Posted by: Dingo | August 30, 2007

My last trip to Canada (Homeland Security) Part 1.

Hello again everyone. I’ll be surprised if you’ll notice it’s been almost eleven months since I last posted a blog entry, but I’m back in the game, and my health issues are nearly resolved, so hopefully I’ll be more myself, instead of bits and pieces of myself and the pharmaceutical being I was due to my chronic pain. So if you’re new to my post, my name is Dingo, and welcome to ‘Doses of Crack’. I appreciate you coming back to read what’s been happening to me lately, and I’m ready to rumble. So let the games begin!

I’m surprised I didn’t post this story to you folks sooner, but I had to cool down a bit before I ended up writing a tirade. It’s been almost two weeks since this incident happen, yet I still had to settle down, because truthfully, my panties were in a bunch from sheer indignation.

I went to Vancouver, B.C., Canada, for a techie ‘un’conference. With me on this trip were two male companions, Jay, and another friend from Scotland, named Martin. We arrived at the border with all of our papers, and we went to the Duty-Free store that is located just before the border. We promised another friend, Kris or a.k.a. KK+, a bottle of Maker’s Mark Bourbon. I went to use the restroom, and met with my traveling companions back at the car. (The way Duty-Free works is you buy your merchandise, they give you a receipt, and you drive around the building where an agent gives you your purchases.) Unfortunately, our driver forgot to pick up the merchandise, and he didn’t remember until we just passed the International marker into Canada. We hadn’t gone thru the border yet; we were the sixth car queued up to the cross the border. This is when our driver remembers about the duty-free, and he hands the receipt to me to go back to pick up the merchandise. I get out of the car, running before I’ve hit the ground, because I hear, “Run.” Mind you, I’m wearing four inch high heels, and I’m flying towards the duty-free store in a full sprint. Before I could reach my goal, a very crass and unprofessional agent (he directs traffic) tells me I can’t proceed to the duty-free store. This is when I know what should be a relatively simple task, has now become a fiasco.

So Mr. Wannabeacop stops me and starts to mock me. I don’t care if this poor fellow has decided to make sport of me, but this guy was too much. First, I show him the receipt, and very politely ask him if I may proceed, explaining what had just happened. He laughs at me and says, “Ha, ha. You’re just a stupid American. Let me hear you say that you’re a stupid American.” I decide to give him his laugh, just as long as he’ll allow me to proceed. “I’m a stupid American, okay?”, I said to him. I’m in a huge hurry, and Mr. Wannabeacop is hell bent on prolonging me from my mission. After I utter his desired response, he begins a litany of insults, ridiculing me about my heritage in his attempts to belittle me. The fact he didn’t have most of his bottom teeth, and he’s clearly in his sixties (unless he’s a meth user), just made me feel pity for this poor foolish man. I felt trapped in “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” where the bridgekeeper says, “Stop! Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, ere the other side he see.”

I believe you now see who I was dealing with; the exception being that Mr. Wannabeacop sported a classic orange safety reflective jacket, and his hair and beard were cropped short. Yes, I admit, the pun is fully intended.

After enduring my detainment, I’m finally allowed to proceed to the duty-free store, as the agents there watched me run to pickup our purchases. They were very nice indeed, and I greatly appreciated their help. I ran back to the car, bypassing Mr. Wannabeacop, because I was afraid I’d be detained again, and an international incident was the last thing I wanted. I get to the car, and it’s only moved up two spaces since I left. This was just a fore-shadowing of what came next.

We get to the booth, and due to the fact this was the first time Martin had visited Canada, we were instructed to pull over and all of us were questioned, had our backgrounds checked, and then we were finally admitted into Canada after Martin’s passport was stamped. His stamp was small in comparison to the huge green page stapled to his passport from Homeland Security. It actually was ridiculous the paperwork needed for a fellow from outside of Glasgow, Scotland. I digress. So we all pile into the car and proceed to Vancouver.

Once in Vancouver, we were reunited with some of the best people on the planet. With the exception of a few states in the south, state side Americans (Remember, Canadians are also ‘Americans’, as they live in North America, as we do), don’t possess the manners most Canadians display. Canadians are by and large, very polite and generous people. We met up at the ‘Alibi Room’ for our pre-BarCamp party. Our friends accomodated us with brilliant hospitality and lovely beds, so we were prepared for the morning’s BarCamp 2007. It literally lifts your spirits when you attend conferences with peers and peeps who share your passion for learning, networking, and meeting new friends. Not even in the states do you find that deep-hearted compassion and true sense of friendship. It’s a shame, because I believe we, as a nation, have become depressed due to war, government scandals, misrepresentations given to us via the White House and the media frenzy that occurs daily. We, as a nation, need a break, and fast! That’s why I love traveling to the Great White North. Peace is underated. Below is a sample of some of the best friends a girl could ever be blessed to have in her life!

BarCamp Vancouver 2007 - 08 - The Stewarts.jpg

Part 2 of this saga will be posted soon. After all, we had to come back to the United States of America. If you thought our entrance to Canada was difficult, returning was a nightmare.

For now, I wish all reading this blog, goodwill and peace on Earth to all of her inhabitants.

Love to you all,

Dingo Stewart a.k.a. Caerbannog is an ban coinin (In Gaeilge, or Irish, “The white rabbit of Caerbannog”, or better know as the ‘terrible beast from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.) Sorry about not having the fadas. It sucks.

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Responses

  1. Glad to see your back in the game Girl! Once again I apologize for my Gnomedex hooker faux pas, but that shit was too funny. Thanks for calling me out and being good natured about it. That was cool. Other chicks would have slapped me after that truly accidental rude slip. It was nice meeting you and hanging out. – Chris Suspect

    PS. Here’s a free song for you that I helped produce a ways back – http://68.178.137.243/HH4X/Home/TastersChoice.mp3


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