Leaving the Northwest

You stay in Point Roberts/Roberts Creek too long and you forget how the rest of the world (or at least the ROUS) works, or at least how to work with the ROUS. A brief trip to central California left me at the Vancouver Airport yesterday, faced with the Canadian equivalent of the TSA and the American customs people in a different configuration from the Point Roberts’ border experience.

I guess I am too old or too temperamentally ill-equipped to deal with what certainly appears to be irrational authority. The take-off-your-hat, -jacket, -scarf, -shoes mentality completely evades me, given that I have to march through the Magic, All-Seeing Arch of Oz, but I reluctantly and unhappily do as I am ordered. I just refuse to participate in the little plastic bag with liquids, creams, unguents and emollients ritual, so I don’t bring any of those things with me. Nor would I dream of submitting to having my digital camera, computer, I-Pod, and whatever up for being turned on, searched or justified, or examined in the myriad ways they could think up to investigate them, so I travel with nothing electronic. I have things made of fabric plus a plastic toothbrush, comb, and hairbrush. My theory of travel in the Strict Daddy State age is that everything I need can be found at the other end of the trip. This, I believe, will keep my interaction with the TSA at the maximum minimal level.

The theory turned into practice is less successful. I arrived early for the flight with my pre-printed boarding tickets, my passport and customs card in hand. At the airline ticket office, the agent congratulated me for having everything done just right. I get through 45 minutes of customs. I make my way to the magic arch, remove all my outer garments and shoes, place them and my suitcase on the conveyor belt, step through the magic arch, put my clothes and shoes back on, put my purse on my shoulder, and walk away, with great relief. Ten minutes later, I notice that I have no suitcase at the end of my hand.

A walk back and a long rigamarole in which I successfully demonstrate that my suitcase and I are meant for one another. Which all goes to prove, I guess, that anxiety creates reality. Really: just pay no attention to the man behind the curtain