It was late September. A friend and I set out on a cross-border outing. The day was intended as an excursion into what the Americans call “leaf peeping,” a pleasurable jaunt into the mountains, riding through the riotous colours of autumn foliage at its peak.
At least, it started that way. The French name of the U.S. state which translates as “Green Mountain” was anything but green. Vermont’s peaks were a panorama of cold fire. My companion was a superb driver who skillfully navigated narrow mountain passes. Her sharp reflexes saved the life of a deer who, without warning, decided to leap off a cliff in order to cross the street.
In September we see a few hours of summer in the afternoons, but dusk descends early. We weren’t out of The Green Mountains when darkness fell and a storm began to brew. Soon the rain turned torrential, thunder clapped and lightning struck. Mist enveloped the mountains, and its roads. Visibility was reduced to zero.
My companion gripped the steering wheel. Her shoulders hiked and her eyes bulged as she struggled to steer the car through curtains of rain. In the passenger seat, I fell asleep and stayed asleep until being bumped awake. It was a feeling I was familiar with. My companion’s car was hitting potholes. Roads in the U.S. are smooth and well-maintained. Quebec’s roads are notorious for their potholes. Groggy, it dawned on me that, like Dorothy, we might not be in Kansas anymore.
I gazed at my companion. “What country are we in?”
Sheepishly she responded, “I don’t know.”
“Did we miss the border?”
“It looks that way.”
The terrain flattened. The mist lifted. Neon signs illuminated the darkness. These signs were in French.
The fog in my brain cleared quickly. “Should we backtrack and look for the border?”
The downpour was still heavy. The rough-hewn, pot-holed ridden roads were wet and treacherous. Upon deliberation, my friend and I decided it would be safest to forge ahead and return home.
“Well,” I was surprisingly sanguine. I was also tired. “If we don’t find them, they are going to find us.” My words would prove prophetic.
The next morning, feeling uneasy, I called the U.S. border patrol and related the circumstances of the previous evening. The American officer sounded confused.
“Lady, where are you?!” He seemed to be under the impression that I was lost in the mists of the Green Mountains.
“I’m home. Am I in trouble?”
“Not with us!”
A few days later, my friend called. She was in tears. She had just received a call from an officer attached to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Either a camera or a censor had captured an image of her license plate, and she was traced that way. The officer threatened to slap her with a five-thousand dollar fine for bypassing the border. My friend was east European, and frightened of authority figures. In response, she gave the officer my phone number.
Moments later, the call came. I drew on my powers of description to paint a vivid portrait of a sinister and menacing black and stormy night.
“But there was a sign!” The officer insisted.
“We couldn’t see the sign!” I might’ve been speaking not only for myself and my companion, but also for my compatriots. “We couldn’t see anything! And besides,” I embellished, “my mother called the car and yelled at us to get out of there and come home!”
This was a bit of fiction. On the evening in question, Mum was not only unaware of our dilemma, but also of the physical danger we were in. Fortunately. I am not George Washington, and under interrogation I am capable of telling a lie.
The mention of Mum resonated with the officer. Besides being an officer, I suspect he was also a parent. His tone softened. “I was on duty that night.” He conceded. “I remember how severe the storm was. It really was bad.”
Discerning that I wasn’t a threat to national security, the RCMP officer let me off with a warning.
This happened fifteen years ago. The times, they are a-changin’. These days, we brace for another form of storm. Those who can afford to take a break from winter incur cancellation fees and revise their travel plans in order to avoid setting foot in the U.S. Those stuck in the deep freeze are doing their part by avoiding the purchase of U.S. goods. In this latest version of a fascist takeover, Canada has become the canary in the mine. No one knows how long this will last, nor how far this will spread. Whatever the outcome, the damage has been done. Trust has been shattered, and it will take the American people more than four years to earn it back. If they want to. If they can.
No comments:
Post a Comment