Mostly I spent it in the wilds of the Sudbury region (well, kind of close, but that's the nearest big city).
Me and wilds:
I'm not a wilds kind of guy. But the time went fast, actually, despite completely inadequate Internet connections. But my iPod at least gave me a tenuous link to the world by sucking in emails during brief connectivity spurts. Those emails provide a lot of the news I consume.
I've often split my time between the wilds and Toronto when I go to Canada, but this time I only had a 10-hour layover in Toronto between a flight from Sudbury to Toronto and a bus from Toronto to Ann Arbor.
I managed to get a few of my Ballantine's series from Elliott's used book store (a great store on Yonge Street). I mention the store's name now because I seem to have mined that store heavily enough that my trips just yield scattered books. Indeed, I have two duplicates from buying unnumbered versions of books in the series. Hit that store if you are in the area.
I also managed to see a Second City comedy show. It was ok, this year, but no really hilarious moments. They do have a really cute new cast member but she way overdid the "I'm the sexy one" shtick. A little subtlety would do her wonders. I also went to a restaurant I really like (Brownstone, I think) for some outdoor beers and appetizers. I know where it is but the name is sometimes hazy.
One thing that shocked me. Is free wifi nonexistent in Canada? Nothing at the restaurant despite the network that showed up there. And nothing for the public at Second City (but they had two networks showing!).
I also bought a stuffed moose for Lamb. I ended up carrying that around town all night. I regret not thinking of getting pictures of us around town to show to Lamb. I just didn't think of it.
And I had fun with travel security. Oh yes. I must look badder and meaner than my self-image allows for. On the flight from Sudbury to Toronto, I managed to trigger the pat down. The guy asked me if I wanted it done there or in private. In private? Unless wine is being served by candle light, why would I want this done off in private? So it was up against the wall, arms out, this and that, all while being told what the security guy was doing. Like I can't tell where I'm being patted down just by sensory input? Why tell me? It's like they need to talk dirty while doing the job.
Funny enough, despite the hassle of putting small containers of liquidy things in a plastic baggy in the search part before walking through the metal detector, the pat down missed the sun screen in my pocket--and some more liquids in my small bag that I forgot about. I drove into Canada so hadn't really been thinking about flight security limitations. Although I did remember to give my bottle of contact lens solution to Mister to bring back to the States when he comes back a bit later.
It was an uneventful flight on Porter. I hit the ground in downtown Toronto and found I had nine hours until my 1:00 a.m. bus departure. I lugged my bag to the book store and restaurant, then found the bus station. I checked my bag in a locker ($5.00 gets it locked and opened once so further openings cost you) and unencumbered I wandered off to the Eaton Centre mall. I thought of getting a shake at the Baskin Robbins there, but they seem strangely ignorant of making a shake with vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup. In past years they've even denied having any chocolate syrup. But even in the wilds, I had eaten my share of sweets, so I skipped that ritual this year. I did find a great stuffed moose in a pink hoodie for Lamb, and carried that around for the rest of the night. Paying $5 more to put it in the locker seemed a bit much.
I headed out to Second City for the 8:00 pm show and despite getting a little lost ( I missed the street I needed to turn on and had to circle around by dead reckoning until I found it) I made it in time to get in and order dinner. I sat the moose on the table with me. I stayed for the improv part after the show. They have some ideas with some promise, but they kept taking them in directions away from what I thought would be a funny gag.
I was thinking about hitting my favorite bar before the bus trip, but by then it was getting late and I thought it might be better to sober up before the bus trip. So me and the moose headed back downtown, making it to the bus station before midnight.
They checked my passport and after sitting around for a while, we left not too long after the scheduled time. I did notice that there seemed to be no announcements of bus departures. When it started to seem like it was getting a little late, I walked outside and found a line for the bus already formed. I haven't been on a Greyhound in years, so I have no idea if this is normal.
I mostly slept. Off and on, mind you, but I did mostly sleep. We crossed the border into the US at the tunnel where I've had many a close encounter with Customs. That morning was to be no exception, although I assume every bus is given this level of scrutiny. I woke up to be told that we should take our bags into the main building.
So in the spirit of can-do, I leaped up and was the first to bound out the door and stride to the building. Let's get the cavity searches over, eh?
I walked in the main door and a large agent told me to set my bag down near him. So I tossed it from a few feet away, demonstrating my confidence that nothing would be set off by the impact.
He almost immediately told me to take my bag and wait in chairs by the counter. I did not ask him, if that is the case, why did you tell me to put my bag down?
At that point, I heard a clatter and shouts of alarm. An elderly woman from the bus had fallen down. I jumped over to her and asked her if she was ok. She reached out her hand but I'm afraid I immediately thought, "What am I thinking? There are tons of official people around and I want to risk a lawsuit by pulling her up?" Luckily, I didn't have to brush her off as three agents rushed over after me. So I got out of the way, climbed over some seats, and returned to waiting position. The lady was ok and declined medical attention.
I was called up to the counter soon after that.
So the questioning began. I told the truth. And at some point, I started to worry that the truth would sound suspicious to Customs. Oh Lord, I thought, he's going to think I'm "disgruntled." So I was getting a little nervous that an actual cavity search was in my near future. But I continued to answer honestly and give the impression of a happy and contented soul who has absolutely no interest in blowing up anything at all.
I have no idea if I did that, but after my passport and my life were scrutinized, I was told to go outside to have my bag searched. They pointed me to a raised cement platform with a long table on top with an agent standing behind the table. I again strode forward and jumped up on the platform, plopping my bag down. I opened it when told to, and after several seconds of him rummaging about with me standing over the bag, leaning in, the agent told me to step off the platform. I guess you are supposed to stand below looking up at them. No problem.
