Borders, Roads, and Planes

I'm on the road again this week though, thankfully, it is only a four hour drive west across the State of Michigan and not a series of small planes and borders. I crossed the border on Friday when I spoke in Windsor, Ontario to a group of law enforcement officers. Crossing the border is always nerve-wracking to me for some reason.

Hint: when a border agent asks you if you have any weapons, the WRONG answer is "What do you need?" I must warn you that body cavity searches, after the third or fourth one, lose their novelty. But you do make new friends so factor that in.

The question that always gets me is: "Are you bringing any fruit into the country?" Fruit? Fruit? Do I look like I've ever had a piece of fruit? Are you mocking me, border boy? You just let Muhammed go through with three rifles on his back seat and the distinct sound of ticking coming from his trunk, yet you fear that my Bartlett Pear will bring down civilization?

Of course, I only say that inside my head...

On my last trip I was certain I was beside a suicide bomber. That dude was nuttier than squirrel poop and sweating like Michael Jackson at a Chuckie Cheese.

But I didn't die.

I get to drive to Hastings so I'll take along my laptop, a ukulele, maybe my travel banjo, some books, and good intentions. Perhaps God will bless the trip and my efforts there. He usually does, but He's under no obligation to always spoil me and I know that. Just spoil me a little longer, Lord, then take me off this planet.

But not in a plane. That guy was freaky.