The opera at the border crossing

I am in line at the Aldergrove border crossing, between British Columbia and Washington State, on my way to Seattle for a two-day cycling event. I have been behind a green SUV with California licence plates for the last thirty-four minutes. The girl passenger has changed clothes twice yet did not step out of the vehicle. Her companion appears to be happy, judging by his body language. They have a dog.                                                     Earlier in the lineup, just before the flags of both nations, a silver Mercedes with Washington Evergreen State licence plates tried to cut his way in front, but I was on to him. Just then, my cellphone alerted me to roaming charges. Several vehicles entered the duty-free compound and I suppose I could have popped in and purchased a designer-brand belt for my new dress pants and perfume for the wife. The car with the two kayaks and three mountain bikes that was once alongside me is now way up ahead. There is a camper trailer on my right with Nova Scotia plates. Ten minutes ago, the line split into two, and I followed the wrong fork. There was a gang of motorcyclists ahead and it may have delayed this line. I see a steady procession of vehicles entering Canada, which is a good sign. It means there shouldn’t be any retaliation from the U.S. authorities. Red mailboxes and highway signage in kilometres  will greet the arrivees. 
     Two little boys walk a small dog between the vehicles. The dog’s name is Pickles and it barks at the dog in the green SUV. The boys appear to have Canadian accents. We are moving again. One vehicle length only, but if I don’t keep close to the vehicle in front, the truck behind, with four gentlemen in it, all wearing berets and ties, will think I am delaying them. I wonder where they could be going? The truck has Beautiful British Columbia licence plates. 
     I now can see the booth that houses a U.S. Customs and Border Protection Officer. Only three of the five booths are open. Number of vehicles, how long we will have to wait with number of booths open? Queuing theory and a mathematician’s delight.
     I switch off the engine. It is difficult to read or do anything with this stop-go. I have tried to listen to Pink Floyd’s The Wall and some Massive Attack but it is no use. I have some U.S. money in my wallet left over from previous trips. We are off again.
     There is an annoying fly in my car and even with the windows open, it won’t leave. I have almost finished an orange, being careful not to dirty my new dress pants. My passport is ready and I will remove my sunglasses as I approach the booth. The car is tidy inside but maybe I should have washed it. 
     I wonder what questions the officer will ask? Why do I feel a little anxious? My new carbon-frame bicycle with compact chainring is attached to the rear of the car. About twenty minutes ago I went to check it. Everyone watched me aimlessly. The boys in berets kept watch. I feel they are my guards. I hope I will not delay them. The man from Nova Scotia was pulling wires from the underside of his trailer. There was opera music coming out of an open car door. What! I thought it would be country and western music around here. I saw cows. American cows in a field near the duty-free store. 
     Now I am thinking it would be fun to cross the border on a horse. I wonder how it happens? What questions would they ask? 
     “Is this your horse?”
     “Where will you stay tonight?”
     “Do you plan to leave anything in the United States?”
     “Can you please get off the horse?”
     “Do you have a receipt for the saddle?”
     “Do you have a whip?”
     It is Thursday afternoon and there is an air of inevitability about us all. We all appear to be vacationers and there should be a fiesta mood, but there is not. Is there an induced guilt? There is more fun at the ferry lineups where people buy newspapers, coffee, and play Frisbee or strum Neil Young songs. We are all equal going through the border. Or are we? I hear footsteps near me. A couple walk hand in hand. Where is their vehicle? A woman walks to a blue car ahead. The driver and passenger get out. They all appear to know each other. They are dressed for a vacation. Maybe last year they did an Alaskan cruise? The two boys rush by with Pickles. The people in the Nova Scotian camper are eating. Four middle-aged men in lycra (MAMIL) glide by on expensive bicycles and the green SUV’s dog barks. I try to read the kaleidoscope on their jerseys. 
The two little boys have run up and down the line of cars calling out, “Pickles.” One of them is eating an apple. 
     The sign in front of me says:
have all necessary documentation ready and don’t proceed until light turns green.
The customs girl looks fit. She has two pearl earrings. As I hand her my passport, the fly enters her booth.
     “Do you plan to leave anything in the United States?” 
She has an American accent which is different than the “speak” of Vancouver’s Yaletown. I think of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring. She stares at a screen and rubs her forehead with her gloved hand. Glancing at my bicycle, she says, 
     “Nice wheels. Have a good ride in the United States.”
     I drive away cautiously, noticing that the officer is talking to my former guards. The green SUV with California licence plates has gone, along with the car with the two kayakers and three mountain bikes. I look across to a bush. Pickles and I have made it to America. We were in our own opera. 

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