The Actual Move-in...

...will have to wait another day (not that it's such a great story). In a nod to Quentin Tarantino, I thought I'd tell the story of our journey in a non-linear fashion. It all began last Friday morning when my son and I left town and predictably got stuck in traffic driving through the city. Taking an alternate route, we bypassed the Chicago Skyway altogether and made our way up through northeast Michigan en route to Canada.

When we arrived at the border we were interrogated by an attractive-looking Canadian border agent (at least compared with the SWAT team-like characters on our side). I was immediately struck by her Canadian accent; I figured we would have to drive at least a little while to hear that. I was half-tempted to ask her to "talk some French," but I didn't want to get detained or anything. Anyway, it was enough to crack a lame joke about "wanting some of your free health care," which caused my son to wince for some reason. After assuring her that we weren't carrying any firearms in the car (and if we were, would we own up to it?), and in any case were just passing through her nice country on the way to Buffalo and points east, she waved us on through. So far, so good.

My first reaction on the new road was the speed limit, Maximum 100 (!). "That's kilometers, Dad." I knew that. But it does throw you a little at first. When I came upon a sign a little later for some city with the population listed at the bottom, I thought to myself, "I wonder if they count differently up here, too." I also noticed that, unlike the U. S., everyone seemed to be observing the speed limit. Great. Just what we need right now, a nation of law-abiding citizens. (The U. S. was looking better already.) But we settled in for the ride, and as my son drifted off to sleep, I took in the sights around me. Ontario looks a lot like the U. S., except there seems to be an inordinate number of golf courses up there. (I kept having this image of healthy Canadians on the links yelling, "QUATRE!") Also, it's a little weird to see all those Canadian flags. (Who's idea was it to put a maple leaf on the flag, anyway? Did the pine cone get voted down?) And Esso stations! When was the last time you saw one of those?

But the highlight (if you could call it that) was our stop in Woodstock, Ontario for dinner. Our plan was to get off the highway in some small Canadian village and sample the local fare and talk to the townspeople. I guess I had some image of burly Canadians in red-and-black checked wool shirts and stocking caps eating Walleye and drinking Molson's. But Woodstock turned out to be a little creepier than we had bargained for. It was really rundown and like something out of the Twilight Zone. Talk about shades of gray! And the people on the street all looked like the extras in a Stephen King movie. You know the type: they walk down the sidewalk toward you at a slight angle with a vacant look on their face and then just when they get near you their heads EXPLODE! (We didn't want to get out of the car.) But our hunger finally got the better of us and we stopped at a place called Bob's Diner. The cheeseburgers and fries were actually very good, even if the girl behind the counter did give me some funky Canadian coins as change from my twenty. "What the heck is that?"

"Oh, that's a Toonie."

"A what?"

"A Toonie. It's a two-dollar coin."

"Spell it."

As she did, I gave her my patented Larry David stare, trying to catch her in a lie, but she just smiled back at me. So I figured it must be legit and we ate our dinner. Afterward, we left the Town that Time Forgot and headed through a light drizzle for the border.

Next: The Actual Move-in (I promise).