Waiting at the airport, musing about borders

I’m at Pearson waiting for my friend to get in from England. I got here an hour early strictly because I didn’t want to be late. Now I’m oh so bored.

I think it’s some kind of compulsive thing, I have to arrive twice as early as any normal person would for anything. I did the same thing the last time I ventured to an airport, when I was leaving England two years ago. I got to the airport four hours early because I was taking public transportation and I really, really, so, so much did not want to be late. Then my plane was, oh, six hours late boarding. Heathrow is certainly not the worst place to spend ten hours. But that’s longer than the effing flight was and I had mixed feelings about it the whole way back to Canada.

Anyway. My friend’s plane is expected to be early by fifteen minutes, so that’s nice.

I don’t really know where to go with this post. Honestly, I’m just killing time. Don’t stop reading, though! I’ll possibly come up with something profound and astounding to say by the end of this.

I wonder if she has the same border experiences as me. The friend I’m waiting for. I never know; I’m abnormal enough that I just assume my experiences are nothing to base the norm off of.

I have had kind of stereotypical border crossing experiences,  actually. Canada has always been very welcoming and super easy to get into–possibly due to my being a Canadian. My people!

But Ireland was exactly the same. I showed them my passport, the guy stamped it, smiled, told me to have a beautiful stay in his country.

France was a lot more… glare-y?  Maybe a little peeved I didn’t speak fluent French–hey, je suis comprend francais well enough to get myself lost in Paris, okay? Don’t you judge moi.

When I went to Italy, I didn’t meet anyone at the border; I was sleeping when I crossed it on an overnight train–I don’t recommend taking one of those alone, by the way. The people I was bunked in with were some kind of mix of Italian and French, also judgy that I wasn’t fluent in either of those languages. I do know Italian well enough to have a conversation. I just didn’t feel like talking; I was busy blocking out the sounds of randos banging on the doors and windows at every stop.

The States was probably my worst experience with borders. I went there on my own from Windsor,  just crossing the river to Detroit to go to the zoo. Wandering through Detroit on my own was fine; people I encountered were really polite and helpful. But I got stopped at the border and, for some frickin reason, had to prove I was there to go to the zoo and not to torment America. US border guy did not believe I was there just to see polar bears. Like, what’s wrong with that? Other than the polar bears were totally MIA when I got there.

I digress.

Yes, basically, everything I heard about crossing certain borders was true. However, I like hearing about experiences at different borders, so if anyone wants to leave a fun story in the comments or link me to your blog post, do. I still have another thirty minutes of waiting here at the airport. Hey, what did people do here before wifi? Just drink and talk to strangers?

Peace.

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