The Acadian bus pulled out of New Brunswick in the twilight of afternoon with a small crew of people. The only passenger I noticed was a hefty, black fella in saggy jeans snoring heartily beside me. His head was swathed in a dark bandana of skulls. Oh my, some kind of badass on the premises.
Immersed in what little iPhone coverage was left until the States, I was surprised to find myself smack at the Maine border by 5 pm.
My attitude was laissez-fare, but I also haven’t been across since passing through Seattle on route to Brazil, about 2008 or so.
The bus pulled up to the border crossing window. The driver turned, a weathered face caused by his easy going nature and too many cigarettes.
“The officers will board the bus and then instruct us on what to do after.”
With only 6 of us on the bus this won’t take long.
Two men in stark uniforms boarded, formed two lines, rear and front, that met in the middle – to me. I handed in my neatly completed declaration card and passport, told the pug nosed one the purpose of my trip.
Each passenger rattled off their respective stories until all the cards were collected. They announced that we had to leave all our belongings on the bus and go inside to get cleared.
The building itself mimicked a sterile bank, the color of polished whale bone. We filed in lining up like a gang of bank robbers approaching our opposites – the bank tellers. In this case, just hand over the passport and we’ll let you into our country. I couldn’t help noticing that all the officers fit a profile. A wall of pasty, stern faces violently plunged into intimidating