It was July 1987 and I was a traveling musician on the
road in northern Idaho. Although, in order to be
“on the road” it seems that you must
have someplace to be “away” from. Which I did not.
My home had a license plate on the back and a VW
insignia on the front. No, not a bus, not a bug,
not even a Rabbit. My car/bedroom was none other than
an infamous 1979 DASHER diesel station wagon!
Anyways, I had a number of “days off” in my
performance schedule and since I was already so close
to the border I decided it would be a grand
excursion for me to venture further north to
experience those Canadian Rockies so many have tried
to capture with song and canvas.
So with my guitar stretched out in back atop my
sleeping bag and gear I fed my glow plugs 12 volts
of good DC and began rolling away from the Deep South,
leaving only a wisp of unspent fuel to be remembered
by.
As I gently meandered closer and closer to the northern
perimeter of my homeland I could almost feel my
soul being weaned of its long engrained battles with
disposability and ultra-consumerism. I felt like a
clam in a pail of unfamiliar waters being purged of
my own uncleanliness and only then beginning to
realize how virtually sullied I was.
It was with compelling anxiety that I pulled up to
the customs agent whose very first words were, after
perusing the rear of my motor home,
“How much money do you have?”
For many reasons I’d have preferred almost ANY other
question imaginable but did my best to maintain my
composure.
“About fifty bucks” I said, with a fake smile on my
face and real tears in my heart.
“Can I see it, please?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it right here” was my confident
reply as I flaunted my present-day life savings of
$35 USD which I was certain would be
clearly understood to be the equivalent of $50 Canadian.
“What is your interest in visiting Canada?”
“Oh I just have a few days and wanted to see the
Canadian Rockies for the first time, you know, since
I was in the area”.
“What’s with the guitar and sleeping bag in the
back?”
“Well, I’m a songwriter and thought I might even
strum a tune or two for any good Canadians who might be
exceptionally kindhearted or perhaps a bit hard of
hearing, if you get my drift.”
“Do you have a Canadian Work Permit?”
“A WHAT?”
“You’ll need to pull your vehicle over and
talk to the woman in the office over there”, the agent
said pragmatically, fully intending to protect Canada
from the threat of my malodorous voice.
I pulled over. I talked. I listened. And I watched at
least 107 forty-foot motor homes with satellite TV
and marble countertops cross into Canada, slowing down
barely enough to nod and wave at the Homeland
Security officer who probably had some quiet crush
on Jimmie Hendrix and felt his mission from God was to
exorcise the world of acoustic instruments.
No amount of explanation, or “I promise NEVER to
sing a song in your country”, or “How about if you just
KEEP my guitar here for a few days?” convinced “the
woman in the office” to allow me into her fair
country.
Evidently Canada was WAY ahead of us in
their homeland security program.
I really had two choices. Astro-projection, which
I’ve never been any damn good at, or the old reliable
U-turn which is what Volkswagens are designed for
anyways.
So U-fuckin’ turn it was, baby. Screw you
Canada! I don’t give the slightest damn about your stupid
foothills. Your rivers are ugly and I hate evergreens anyways.
Who needs ya?
What a relief it will be to return to the land of the free! Yay!
I am SO homesick!
“I.D., please.”
“Sure.”
“Any fruits, vegetables, or firearms in the
vehicle?”
“Um, I think there’s part of an old banana under the
seat someplace, but I bought that at…”
“And how long was your stay in Canada?”
“Well, you see, there was a misunderstanding and they
wouldn’t let me cross the border, but I…”
“You’ll need to pull your vehicle over there, sir.”
“But…”
“The officer will take care of you.”
Finally, now I get it. A man without a country.
I knew I was the black sheep of my family.
I rarely “fit in” at social gatherings.
Sometimes I inadvertently scare people by looking at
them with a blank stare.
But this… well… I kept looking around for Rod
Serling.
No DUI, no criminal record, hell I’ve never even
smoked a joint and Canada won’t let me in plus I can’t
return to my own country!
Music is the problem. It always has been a problem. I just
never dreamed it could become THIS problem.
Anyways twenty minutes later I was hand-sailing through the
Idaho breeze again, with a greatly enhanced
appreciation for South America, and a much cleaner
bedroom.
