Borderline

You might have thought my stories about Canada were over, but there's one more. To set the scene: my friend and I had just seen five plays in two and a half days, walked about eight hundred miles, and due to the early morning shenanigans in the hall outside the door of our room, and the shenanigans in the pool in the courtyard outside our window, we were somewhat under-rested. Right before leaving we'd been subjected to the most depressing play on earth. After driving three hours in a foreign country on unfamiliar roads in the dark, we had finally reached the American border. We handed our passports to the guy at in the booth, and proceeded to have the following conversation with him.

Where did you go in Canada?
Stratford.

What were you doing in Stratford?
Seeing plays at the Shakespeare festival.

You're actors?
No. We were seeing the plays, not performing them.

What do you do?
I work at a publishing company.

What about you?
I'm a writer.

A waiter?
A writer.

A what?
A WRITER.

Where did you stay in Stratford?
The Nurse's Residence.

You're nurses?
No.

But you were staying at the Nurse's Residence?
It's like a hotel.

The Nurse's Residence is a hotel? And you were seeing plays?
Yes.

Could you pop your trunk please?

I couldn't tell whether he was very good at flustering potential nurse-actor-waiter criminal duos, or whether he truly had the poor listening comprehensions skills that he seemed to. All I can say is that even though I think he overreacted a bit, I still liked him more than the Canadian border guard, who gave us the dirtiest look I have ever seen and then heaved the biggest sigh I have ever heard before letting us into her country. Being suspected of criminal activity by the American guard honestly seemed more welcoming.