I was a bit nervous facing my first border crossing. Yes, it was just Canada, but I’d never faced one before, and didn’t know quite what to expect. Forms to fill out, lists of questions to answer. Nothing like the conversation I actually had. 

“Do you have a passport?”

“Yes.” I handed it over. 

The mid-thirties gentleman in the toll-booth sized customs stop examined it. 

“Are you carrying any weapons?”

“No.”

“Are you carrying pepper spray, Mace, or bear spray?”

“No.” (In the interests of full disclosure, Russ informed me later that I DID have the bear spray.  I thought he had it. I’m probably a felon.)

A glance at Moe and Scooby. “Do your dogs have their vaccinations?”

“Yes.  Do you need to see their rabies certificates?”

“No. Just be sure you have them.”

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

I mulled over the simplest answer. “Tourism,” I said. 

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“About two months.”

This seemed to concern him. “Do you have a place here?”

“No.”

“Will you be staying in one place the whole time?”

“No.”

“So you’ll just be gallivanting about, then?”

I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. Yes seemed flippant, but no was clearly not correct. “Yes,” I said. “We’re going to Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, and maybe Labrador if we have time. My husband took the ferry from Bar Harbor and he is bicycling, but I’m driving over to Nova Scotia and will meet him there.”

In then middle of this, an alarm bell went off in the back of my mind. TOO MUCH INFORMATION! TOO MUCH INFORMATION!  I decided to shut up, as the gentleman had developed a slight frown.  

“Are you retired?”

“Yes,” I replied, with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. 

He sighed and returned my passport.  “Enjoy your visit to Canada,” he said without smiling. 

Moe barked at him as I pulled away.