Long time, no write.

I see it’s been a long time since I last wrote anything here. I think I was waiting for an opportunity to write about Basileia (InterVarsity’s spring retreat) in May, and Justin and Melissa’s wedding in Canada in July, but I never got around to it. I did write this for the ToO thread , though:

The second of my two flights arrived at one of the gates for international arriving flights, which feeds right into the customs area. On the plane they had handed out cards to fill out your information and what items you were bringing into the country, which the people at the desks took and wrote on as they asked a few questions. Apparently the US doesn’t communicate too well with Canada. The guy said that they shouldn’t have even let me on the plane without my birth certificate, but I explained that I didn’t have it because I had to send it in with my passport application. They hadn’t seemed to have heard that under the new rules I only need the evidence of application to get back into the US (which I had).

The next stop was immigration, where the fun began. They check your ID and ask a bunch of questions to find out why you’re entering the country and how long you’re staying, in order to decide whether you’re actually allowed to be there. I gave them my flight plan, Melissa’s address (I didn’t have the phone number), and so on. Then she asked, “Have you ever been convicted of a crime?” I said no, and she turned to her computer to confirm it. After a minute she called her supervisor and talked to him for a few minutes out of earshot. Then she informed me that a Tim Peterson had on his record a robbery in Windsor, Ontario!

The birth date was the same, except that he was one year younger than me. Unfortunately, her computer didn’t give any physical details like hair color, eye color, etc., and it wouldn’t show a picture. (Apparently it should be able to, as her computer in the marine immigration office was able to do it.) She said she was pretty sure I was a different guy, but she had to check anyway. She got her supervisor again and had him go off to check my social security number. Unfortunately, he took approximately forever to do it. She sat around, I stood around, and we talked a little. Eventually another officer came by and started talking to her. They discussed various plans they had with co-workers, and we joked around and such for the next 15 minutes. I had mentioned earlier that Googling my name produced a number of different people with my name, and just for fun she did it herself. I’m apparently a lawyer, a poet, a singer, and a senator, among others. At some point I mentioned that I was actually the best man in the wedding, and that Melissa’s father was a pastor. They were even more guilt-ridden at that. “You better let me in!” I chided.

“So, what are you keeping this gentleman around for?” he had asked. She explained, of course, and eventually he went off to find the supervisor and see why it was taking so long. He eventually came back with the papers, and they sent me on my way. I picked up my suitcase, and exited the strategically-frosted glass doors to the public area. At this point, it had been at least an hour since the plane landed, and it was after 10. As I exited, I quickly spotted Melissa, who just as quickly spotted me. She, of course, asked what had taken so long. It had been so long that she eventually found someone official to ask about my whereabouts, not knowing if I was still in there or if I had perhaps not even gotten on the plane. The officer, presumably following protocol, made her describe me to him. (I had never met her before, so providing a description of me was slightly more difficult than ordinary.) “Um, dark curly hair, a little hair on his face… and he’s 6 foot 5.” “Oh, yeah, we’ve got him,” he immediately replied. “It’s an identity problem” is all they would tell her, though. (On my way out, he mentioned, “I talked to your… girlfriend? who’s waiting out there.” “I’m in her wedding,” I explained, “but I’m not… that.”)

My adventures as the “Border Bandit” (Melissa’s sister’s phrase) became the running joke of my stay there. My questionable past was brought up by everybody at various times, it seemed. Alas, “my reputation precedes me,” I once commented. Justin corrected me: “No, someone else’s reputation precedes you.”

That was an eventful start to my trip.

Maybe I’ll write more later; ask me if you want to hear about it.