We awakened yesterday to sunny "warm" weather in Lynnwood Washington, got Georgie his scrambled egg breakfast, packed the car and headed North.
I'm the paranoid one when it comes to border crossings of this magnitude. Gary laughed at my reference to crossing an "International Frontier." My mood was not improved when I called U.S. Customs - whose internet site advertises 24x7 service - to learn that we couldn't pick up the import papers for our car until Tuesday, when they were open. My frustration was despite the fact that ICBC's immigration lawyers relayed to me that as a temporary resident with a work permit visa, I didn't need to import the damned thing. Gary just thinks I'm "strange."
The paperwork in question? Notarized letter from USAA, the lien-holder for the car that it could be taken into Canada, the car's bill of sale, a copy of the registration provided by USAA, an application to export to US Customs, and US Custom's certification that the car's paperwork would be available after 26 August. Further, Gary's birth certificate, U.S. Naturalization papers with name change certificate, Canadian & US passports, household good movers inventory, and certification of Georgie's shots - signed by our vet in Houston.
We drove through Bellingham and up to Blaine where I drove directly to my favourite gas station, offering a fill up at $3.87/gallon. The main Chevron station in Blaine priced their gallons above $4.20 per - which is still a deal compared to gas from BC stations.
The reality of the crossing was upon us, for just minutes from the expensive Chevron station was the border.
Passing the Peace Arch we eased into the short queue to the Canadian entry port. It was as we were the next in line to pull up to the booth that Gary began searching for his birth certificate. My paranoia geared up to full steam at this point. "I'd thought that you would have ensured all of our paperwork was together while we were back at the hotel." My remark mustered all of the calm and serenity available to me, and succeeded only in assuring me that sufficient emotional generosity was still accessible.
Our turn had arrived. After pulling up to the agent, we handed this pile of paperwork, piece by piece to the border guard in the booth through the car window, were given a yellow slip of paper marked with a large, captial "B", directed to park in a "B" space and to go to the "B" desk in their building. Of course by now, my imagination was running rife with what "B" meant! "Bad", "Belligerent", "Bums", "Bound for prison." An imagination can be a horrible thing.
We had Georgie in tow on his leash and were directed to put him into a wire kennel near the parking lot. It had within it a fresh bowl of water and was situated in the shade. He did NOT want to go into this federal cage.
Gary picked him up and placed him in the kennel and gave him his "I'm going to the store. I'll be right back" assurance. To our amazement, he sat quietly. I had expected an explosion of Dachshund hysteria including, but not limited to howling.
We walked in and were the only ones queued for the now infamous (in my mind) "B" counter.
A young, tall, 20 something of an agent stepped up to the counter and began to go through an obviously set process. Piece by piece we went through the paperwork. Gary had left the automobile documentation in the car, and so had to go retrieve it.
It was when he passed by Georgie in the cage that all manner of Dachshund distress was finally vocalized with a force one would not expect from his plump but small 18 pound body. Yelping, howling, barking in various effective combinations were spewed in a way that assured he'd be paid due attention.
This cacophony continued as we presented the official with our car ownership papers. At this point, Gary asked if he could go put Georgie in the car. The agent agreed it might be a good idea. So Gary proceeded.
This event would have been innocuous to me, except that the agent radioed the guard outside to explain that Gary was coming out only to put our operatic pooch into the car. My mind went, "What would have happened to Gary if the radio call had not been made?" In a flash, my paranoia was back.
With the car's status settled, the agent's attention turned to our household goods inventory, provided by the movers (John and Lorrie). A series of questions set the estimate of the inventory's value, established that there were no antiques over $1000, and no single piece over $10,000, and that the goods would be delivered between September 6th and 10th.
The agent discussed with us Canada's import laws, car registration, and some other fine points. Gary, as a Canadian citizen signed import paperwork for our household goods, and we were sent on our way. We thanked the agent, who had been polite, efficient, and kind.
My paranoia had been again discredited, and we returned to a calm and quiet pooch in the car.
The drive to Coquitlam was wonderful, with a bit of backup due to construction at the Port Mann bridge. We rolled into our new driveway minutes later where John and Beth, our new landlords, were doing some prep work. I was glad to see them, as it offered the opportunity to introduce Gary and George.
After unpacking, we made a run to COSTCO, only 10 min from the house to get some food and a microwave.
Today, we retrieve my car at the office, buy a blanket, visit some friends, and then declare WE ARE HOME!
