Oh, Canada?

By Sean McVeigh

A family of four walked into the room, and we waited by the door. We were next in line. The door was translucent so you could see when the people inside were finished. A big yellow sign on the door read: “Please wait here until you are called inside.”

After a few minutes, that family of four walked through the next door, and the man behind the desk waved us in.
“Welcome to Canada,” he said. “How long will you be staying?”

“Um…” I hesitated — I honestly didn’t know. “I guess only about an hour,” I finally replied.

“Enjoy your stay,” he said, handing my wife and me back our passports.

We had just walked across the Rainbow Bridge in Niagara Falls, from New York to Niagara Falls, Ontario in Canada.

The day before, we’d flown up to Buffalo for a wedding. It’s a short flight, but it’s still funny to think we never actually left New York State. And now, just a day later, after a quick Uber ride to Niagara Falls and a short walk across a bridge, we were in another country.

Leaving the United States doesn’t come with much fanfare. Quite the opposite, actually. You simply pass through two turnstiles, then walk across an extremely high bridge that offers an incredible view of Niagara Falls — which is the real reason to make the walk. Well, that and being able to say you walked to Canada. (Or, in my case, to write a column about it.)

Both times we crossed the bridge, we were struck by how many people also making the trek had full suitcases in tow. How does that even work? These weren’t migrants seeking asylum — these folks were clearly going on vacation. And the first leg of their trip involved walking to another country. People are truly fascinating.

Once we reached the Canadian side, we hit a line going through their border security. It moved pretty quickly, though, and before I could even start complaining about the irony of a long line on the Canadian side and none on the American, we were through security and officially in Canada.

It was a strange experience. We walked about two blocks and turned a corner onto what looked like a Canadian version of the Vegas Strip — though maybe Atlantic City is the better comparison. We’re talking Rainforest Cafes here (which, to be fair, can be found on both sides of the bridge), not the Bellagio. Still, we found a small bar, had a quick drink, and then set off back for the land of the free.

To return, you have to pay a toll: one dollar. Why? Good question. To make things worse, it appeared, at first glance, that you could only pay in quarters. There are three big change machines for those of us who don’t travel with a pocket full of coins. But the whole setup is deceiving. After feeding my smallest bill — a five — into the machine and receiving twenty quarters in return, I realized that contactless payment was also an option once you got up to the turnstile. It seemed like they were hiding that little fact until the last second, which made lugging around the spare twelve quarters feel all the more ridiculous.

By the time we reached the American side, a line had formed. (They always seem to follow me.) After a short wait, we finally made it to the border agent and handed over our passports. Her next question threw me for a loop:

“What is your country of residence?” she asked without looking up from the two United States passports in her hand.

“This one,” I said — not trying to sound sarcastic but effortlessly succeeding in doing so anyway.

She raised her eyes and glared. For a moment, I was sure we’d be spending the night in a Canadian hotel — just out of spite.

“Have a nice day,” she finally said. “Please exit through the door between counters two and three.”

As we turned to leave, she called out again: “Two and three are the other way.”

Maybe after dealing with polite Canadians all day, she just couldn’t resist giving a couple of obnoxious New Yorkers a little reality check. I like to think it was just her way of saying, “Welcome home.”