He opened up the brown bag of history books (oh Lord, I didn't get a Leaders series on Himmler or someone, did I?). But Stillwell, the P-40, and the Battle of Stalingrad were unobjectionable, I guess. Some mail from my former father-in-law that I was taking back for him was a bit off, I guess. "What's your name?" he asked, looking at one envelope. "That's a gift card I'm taking back for him to give to his wife. He was worried it would expire before he returns," I helpfully explained. "Is he a US citizen?" Arabic name. "Yes he is. A professor at U of M, actually."
So he finishes up and sends me on my way, cavities unexplored. I don't know if we all got this level of inquiry or whether anyone else got more. I didn't ask and I didn't hang around to look. I got on the bus where most others were already on, it seems, despite me having been the first off. So I must have gotten more attention. Awesome. I still have it! One young kid with lots of bags apologized for the wait as he came in, bringing up the rear. He did not look like a threat. At all. So perhaps I shouldn't boast of my edgy look that prompts security alerts.
But nobody was dragged away kicking and screaming (more to the point, I wasn't dragged away). We went on to the Detroit bus station for what was supposed to be an hour and a half layover for the bus to Ann Arbor.
I'd never been to this station. Oh, years ago when my girlfriend (before she progressed through mother of my children and ex wife) was in law school downtown, I had gone through the old one pretty much every weekend. It was big and dreary. And every time I got off the bus, it seems, someone would ask me to buy drugs from them. Those were pre-enlistment days, so I did look rather scraggly, I admit. But I don't know why I was asked to buy so often.
The new station is much nicer with lots of glass (but still barbed wire atop the walls around the bus docking bays). But it was still in Detroit and there isn't much you can do about that. I assumed the posture of relaxed, don't-eff-with-me, repose, and waited. Through the entire time, a young woman sitting at the entrance to the women's lavatory on the floor was in weepy conversation with first her mom and then her dad. Apparently, she had come to Detroit only to be dumped by her boyfriend. That got old real fast.
A man next to me with his young son (maybe 11?) were waiting for a bus, too. The boy noticed some Amish waiting in line to go to Canada. He noted that "they" were taking a lot of "sh*t" with them. Somehow this led him to complain that everything he had was cheaply made (I'm paraphrasing). Then he was back to the seeming injustice of "them" being able to take "whatever the f*ck they want" into Canada. It tripped off his tongue like he'd learned it on Sesame Hood or something (Elmo says that today's letter is "W", as in "who the eff are you looking at?"). The dad didn't even react. I can't imagine how I'd react if Mister or Lamb used anything like that in my presence. A little later, the boy laughed out loud as he listened to another man on his cell phone across the station clearly promise to "beat the sh*t out of" someone on the other end of the line. Yep, I'm in Detroit.
So I'm leaned back, foot on my bag and conscious of every pocket with something of value in it (without patting them to indicate where they are and that I'm worried about them), and aware of my surroundings without looking alert.
Good thing, too. A man from outside who'd been hanging around the entry comes in and sits next to me. He leans the other way toward the dad and pulls something small out of his shoe. They have a quiet and brief conversation, but the dad says it is too early for what the man is offering.
Having made the walk all the way in, the man leans over to me and asks me "You want some blow?" I turn to him and say "No thanks," and look away again. Well, I understand he said that only upon reflection. His accent was so heavily urban that it is sometimes difficult for me to remember that we grew up in the same city (friends in college would tell me I'd get a Detroit accent after a few drinks in me. They have no idea. I guess I had a white Detroit accent.).
But since I'd been paying attention to what was happening, I wasn't caught unaware and didn't assume he was asking me the time--or worse, simply stare blankly at him and say, "Excuse me, good man, I didn't quite catch what you said. Be a good chap and enunciate, would you?" (Whatever Detroit accent I once had is long gone.) So the man got up and returned to his franchise location at the bus stop entry. Who knew the crack of dawn was drug dealing time? But no sales for now, I guess. Although if my time in the station had lasted a little longer, I might have gotten interested in something to cope with the place. I should have referred the man back to the young lady behind me on the bathroom entrance floor. She probably could have used a little blow at that moment.
Note to self: Perhaps I can be mistaken for an undercover cop in Toronto, but I do not remotely appear to be one in Detroit. That is good to know.
There were no announcements here, either. And the nice flat screen panels displayed no information at all on buses. When the time for the bus to Ann Arbor approached, I got up and wandered down the gates until I found the one labeled for Chicago. I assumed that would include Ann Arbor. I didn't feel like getting in line to ask, and was mildly annoyed at the lack of information. Announcements were only about smoking and unattended bags--they are against both in Detroit, it seems.
The time passed, the line got longer, and I started to wonder if one of the unannounced bus departures had been mine. Spending more time there was less than appealing. But we were in the right line and only a half hour late we headed out. I hit the ground in downtown Ann Arbor, called Mister and Lamb to let them know I was home, and headed for the city bus stop. I was in my home fifteen minutes later.
While it was nice to go right to downtown Ann Arbor, the bus experience was less than appealing. Oh, I'd do it again for myself to avoid parking in the Windsor train station, but I would not take either child through that trip. The Toronto bus station was a bit seedy late at night. But in retrospect it had no barbed wire anywhere outside around the bus ramp. And nobody tried to sell me any drugs.
So I'm home. I had a strangely varied vacation. And my adventures with travel security continue. I may get a couple more opportunities in the next couple months to play strip search roulette again at the border.
Cuz, you know, I look bad ass dangerous. Right?
