I can now cross the border into our glorious neighbor to the north, also known as America’s cleaner brother, where you too can hide from the Postmaster General. I refer, with gladness, to Canada. “Oh, Canada!” you might exclaim. “My home? And native land?” Yes, that’s correct, if you live in Canada.
Back when I was a kid (1997), you could cross to Canada without a second “Eh?” from the Mounties. You could buy whatever you wanted from the duty-free shop and turn around and enter back into America with only a manly growl from the lady in the booth. No passport needed. Sometimes they’d even let you go without producing your license, provided that they liked the “cut of your jib”, a qualitative statement coined by border crossing guards and used by sailing professionals today. Now, you’ll never hear a guard say “cut” or “jib”, unless those are names on your passport. Oh, things are different, especially in these post 9/11 days.
Today, I have a passport. I can finally go back to someone else’s home and native land, which I really like.