Seattle was a lovely place to visit, Mortimer Snert decided, but he really had no desire to live out the rest of his life there. Sure, there were plenty of things to do, the people were friendly, petrol was cheap, etc. But Mort was more of a naturalist, enjoying silly things like mountains and streams, flowers and trees and animals and such likes. Canyons of concrete and steel and forests of skyscrapers did not appeal to him, and he really hated traffic, which was much worse than it had ever been in Los Angeles, it being bumper to bumper 24 hours a day. It took Mort forever to get to work and back again. So first thing Saturday morning, Mort got up and, leaving his starving cat at the motel, decided to drive up to Canada and see how things were up there. It was a dismal day in Seattle, with clouds and rain and such. It was typical winter weather for Seattle though, and Mort was happy for no snow or ice, having not had the time yet to have the front differential repaired on his truck. He was nearing the border now, and was excited. Having never been to Canada before, he had no idea what to expect. He thought people may be even crazier than they were in Washington, where he felt right at home, being a bit on the silly side himself at times. Eventually he arrived at the border, and was stopped behind a line of cars waiting to get through customs. Being the curious individual that he was, Mort decided to time the exchanges between the customs officials and the cars. It took between 35 and 40 seconds each. This should be a breeze, he thought to himself. Finally, it was his turn at the window. Putting on his best Texican accent, he greeted the unsmiling customs feller. Howdy Pardner. The customs feller was quite suitably unimpressed. You a US Citizen? the man asked. Mort assured him that he was indeed a US citizen. See some ID, said the man. Mort produced his Oklahoma driver’s license. Why does your truck have Colorado plates on it, the official wanted to know. Mort started to explain that Oklahoma was one of the few states that did not require a front plate, and since the truck had Colorado plates on it when he got it, he had never gotten around to removing the front one. He was cut off mid sentence by the customs feller who demanded to see some registration. Mort produced the registration papers, which the man did not even look at before continuing his interrogation. Why are you going to Canada? Mort started an explanation, but was again cut off by the oh so friendly customs man, who demanded to know where he was going, how long he would stay, when he would be back, was he going to buy or sell anything, did he have any fruit or vegetables or meat or controlled substances or explosives or firearms or animals or a typewriter or alcohol or cigarettes or dirt or sand, and did he wish to declare anything. Mort, who was not very impressed with the friendly way he was being treated, was now answering in monosyllables. The customs feller, being equally unimpressed with Mort, decided that he should rake Mort over the coals. Pull over there and go into that building, said the man, pointing at a structure which resembled a prison. Mort started to object, but then thought better of it. The building that he was directed to was Immigration, and the people there were every bit as friendly and pleasant as the customs feller had been. He was again asked to produce identification, asked the same questions as he was at customs, had his name typed into a computer, asked if he had ever been arrested, charged with a crime, fingerprinted, had any traffic violations, wanted to be cuffed and hauled off to jail right then, and so on. Mort, who had nothing to hide, was again answering in monosyllables. The immigration feller, who was convinced that Mort was probably some kind of criminal, or drug dealer, directed him to inspection. Which was in another building. Mort, who was having second thoughts about coming back again, much less moving here, headed towards inspection, where the people were even more kind and helpful than they had been in customs and immigration combined. Mort was asked all the same questions, which by now he had memorized, and for a fleeting instant was tempted to answer them before he was asked. Step outside, the inspections feller told him. Mort, expecting to get a sound beating from the man, preceded him outside. Once outside, the feller read Mort his rights, and Mort, wondering just exactly when he had been arrested, listened politely. The feller then informed Mort that they were going to thoroughly inspect his car, and if he had any firearms or drugs or anything of the like, he had better tell them now, or they would haul his car off never to be seen again, and cuff him and haul his happy ass off to jail, never to be seen again. Mort, who was a nice guy, and had nothing to hide or declare, looked the inspector right in the eye and told him that, in fact, he would be more then happy to have the little man inspect his car, in fact, he would even be happy to unload the car so the little man could see everything that Mort owned (except the cat, who was back at the motel shredding the curtains). This seemed to un-nerve the inspector feller, who turned to the car they were standing in front of, and whipped the door open to snoop through it. Wait a minute, said Mort to the inspector, who was now smiling wickedly, expecting Mort’s conscience to have gotten the better of him, and was expecting him to confess to some horrible crime like drug smuggling, or having a Thompson sub-machinegun stashed under the seat, or worse yet, having a box of oranges stashed in the trunk. What Mort had to confess to the little man indeed caused him more stress than he had experienced in years. That’s not my car Mort confessed, all the while trying to keep a straight face. Now when the man had invited Mort to step outside, he was thoroughly expecting a beating, which was usually what happened when one person asks another to step outside, and therefore, Mort had stopped just as soon as he had gotten outside the door, which happened to be exactly in front of a car that was not his. The inspector was livid. Turning bright red, he jammed the inspection slip in Mort’s face, and told him in the most descriptive language Mort had heard in a long time, that he was free to go, and had best do so before the little man changed his mind. With that, the man turned, and stormed back into the building, slamming the door viciously. Have a nice day, Mort said to the retreating inspector, though not until he was sure the man was out of hearing distance. Happy but disgusted, Mort returned to his truck and made his way to Vancouver. Canada was different. The road signs were in French as well as English, distances were in kilometers, and petrol was sold by the litre. Mort stopped at a Quick Trip and bought a Coke, a candy bar and a roadmap. He was astounded when the total came to $8. Whipping out a ten, he handed it over to the lady behind the counter, and was amazed to get back a fiver and some change. Examining the money, he discovered that it was Canadian dollars , something which had not dawned on him in all of his American ignorance, until that instant, and being worth less than American dollars, there were more of them. Mort, after unfolding his new roadmap, headed off to explore Vancouver. Possessing a keen sense of direction, and having damaged his fine compass in an earlier incident, (which is another story in itself) he found himself instantly lost. For hours he drove in circles. Vancouver was the pits, he decided. It was an ugly, crowded town with road construction everywhere, horrible traffic, and electric trolleys which caused the sky overhead to be covered with millions of wires from which the trolleys drew their life. Mort hated it all. Finally, discovering the street he came in on, he headed back to the border. Stopping behind a line of cars, Mort, being the curious person that he was, began timing the exchange between the customs feller and the cars. 35 to 40 seconds, he determined was the average time it took. Finally, it was his turn at the window. Mort, who was no dummy, and learned quickly from experience, remained silent until the customs feller asked him, You a US citizen? Yep, said Mort. See some ID, the man asked. Mort showed him his drivers license. Why did you go to Canada, the man wanted to know. It was a mistake, Mort told him. Where are you heading the man wanted to know. Seattle replied Mort. Anything to declare asked the man. Nope, said Mort. Have a nice day, the man ended with. Breathing a sigh of relief, and happy to be intact, Mort headed back for Seattle. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad place after all, thought Mort. Still, he knew he could not stay there. Finally arriving back at the motel room, he fed the starving cat, and dragged out his favourite ink pen and started writing. Seattle was a lovely place to visit........
