Now, mum always said... 'be honest to the nice immigration men [or ladies]'.
I'm on the bus back to Vancouver after a nice Bumbershoot, carrying my lovely Flatstock posters carefully so they don't get creased or grubby. I was wondering about what I was about to say at the border as most people usually do.
What actually went down before the first man sent me through the doors to Immigration and whatever I said to the lady with the painted nails and FBI-style jacket behind said doors is a bit of a blur now - but there is an upshot. I wasn't allowed into Canada because somehow I let it slip that I was a) renting a room in Vancouver, and b) err.. doing an unpaid internship for a nice Canadian company, under the naive impression that because I wasn't being paid, I didn't need to worry about any of that silly work visa palava.
I find myself back in Seattle now leaning on new friends, slightly swamped by a new batch of decision making and bureaucracy. And the fact that i'm now paying rent for a room in Vancouver is hurting.