Friends in Canada tell us horror stories about clearing US Customs in Toronto.
As it turns out, though, our trip back home is fast and uneventful. Once we queue up in Customs, we’re quickly identified as US Citizens, directed to a shorter line, and processed quickly.
The customs officer who handles my paperwork is young, muscular, dark-haired, and chatty. “You travelin’ with that other guy?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“What’s your relationship?”
I refuse to miss a beat. “We’re partners.”
The young official arches one eyebrow, but moves on. “What do you do?”
For a split second, I take this to mean, “What do partners do together?” instead of “What do you do for a living?” I recover quickly, though. “I’m a writer.”
Just saying that feels great, by the way.
Mr. Customs seems impressed. “What do you write?”
“The book that’s out now shows people how to use Tarot cards as brainstorming tools.”
Either the subject is of no interest, or he wants to catch me off guard, because he changes the subject without warning. “Got any meat products in your bags?”
“No…”
“Prescription medication?”
“No…”
He beams at me, looking more like the US Customs Calendar Boy for January than a government official. “You’re good to go.”
And so I am. The flights back go quickly. The drive home from Memphis is long, but not difficult. We spring Chelsea from the kennel, pack up the DVDs and video tapes Clyde sold over the weekend, grab a quick sandwich, and fall effortlessly back into our nighttime routine.
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