Think it would be a good idea...

...to try to enter the country from Canada in a beat-up old minivan with a one-month temporary registration (I keep flunking the emissions test), packed to the gills with God-Knows-What, on the eighth anniversary of 9/11? Think again. Especially if you have a nervous 19-year-old behind the wheel who answers, "Glenview" when asked where he's from at exactly the same time that his father answers, "Chicago." This from an armed, black-clad (and vaguely stormtrooperish-looking) border agent who looked like it was his first day on the job and nobody, but nobody was going to get in the country illegally on his watch. "Uh-huh," he said, but he was clearly thinking, "Go ahead, make a break for it. Make my day." After asking us a few more banal questions (which we mostly stumbled over), he tapped the inside panel of our car (while carefully keeping his eyes on us) and said--Surprise!--we'd been randomly selected to have our car searched. "Pull over there (next to that other stormtrooper), get out of the car, and wait in that building over there." Great. All this so we could take an alternative route through Canada and drive on a highway that looked like any other Interstate anywhere else in America.

Just before getting out, I thought it would be a good idea to throw away some of the trash we'd accumulated on the trip. "Are you crazy?" My son asked. Good point. So we went inside and it was obvious that we were the only non-illegals to be detained. Just suffice it to say that if you want to pass as an American, go get yourself a polo shirt, some khaki shorts, and a pair of top-siders. On second thought, that's exactly what I was wearing and it didn't do me any good (and I don't even have a swarthy complexion). So there we sat (and sat) and watched a dozen or so other stormtroopers walk back and forth with important-looking pieces of paper in their hands while nervous travelers awaited their fate.

Finally I could have sworn that my name was called. My son heard it the second time and we approached one of the many counters. "Did you call my name?" Some guy with a mustache appeared out of nowhere and said, "Tracy? Yeah, you can go." So out we went (that was painless) until another stormtrooper stopped us at the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"That guy said we could leave."

"Which guy?"

"The guy with the mustache." We all looked at the counter and of course the guy with the mustache was nowhere to be seen.

"Did he give you your travel documents?"

Travel documents? This was starting to sound like "Casablanca" and those letters of transit that Peter Lorre kept talking about. "No."

"Just wait over there until your name is called."

I figure it's never a good idea to argue with an armed man; we returned to our seats.

After what seemed like an eternity, some lady stormtrooper came out of the back and said we were free to go. I wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.

"Could I have my travel documents, please?"

"Travel documents? You mean your passports? Sure, here they are."

Needless to say, on my return trip I drove back around Lake Erie. It went much faster.

Next: The Salt Museum.