To Toronto

Rolling out of Cleveland was every bit as relieving as I had hoped it would be. After what quite possibly could have been the very last night I sleep in my car on this trip, I awoke the next morning and headed to Toronto, stopping by Buffalo on the way. Buffalo reminds me slightly of Charlotte, and during the summer at least it was a hip little city, with some old buildings and a compact little bar district.

A funny thing happened on the way to Canada though. As I sat patiently in line trying to cross over the border, passport in hand, daydreaming of all the mission work I hope to do in my life when I'm not giving my money to charity, the border agent began to interrogate me. It began as it should, asking me what I was doing, where I was staying, what I was going to see, and when I would be leaving. I politely gave my answers, followed by a sir, a deep head bow, and a thank you for keeping our borders safe from terrorists after every question. He then repeated the exact questions. I believe this is to catch terrorists who are smart enough to hide in plain sight by driving their WMD's directly across a border check point in an elementary mistake of forgetting the answers they gave not 1 minute ago. To his credit, he did not believe that the rugged (ragged?) looking Texan sitting in front of him had driven all the way up to Canada simply to see a baseball game, even when presented with the entire story. He proceeded to ask me if I had any drugs, foreign plants or vegetables in the car--I assume a standard question. When my no didn't satisfy him, I began to wonder if he thought that I had driven up God knows how many hours from Texas to buy Canadian Pot when I live 4 hours away from Mexico. You know Mexico, our little 3rd world neighbor where I can buy a live Panda for the right price, much less weed. He then asked about any firearms, which I answered no. It was beginning to wear on me. The kicker of the experience was when he asked about my ninjas on the dashboard. Relieved that he was finally making pleasant conversation and about to let me go, I launched into the story of how I received the ninjas and what their names were. He cut me off and asked if I was trained in any of the martial arts. As if looking at my sagging, road trip ravaged body didn't convince him enough that I, myself, was not a deadly weapon.

My gift was to pull off to the station so that my car could be searched for all of the things I answered that I didn't have. Considering the state of filth in which my car perpetually resides, I believe Justice was served.

Oh, and I saw Niagara Falls.