They cut things fine in Canada

Denver, USA

There is a problem with Canada, however lovely it may be. You see the people appear not to want you. Their defence of the realm, for realm it still is, starts way before you get there. In my case it began in America. Their tactics are simple. If you make it hard to enter Canada, with luck you’ll go somewhere different.

It was Denver Airport, deepest Colorado, and my mind anywhere than the States. I had blindly handed my passport to a rapid-fire United Airlines check-in station. A guy in mid-fifties took it, his white shirt matching winter snow, short sleeves, spotless, pressed within an inch of its life, and gold braid somewhere near each shoulder. He wore sparkling black shoes, laced, most certainly patent leather, and the broadest smile that made you feel other airlines had yet to be created.

“Enjoy the flight,” he declared, his smile now even wider. “You’ll find Security that way.” He handed me the boarding pass, flimsy, rectangular, already half torn and pointed to his left, around a corner, around a corner, around a corner; everything is around a corner in Colorado. Should you ever be lost in this cannabis state, go straight, go left and you’ll find it. The trick works repeatedly. Daytime, night-time and all hours in between.

It was as I turned away, heading towards Security, my Vibram soles squeaking loudly on the airport’s polished and tiled floor, that I heard it.

“Whoa! Wait a second!” It was Mr Spotless. With his Colorado twang, I was sure he was summoning a rodeo mustang.

I turned back towards the check-in counter. Mr Spotless was leaning forward, left arm fully extended, palm uppermost, while somehow still looking at the computer screen to his front. He could have been a contortionist while his expression was etched confusion.

“Let’s have that boarding pass for a moment,” he said. “Sorry, I should have checked.”

I scrabbled briefly, retrieving the already crumpled paper from an inside jacket pocket. I had placed it there without a single glance. A problem, I suppose, of too much travel. Flying is now routine. I laid the pass gently on Mr Spotless’ palm. He pulled it towards him, opening it out, studying it as might some Nobel researcher. Then he nodded sagely, glancing up in my direction.

“Thought so,” he declared, still the Colorado inflection.

“Thought what?” I asked, hesitating briefly. This was not what I had expected from check-in.

“You can’t go,” said Mr Spotless. For a moment, I was sure I saw him smile.

“Look.” He turned the boarding pass towards me, opening the paper like a ribbon across his chest. “See that?” He pointed at the wording, huge capitals across the paper. “THIS IS NOT A BOARDING PASS,” it declared.

“Bloody Hell,” I said.

“Bloody Hell,” he agreed. “You need something the Canadians call an ETA.”

“ETA?”

“Electronic Travel Authorization,” he replied. “You’ve needed them for about a year.” He looked at his watch; it was traditional, round, with hands, a patent leather strap making it look more than expensive. “You might just have time, though,” he added. “You can apply for the thing online. Take a seat over there.” He indicated a row of studious individuals on the far side of the check-in area. I had missed them when I had first arrived. There were seven in total, for some reason all men, each tapping on a laptop with a sense of increasing desperation.

I squeezed in beside them, flopping into the one vacant, rickety, blue plastic seat, squashed into a tiny space beside an airport wall. Now we were a Line of Eight. This was the Naughty Corner; the place folk were sent who had arrived without documentation. This was Canadian Obstruction, Phase One, and I had blown it big time.

I flicked open my own laptop and within moments had accessed the site. Easy, I thought, glancing at a clock hung on a distant wall. Take-off was in an hour and the Canadian site boasted that most ETAs were issued in minutes, although there followed the Words of Doom, “some can take several days to process.”

That won’t be me, I thought, as I tapped rapidly on the keyboard, paid the required seven dollars, and waited. Minutes would not be long. Sixty seconds passed, then the next, the next, the next, and the next. Nothing. Not a whisper, not a flash, not a creak, not a groan. Zero was coming from Canada. I looked to my right at the Line of Eight, each of us staring fixedly at a screen, each fidgeting nervously on a plastic seat, each waiting for some sign of life from Canada. Nothing. Canada East, West, South or North; it was lifeless, silent, unwelcoming.

I could hear the complaining start at the far end of the line. “Come on, man!” shouted one, his accent clearly Spanish. “For God’s sake, I gotta fly!”

“Me too!” yelled his neighbour, in a voice suggesting Milan, or at least northern Italy.

“And me!” said the next, this time probably Greek.

I stayed silent, as the last addition to the Line of Eight. Things were not going well. Declared minutes were becoming longer while overhead I could see the flashing sign for my flight. “Boarding” it declared. I glanced again at the clock on the far wall. Fifty minutes to take-off and still Canada stayed silent. Time to book a Denver hotel.

The Line of Eight was now fidgeting as one, each of us staring at a laptop, each frantic, each with that tight sensation somewhere above the stomach. There was no way we were going to Canada. For sure they did not want us. It was time to back off. It was time to give up. Some things were just not meant to be.

It was as I closed my laptop lid that I heard it. That faintest of distant pings. That moment before the lid clicked shut, that moment before all was over, that moment before Canada was a dream not reality. The ping stopped me. The Line of Eight looked in my direction as one. Quickly I opened the laptop and glanced at the screen.

“You are now authorized to travel by air,” it declared, accompanied by a lengthy number.

“That’s OK then,” I said, perhaps too smugly, frustration replaced by immediate relief. I clicked my laptop shut, rose to my feet, and started to cross the short distance once more towards check-in. I glanced behind me as I walked. The Line of Eight had returned to Seven. Heads were down, fingers thumping keyboards, mutterings in several languages underway. Save the Italian. He sat motionless, staring directly at me, a penetrating gaze I could almost feel. His mouth was gawping, his hands spread upwards in disbelief and astonishment. “Why you?” I could hear him think as he then rubbed a sweaty forehead with the ball of one hand and looked back down towards his laptop.

“No idea, matey,” I whispered in reply, a spring now to my step. “But one thing is certain. They cut things fine in Canada.”