Billy Goat Gruff Redux

To quote the old comic-strip character, Pogo: "I have met the enemy and he is us." One such confrontation occurred recently at the Canadian border crossing located at Rock Island, Quebec, and Derby Line, Vt.
On the northbound leg of my journey into Quebec, I was full of trepidation. Would I have trouble with the Canadian customs officers? Would I find my way around relying only on direction signs written in French? Would the restaurant owners accept my American currency that I foolishly forgot to exchange before entering Canada? Would I be able to converse with them at all?
I arrived in no man's land -- that area between American and Canadian customs offices -- after dark, a fact that only heightened my nervousness. I ran into the American building and handed the officer the export papers for the load of paper I had on my truck. He nodded, said thanks, and that was that.
Then it was over to the Canadian parking lot to check-in with customs.
Our giant northern neighbor greeted me with courtesy. The two women who staffed the trucking portion of the office were relaxed, friendly and bilingual. One handed me a sheaf of papers and gave me quiet instructions on how they should be filled out. While I filled out the papers, the officers bantered back and forth with other drivers in the waiting area, shifting seamlessly from French to English.
When I finished filling in the blanks, one of the officers accompanied me out to my truck, placed a customs seal on the back doors and bid me "bonjour," with a wave and a smile.
That was not so bad.
It was late and I was tired. After turning west onto AutoRoute 10, I began looking for a rest area. After many miles I began to question whether they existed in Quebec -- I never did see one in this province. At mile marker 55, I exited the highway and found a series of restaurants complete with ample truck parking and signs in English instructing drivers who wished to sleep to please park in the back row. I did so.
The next morning (3 a.m.), I walked into the nearest restaurant for coffee. As might be expected the menus and banter were all in French. When I was approached I simply said "coffee" and closed my mouth. The server smiled and replied, "Will that be all?"
It amazed me that the server was bilingual; in fact, all of the servers I dealt with in Quebec spoke fluent English as well as French.
I soon felt comfortable enough to try some of my very limited French. When I stumbled, I was cheerfully and helpfully corrected. It seemed they preferred my hesitant, accented French to my English.
When I finally paid my check, not only was my American money accepted, but also the current exchange rate was used.
I delivered my load without incident and retraced my steps to the border. Having an empty trailer, I was not required to stop at Canadian customs, but I did need to pull up to an oversized American tollbooth.
I informed the officer in the kiosk that my trailer was empty. He frowned and told me that it would still cost me five dollars. I opened my wallet only to find that all I had now was about $15 in Canadian currency. I told the officer this.
"This is the USA," he snarled. "We don't take Canadian."
I calmly tried to explain that that was all I had.
His demeanor became tyrannical, his expression one of disgust. "Next time, remember, American! Now get the *@%# out of here," he said.
I was dismissed. I did not argue. Without another word I put my truck in gear and moved quickly through the raised barrier, my $5 still in my pocket. A children's story about three goats crossing a bridge crossed my mind.
"Brother Gruff, where are you?"
As calm returned to my nervous system, I wondered why the American officer had been in such ill humor. Then I remembered another crossing I made at Calais a few years earlier.
Upon returning to the American side on that occasion, I witnessed two burly American customs officials haranguing a family of three who were attempting to return home.
It seemed that the young boy (nine or 10 years old) had picked up a very old and worn set of moose antlers somewhere in the Canadian woods. The father had strapped these to the roof of the family car with their luggage.
The customs officers had the mother and child in tears and the father stammering and apologizing for being so thoughtless as to attempt to smuggle animal parts into the United States. They told the father he could go to jail. They forcefully intimidated the entire family and seemed to actually enjoy the misery they were causing.
What is with these American customs agents, I thought. Why must they act like Wyatt Earp with hemorrhoids?
Then it occurred to me. The Canadian officers were courteous, helpful and unarmed. The Americans were threatening, demanding and armed.
It must be the guns. Somehow, when these good people strap on that "big iron" they become surly law officers. I hope this is the reason, for if it is not, I am ashamed.
Why did these U.S. representatives feel a need to wear pistols? When was the last time a running gun battle erupted on the Canadian border at Calais? When was the last time these representatives of America received any sensitivity training? Perhaps they are too busy at the shooting range. If so, then it is time to remove the hardware and let them learn the humility such nakedness imparts.
America's history is filled with violence: from the first shot fired at Bunker Hill, through the smoking powder of six guns, to the LA fires and riots. We have learned from all this, haven't we? A gentle giant is respected far more than a tyrannical troll, even if the troll has a gun.
Billy Goat Gruff, where are you?

Category Posted: General