I seriously need to learn the second line in the Canadian anthem... or least be able to complete the first sentence.
So.
What. A. Weekend.
My flight wasn't scheduled to leave until 5pm so I spent Saturday morning packing all my shtuff and cleaning my room like a G. Then I went over to have a final lunch with my Aunt and cuzzos. I bid them farewell until July and my parents kindly escorted me to the airport.
All week long my friends and family asked me if I was sad that I was leaving, if I had cried, if I was going to cry. To be honest, while parts of my heart were thinking "This is it. You're doing this. You're freakin' moving to Canada. Leaving your friends, your family, your whole world behind. You're one crazy mofo." the other parts were thinking "It's about damn time."
The thing is, I think I was born for changes. I was born for adaptation. I think I LIVE for it. I'm cursed with the ability to get bored at a drop of a hat. I'm cursed with an innate hatred for routine. I. hate. schedules. This isn't to say that my friends and family are boring or bore me. I've lived in Delaware for a while now and I've met so many good people and undergone so many transformations that while moments may have been dull, I was never to the point of pure impenetrable boredom. I mean, the last three years of my life have been nothing but a whirlwind of change. I changed careers, I changed friends (kept a lot of them too), and found love. I was a busy freakin' bee.
It probably has to do with the way I was brought up.
I was born in New York City to some eccentric but loving parents who reluctantly and painfully had to send us to live with our grandparents in Korea for some time because they were struggling to make ends meet in the big apple. My father finally scrapped up some savings and brought us back to the states but relocated us to Orlando, Florida when we were about 4 or 5. There we stayed 'til I was the tender age of 13. From there we moved to Raleigh, North Carolina for two years, and then to Delaware for a few years, back to Maryland for another few, and finally back to Delaware. Whew! Now that's a lot of moving. And adapting.
Now I don't recommend this much change for everybody. It certainly wasn't always easy. Especially during middle school and high school. Catty b*tches be triflin'. But I survived and I'd like to think that my experiences have made me a better person.
Anyways to make a long story a little bit less long, I'd just like to say,
BRING ON THE CHANGE M*THAF*CKER!
Plus I always appreciate the change of scenery, especially when it looks like THIS:
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| Holla. |
So with a YOLO mindset, I kissed my loving parents adieu and boarded my plane to Seattle. Once there, I spent the night at a glamorous Holiday Inn and woke up bright and early in the morning to get ready to pick up Big Beulah (AKA my Hyundai Sante Fe that I had shipped out a week prior).
ThanktheLordAlmighty that I was able to retrieve her in one piece. I kept thinking horrible thoughts about how all my clothes were going to be missing and how some pervert had probably gone through my underwear stash and stole all my finest unmentionables. But no. Everything was there and accounted for.
So began my official trek up to the Great White North. I kept rehearsing in my mind about what I was going to say at the border and how I was going to nonchalantly answer all the questions while keeping a straight face. To be honest, I really had no clue what I was really going to say. This was because I had conflicting advice from anyone and everyone. A lawyer that Brian and I had consulted advised that I just state that I was going to visit some friends and just keep things general and only answer in detail when prompted to do so. My parents told me to not even mention that I was engaged to a Canadian. I was to give the address of the pastor's daughter (who lives in Vancouver) and just state that I was coming over to visit and stay with her. Stressful stressful stressful.
It's finally my turn to pull up to the window. I put on my best American/non-illegal immigrant smile and proceed to engage in the following conversation with the border patrol officer:
Me: "Hi, how's it going?"
Popo #1: "Great. What's the purpose of your trip?"
Me: "Oh, ya know, just to visit some friends, sightsee, maybe take a little roadtrip through the province."
Popo #1: "How long are you staying here?"
Me: "'Til May 22nd."
Popo #1: "So you're not going home 'til May?"
Me: "No, well I'm going home-home in July. But I'm leaving Canada in May... meaning I'm crossing the border again in May. I'm going to the Sasquatch festival. "
Popo #1: "So you're crossing the border to go to the festival.... and then you're planning to come back?"
Me: "Well yes. I'm planning to come back to Canada to stay with my friends again... and then going back home in July."
Popo #1: "Are you driving back?"
Me: "I don't know yet. I haven't bought my ticket."
Popo #1: "Well what would happen to your car if you flew back?"
Me: "I.... would either leave it at my friends or.... ship it back."
Popo #1: "DID YOU SHIP YOUR CAR HERE?"
Me: "Nooo
ooooooo... yes??? Maybe. Okay I did."
Popo #1: "Well how much did that cost?"
Me: "Like.... $1,400."
Popo #1: "Say whatttttt??!?!!"
And the questioning continues. With superduper specific questions:
Who are you staying with?
What's the specific address?
What's his/her names?
What's his/her/their occupations?
How much do you have in your bank account?
Who's financing your trip?
What is your occupation back in the states?
Do you own property back in the states?
What are you bringing with you?
What have you left behind in the states?
And on and on and on and on.
By this time, I'm sweating bullets, I'm stuttering like a fool, and I can feel my bowels dropping.
The officer whips out a yellow card with a bunch of malicious looking scribble on it, hands it to me, and tells me to pull over and park at the immigration station.
His final words were, "You should have told me from the beginning that you were visiting and staying with your Canadian fiance."
FREAKIN. GREAT. JUST GREATTTTT.
I'm gonna spend my illegal immigrant ass in jail and am gonna get molested by a bunch of manly mulletted women in cut-off flannel. AWESOME.
So I get ushered inside where I proceed to engage in 45 minutes of further interrogation by three separate border patrol officers. By my third interrogation session, I'm pretty fed up with being asked the same questions over and over again. So when they sent me to a THIRD officer for further questioning I just say to him, "Look dude, let's just keep it real here, are you going to let me over or not? Am I breaking any laws here? What am I doing wrong? Just freaking tell me already. IS MY ASS GOIN' TO JAIL???"
Popo #3 (Who was the nicest one out of all them): "No no no. You're not going to jail. You haven't done anything wrong. And yes, we're going to let you cross over, don't worry. We just want to make sure that you're not trying to work illegally."
Oh thankthelawdJAYZUSS.
But seriously. What was all this fuss about then? I was pretty perturbed at how everyone was treating me like a freakin' COMMUNIST SPY or something. Is this some sort of sick scare tactic? I don't know. I finally was able to feel my legs again when Popo #3 gave me my yellow slip back and gave me the okay to go ahead and come into the country.
I guess the good news is that I'm OVER HERE. Safe and sound. But now I gotta worry about leaving. I mean, am I going to have this much trouble coming back in? Popo #3 was kind enough to give me a checklist of things that I should have in order to make my reentry less painful but some of the things on the list is pretty arbitrary and he admitted it as well. His response was "It's mainly up to the officer's discretion whether or not you satisfy each of the requirements." Awesome. I should have asked what his specific work hours were.
Anyways. To all my pondering loved ones -- I MADE IT! And am loving it so far!!! I'll save my first day goings-ons for another post. This one was long enough.
Stay tuned for more adventures!
