We've returned from a trip to California, US of A. We stayed in a schwank hotel in San Jose. The hotel was cosily nestled in a strip mall of Gucci, Escada, Aveda and that sort of thing. The mall itself seemed like a little bit of nip-and-tuck in a sea of car yards. The mint on the pillow was nice, and having my bed turned down while I was on the patio was not. After meeting many new faces, a few of us spent the day in San Fran yesterday. We drove around trying to spot neighbourhoods which looked interesting, friendly, dynamic, modern, not so modern, scary, bland... tricky to do in a few hours.
We were all a bit shagged on our trip home, getting back to Vankie at about 11 last night. There was a huge line up at the airport where you have to show your passport and tell the truth. As you may know, i'm guaranteed a little trip to the homely immigration room, where I am instructer in many languages to go to this line or that, and wait patiently.
The lady said "Hi" and I said "Hi". She opened up my passport, and looked at my bits. She scanned my passport into the computer, and read the story of my Canadian life.
"Many years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, you had some trouble getting into Canada."
"Yes."
"Well, there's no problem here now," [STAMP] "Welcome home."
I mean for fuck's sake. You don't know what you got til it's something else.
(At least I didn't snap under the pressure of having my soul bored into by Amazing Silent Cardboard Border Lady. Unlike Jason, who was a bit quivery after his encounter.)