eat?" I asked. "Well, not the best," I corrected myself. "Where can I get the most food for the least amount of money?" "That would be John's on main street." Not finding anything amiss, the agent surrendered our documents and returned us to retrieve our bikes and their contents. Or rather, what was left of them. Eight panniers worth of goods lay scattered along the tables, zippers yawning wide, innards strewn about like so many discarded pig entrails. "Maybe they wanted to know what to take on their next bike tour?" Sharon laughed, shoving items back into her bike bags. I took the opportunity to re-organize my packs. "Hey, look!" I spouted, holding up my long-lost Swiss army knife. "Thought I'd lost this puppy somewhere back in Saskatchewan." We saddled up, and, humming a happy tune, waved to the guards as we pedalled past. "Thanks, guys!" I called. A thinly veiled smirk rewarded my effort.
In Van Buren, we spotted John's café. "Lunch time! Might as well see if that guard knows what he's talking about." We parked, entered, and sat at a window booth where we could keep an eye on our bikes. I overheard a clique of old-timers at a table in the rear speaking in French. Maybe the border guard hadn't been trying to be condescending after all (about half of New Brunswick's population speaks French). I ordered the lunch special. "I hope it's big," I remarked to the efficient waitress. "I'm fairly hungry." "Oh, it's plenty big," she assured me. She was right. A few minutes later, two turkey-sized serving platters, laden beneath multiple slabs of roast beef, arrived. A sea of dark brown gravy lapped at the shores of a pair of Double-D-sized hills of mashed potatoes. "Dolly!" I spouted. Heaps of bright orange carrots, yellow turnips, and green beans added a colourful touch. "Not bad," I said with a smile, calculating the calories on my enormous plate, "especially considering the price is what we usually pay for a slice of pie." "I hope I can still pedal," I moaned, waddling forth nearly an hour later. I mounted up. My knees hit my stomach with each pedal revolution. We rode due south under a faultless blue sky. Surrounded by trees that were no longer naked, we basked in windless mid-20 degree Celsius temperatures. When was the last time we had seen such fine conditions? The terrain slipped past. "Cycling is fun again," Sharon said with a wide grin, sun splashing off her dappled cheeks. Near dusk, at a turnoff to the local Monticello campground, we met two teens who had been drinking by the river. "Are you guys party animals?" the cinder-eyed one asked. "Not really," Sharon answered in a weary tone. "After pedalling all day, we don't have enough energy left to poop, let alone party." "I guess you'd call us party-poopers," I said. "Well," the other continued, ignoring me, "we left a fire burning that you're welcome to use." We descended to the riverside, and found the pleasurable flames as promised. After warming ourselves to a toasty glow, Sharon reconnoitered for a camping spot. She discovered an unlocked cookhouse door. "Life is good," she smiled. We pushed our bikes inside and set up our tent. Observing our protected confines, Sharon grinned again. "We're going to be warm tonight." I laughed at how content she seemed to be. "It's wonderful to see that it doesn't take much to make you happy these days. Some food, a little fire, a place to lay your head ... talk about getting back to the basics." "Like they say," Sharon murmured, unrolling her sleeping bag, "happiness isn't having what you want; happiness is wanting what you have." |
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