On Assignment: Quebec City

(The walled entrance to Old Quebec)

The international desk at Write On The Water put me on the road again, this time Quebec City, Canada. I have noticed that the majority of our writers are spending their winter months, not in the cold north, but down in the "little latitudes." Regardless, I packed my fleece-lined pants, wool sweater, Sorel boots, and iPad and headed north with my wife and step-son. Besides, the trip is research for a future book partially set on the Saint Lawrence Seaway. So off we went, four-wheel drive ready for the snow we didn't see until we neared the Canadian border.

Much has been much written and said about border control in this election year. However, at least to date, the good people of Vermont have passed on the urge to wall-off our northern neighbors (although I must tell you I think I saw a strategically placed snow fort that suggested the existence of cross-border snowball fights).

All kidding aside, securing our borders is a serious undertaking, one that I understood fully as we approached the Canadian Border Guards at the Newport Vermont/Route 91 crossing. At that point I knew to turn serious, to focus on the moment. Let me use the following words to take you there.

We wait briefly while the one car ahead of us clears. The signal light turns green and I idle our Ford Explorer to the gate. The border guard is young and fit with a military cut. His Kevlar jacket visible, his holster worn high enough that I see the butt of black handgun. I'm not sure what they use for standard issue, but it occurs to me that I might better focus on his eyes than his firepower.

"Bonjour," I say.

"Hello. Passports?"

I'm surprised he doesn't take me for a native speaker because I'd taken two years of French in high school and I'd been practicing for the past two days. Must be the Massachusetts plate that tipped him off.

"You are going to Quebec?" he asks.

"Quebec City," I say.

"Have you been there before?"

Now the brain starts working fast. Of the three passports I handed him, my wife's might stand out. Trips to Paris, Rome, Ecuador, all in the last twelve months…Should I tell him she's an, how do you say, a lawyer, an…an Avocado? No, no… an Avocat!

"Have you?" he repeats.

"Yes." It's my wife, the Avacat, who speaks.

I say, "Yes, we've been to Quebec, but this will be our first time to Quebec City."

There's some silence and I'm thinking that my wife's corporate travel is leading us to some misunderstanding. I've seen a few of those reality cop shows on TV. I'm now wondering if they are going to pull our Explorer aside and start ripping the side panels apart with crow bars.

There is yet more silence, but the young guard shows no concern, no outward suspicion. Finally, he says, "You going skiing?"

Damn, this border guard is good. How did he figure us as skiers? Must be access to some kind of tracking database. "Yes, we are," I say.

He nods. "Very good."

Oh, right. The skis and snowboard on the roof rack.

He hands us our passports and wishes us a good trip.

I am pulling away. I ask my wife, "Should I have told him I am a mystery writer up here to do some research?"

"No," says the Avocat.

The high school senior in the back seat says nothing. He just puts the iPhone ear buds back in his ears.

We are now on our way into Canadian territory.

Oui, the writer's life.

(Ice on the St Lawrence doesn't stop ferry service up here in Quebec City.)

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