Border Security
I crossed the border from Canada to the US last weekend, as I have done every February since 2004. Notably, I started making this annual trek well after 9/11. Every year, it gets more annoying.
The first year we made the crossing, we waited in line about 10 minutes, we drove up to the border agent, who greeted us with a smile and looked at our licenses. "Where'd you go skiing?" he asked, as the purpose of our trip to Canada was obvious by the presence of the ski rack and three pairs of skis on top of our car. We told him where we'd been (Whistler), he welcomed us home, and we were on our way. (I should note that we always cross at Aldergrove, a small crossing due north of Bellingham, rather than at the Peace Arch, where I-5 crosses.)
This year, again at Aldergrove, we waited in line 40 minutes. The border agent took our licenses and stepped back in his booth momentarily. Back out, he asked where we'd been, how long, and what the purpose of our trip had been (no smiles and questions about skiing, though the ski rack and skis were just as prominent on our car.)
He then asked for our daughters birth certificate, which we produced. We've always carried it, but never had to show it before this trip. He examined it, then asked my husband and I where in Tennessee we'd be born. That's when the whole absurdity of the situation put me on a slow boil. There's a 40-minute line of cars behind us, we're obviously a family returning from a ski trip, and asking us what city in Tennessee we'd been born is supposed to somehow screen out terrorists and illegal aliens? Would this border agent 3000 miles from either of those cities even know if those cities actually existed in Tennessee? Is it supposed to be some sort of question to screen out the enemy, like in old TV shows where they were always asking the potential prisoner of war who won the World Series last year?
I know this probably seems like an overreaction, but I'm just tired of the rampant paranoia in American life these days. I'm tired of taking my shoes off at airports. I'm tired of making sure my toiletries are in 3 oz bottles that all fit in a quart-sized clear Ziploc bag. And I don't like being grilled by a surly border agent at the end of my vacation.
Welcome home, indeed.

