The Amtrak 69 service New York to Montreal which I took about 10 days ago before moving on to Chile runs along the Hudson River and the shores of scenic lakes. Just as memorable as the stunningly beautiful landscape, though less pleasant, was crossing the border into Canada.
The young, tanned border inspection officer who in her uniform reminded me of an Israeli soldier would ask everyone on the fully-booked train a set of questions about the circumstances of their visit to Canada, dispatching a large patchwork family interested in visiting the Montreal Jazz Festival before turning to me. My circumstances were slightly complicated (from Germany, living in England, travelling from the US into Canada to visit friends and then take Air Canada to Chile). Ms Borders thought so, too, and as a consequence started asking personal questions (What are your friends’ names, how do you know them…), while telling me in between that I was nervous, red-faced and speaking at a low voice. Finally, she handed over to her colleague from Immigration Canada, giving her instructions in French to take me out of the train if I wouldn’t give her good answers. I told them that of course I would. Ms Immigration was less evil although she would ask humiliating questions all over again but in the end she must have found my answers were good and stamped my passport. Welcome to Canada.
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