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.
Adam – now you can come and visit us in our current homeland. We would love for you to come to Bulgaria!
Al! We’d love to visit. The key element is now in place. Well, that, and babysitting.