September 12, 2001
Oh, Canada: Stranger in a strange land
To be a traveler often means being a stranger in a strange land. Or in other words: "Bienvenue Canada"
Last week the entire Leiva clan invaded the Great White North. Surprisingly, the customs officials didn't raise an eyebrow; even after we declared our intentions of celebrating Christmas in Montreal. Talk about your trusting North American neighbor.
Our five-day vacation sounded like the premise for a 'reality' television show: travel with your family members 640 miles - er, 1,024 kilometers - to celebrate Christmas in September with Canadian relatives. As part of the game, you also have to take a turn behind the wheel - of a minivan. The proposed working title of our show: 'Lost, eh.'
Actually, I never heard a single 'eh' or any other "Bob and Doug McKenzie" utterance. Then again, they could have been lost in the translation. The overall problem being that my French is a little bit nonexistent.
Now when it comes to the 9,970,610 sq. km. known as Canada, I've experienced a hectare or two. Living in Sault Ste. Marie, Mich. for three years, I did venture across the International Bridge into Ontario. These excursions were better known as the guilt trips.
Perhaps I've seen "Midnight Express" too many times, but crossing a border makes me nervous.
My problem isn't hashish behind the hubcaps, but simply speaking. There is no such thing as an innocent conversation with a customs official, not with a guilty conscious. Suddenly you're saying things like your going to Montreal to celebrate Christmas and it's only September. So you start overexplaining and with each passing word you envision car dismantling and full body cavity searches.
However, before you can confess to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby, standing on the grassy knoll and being the Loch Ness monster, the woman in the booth smiles and waves you through. With the simple flick of a wrist you've entered another country.
Truth be told, the trip from Sarnia to Montreal is nothing to write home about - even on a cheap postcard. Picture desolate stretches of I-75 without the occasional billboard to break up the monotony. Now picture it for 15 hours out a minivan window. This stretch of road is why "Oh, Canada" isn't punctuated with an exclamation point.
Montreal, however, is another story. The largest city in Canada, it boasts such architectural wonders as the Notre-Dame Basilica, Cathedral of St. James and the Biosphere. Everywhere you go shops and outdoor cafes line the cobblestone streets of Old Montreal. We were even insulted in French by some construction workers without having to pay overseas airfare to Paris.
Montreal is also home of two Canadian icons: beer (Molson) and hockey (the Montreal Canadians who play in the Molson Centre). While there was plenty of cold beer, we had to settle for tickets to the lukewarm Expos. Watching a major league baseball game with 4,500 other fans means one thing: plenty of box seats behind homeplate. Amazingly, there were actually scalpers trying to sell us tickets for a dollar less than the box-office. Of course with our American currency exchange rate, they would owe us something like $1.50.
Before leaving Olympic Stadium, however, I broke down and bought a Youppi keychain. I figured the Expos mascot might be a collector's item when the team goes the way of the dodo and the Quebec Nordiques. Interestingly, one of my Christmas in September gifts was a Montreal Canadians hockey puck - made in Slovakia. I hope Canada at least sticks with the beer.
After spending 120 hours on Canadian soil, by Sunday afternoon I was mere seconds away from entering the United States. However, first the customs agent wanted to know if we had anything to declare. Incredibly, I made the following implausible statement: "we bought a shoe rack and a picture frame." Without raising an eyebrow she smiled and flicked her wrist.
Luckily, she didn't ask me about converting kilometers to miles, if I knew any dirty French words or the Christmas gifts under the backseat. After all, full body cavity searches are no way to end a family vacation.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com