There is a little known secret about me. As the eldest child of two nationally ranked bridge players, I spent many weeks of my childhood travelling to bridge tournaments, picking up work as a card runner (or ‘caddy’) while my parents played 12 hours of bridge a day at various locales across the US and Canada. While the job was usually torture, I always looked forward to our trips to Toronto every Easter for the regional tournament. We stayed in the Royal York, earned money by day, and spent it shopping on Bloor St by evening. We would cross the border from Michigan by car as a family, drive back after the tournament– no sweat. I would drive to Windsor all the time as a teenager. In fact, I had my prom dinner in Windsor, ONT. Drive to the border, answer a couple of questions, cross into Canada. On the way home, stop at the border, answer a couple of questions, cross into the USA. Simple.
So, how surprised was I today when I entered Canada at the airport and was asked for my passport? The same passport I looked at on my desk in my apartment in Brooklyn, gave a small chuckle about, and walked out the door without? They’ll NEVER ask me for my passport… it’s CANADA.
(I talked my way in… very gracious Immigration officer…whewwwwww. It’s nice to be back, by the way. Sometimes, my lack of common sense shocks even me.)