I recently went on a mini-vacation (not really) to Montreal, Canada. I left Tuesday and got back yesterday night. For the most part, it was uneventful. I was only there one night, so it limited me severely in what I could do. In fact, it seemed like I waited at the airport longer than I was even in the country. And let me tell you, going through customs into Canada is like trying to smuggle alcohol into a bar: it seems easy, and you may pull it off initially, but the bouncer, house, or in this case, the country, always wins. I guess I'll give a brief synopsis of what it's like to be an American in Canada:
- The airport is a lot bigger than you think, and you should always walk straight ahead. I must have wandered in a circle for about 2 hours looking for a place to eat once I landed in Montreal. After I cleared customs (though they asked me a lot of questions, like why I was here on "business" and who I was visiting, etc), I walked straight ahead through the booth to find a downward escalator. Figuring I would find restaurants once I got down there, I was surprised to find nothing but baggage claims, currency converter booths, and airline representative booths. In front of me was another long corridor with two guards at the end (in heavy body armor no less) waving passengers through to the exit door. Now, I thought it wouldn't make any sense to have to exit when I wanted to stay in the airport while I waited for the other parties, I proceeded to turn around. The officer, seeing me, motioned for me to come to the exit. I gave him a half glance and turned around, not thinking twice about it. As I sat on the bench, looking at the airport map, trying to find the "You Are Here" arrow while holding a heavy backpack and sweating like I ran a marathon, I turned around to find the officer standing beside me. Wondering if a plastic glove was going to be put on and I would be brought to a back room, I looked at him. "May I help you?" He said. "I waved you to come over."
I gave him a smile and told him I was looking for restaurants to eat at. "There's no restaurants here," he said. "You have to go to the other side." I thanked him and went on my way, turning around and heading back where I came from. Little did I know how bad of a move this was. To make a long story short, I continuously walked in a circle looking for places to eat, stopping airport personnel and asking for directions, and getting suspicious looks from the customs police. After about an hour of wandering around, feeling like Austin Powers trying to back the golf cart out of the small hallway in the first movie, I dejectedly sat back down on the bench, right where I started. As I debated whether I would ever eat again, who came back to check up on me? Yes, that same officer again. Only this time, he wasn't as chipper and friendly as last time. "Why are you still here?" he said. "I'm a little lost" was all I could stammer out, before adding, "and a little sweaty." Why I said that, I'll never know, but I figured maybe he'd have some sympathy. "I told you before there were no restaurants here," he replied curtly. I nodded and apologized, and finally just proceeded straight ahead to where the exit was. I had nothing to lose by trying, so I went through and was quickly pulled aside by another officer to be pre-screened again in another room. This room looked like an IKEA; the inside was like a warehouse, and they even had a setup that looked like registers and stock used to be in there. I waited patiently to be called to the next officer, and a new line of questioning. It was going to be a long day.
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