Doin' The Flagpole

(image from http://dylan.iamstillalive.net/notes/16-the-tallest-flagpole-in-calipatria)

Today was Flagpole Day! No, not run my panties up a flag pole or climb a flag pole. I got to drive to the border, cross into the U.S., get a form, then go back through Canadian Customs to get my Work Permit.

When I was told this procedure is called the "flagpole," I thought that was just a cute term used by the HR folks in David's office.

Turns out, "Flagpole" is an official immigrations term used by both the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol as well as Canadian Customs.

At the U.S. Customs station, I told the uniformed lady I needed to get the right paperwork from Canada, hesitant to tell her I was "doing the flagpole," but then I said, "I guess they call it 'the flagpole,'" and she said "Oh, sure - the flagpole!"

On her little orange official paper she wrote "Flagpole" and showed me where to park and go inside to get the form I'd need for Canadian Customs.

The U.S. Customs office is all business - very brightly lit with clear queues cordoned off and stony-faced officers giving off a very serious vibe, like they might have to draw down on everyone at any moment and defend the entire border on behalf of all Americans everywhere.

I waited patiently in line until a salty officer barked at me to come to the desk. I told him which form I needed and he went about hand-writing my information on it, including the word "Flagpole," underlined, next to the reasons why I was not being admitted back into the U.S.

With my official Flagpole form in-hand, I drove over to the Canadian Customs to complete this fascinating process.

Inside the Canadian office, the vibe is totally different. The lighting is subdued, there's one general area to queue up and all the officers are talking and joking with each other. They also offer public washrooms and have vending machines with snacks & sodas. There's none of that civility provided on the U.S. side.

An agent waved me over to the counter and as soon as he started talking, it was like working with Patton Oswalt. He sounded just like him and was about as funny. He reviewed my U.S. form and laughed at how they wouldn't allow me back into the country.

I had stacks of paper and forms to hand over, so I asked him which forms he might need - he said probably none of it. He just used David's paperwork to get mine in order, gave me a temporary import form for my car (that's a whole other process/story) and sent me on my way.

It was all supposed to be very official business, but it felt like I was amongst friends. I'd totally hang out with them anytime.

Now the next customs party we get to have is officially importing our cars, which means handing over some forms and leaving our cars in the U.S. for three business days prior to *exporting* them so they can be *imported* into Canada.

Trouble is, our cars are already HERE, so that means we have to drive them back THERE and leave them, one at a time, obviously, and then we can officially import them and get that paperwork taken care of.

It would seem the U.S. Customs folks are either totally stupid or totally stoned or both, because NONE of that shit makes any sense whatsoever.

As I overheard one U.S. Customs agent say while waiting in line, "I guess I have to do something today, or make it look like I'm doing something..." No shit.

So Much for Trophy Wifing

So, here I am in Canada, trying to be a trophy wife and fuck if I'm not still *working* on this move. I'm supposed to be hanging out at Tim Hortons and shopping for lingerie, but NOOOO. Instead, I'm driving all over town running my ass ragged and listening to an all-traffic radio station.

I'm not sure what's wrong with Canadian drivers or if it's that few people have full time jobs here, but there's a SHITLOAD of cars on the roads at ALL TIMES of the day and there are ACCIDENTS or MAJOR CONSTRUCTION going on all over the place, resulting in fucked up traffic all the time.

If you move to an area that has a radio station devoted to constant traffic updates, that's a sign. Sure, Canadian drivers are very polite, but maybe that's how these accidents happen - maybe it's a result of too many people saying "No, you go," and then no one knows who should go and they all go and BLAM - four-car pile-up that blocks an entire intersection.

And then there's the border crossings. You'd expect them to be backed up at rush hour, but at 11am? Seriously? A 90-minute backup at 11am? WHY?

This morning I had to go back to the border to clear our moving trailer through customs - something I thought ABF did for you, but apparently not.

You have to go down to the ABF office at the border, get their copies of your customs forms you gave to the driver when he picked up your trailer, then walk them across the street to Canadian customs, get them cleared, then walk them back to ABF so your shit can be delivered.

Now, on these forms, there's not much instruction about how to fill them out, but it looks like they want you to itemize every last thing you own. One Oral-B electric toothbrush: $75; 47 pairs of underwear: $218, etc. No one has that kind of time or patience, but being that they're official forms, I tried to be as detailed as I could without losing my mind.

I listed stuff by room, e.g. Living room items: two couches, one coffee table, one television, etc., and after all the stuff I gave a combined value. Nowhere on the form is a "Total" line and there's no way to know how they might want to verify what you have or its worth in Canadian play money.

So, with my forms I head into the customs office and just like Sunday night, I speak only when spoken to, give clear answers and do not fidget. I do not look nervous nor do I look too relaxed. I do not look too interested in what's going on in the quiet office where most agents are having a laugh with each other or watching the U.S. Open on the TV in the lobby.

A soft-spoken agent reviews my paperwork and my passport with the Visitor's Permit stapled inside. He asks me how I can be a "settler" if I only have a visitor permit. I tell him my husband has the work permit and he doesn't bat an eye. He doesn't ask to see this work permit or my husband, who may or may not exist.

Continuing with my paperwork he asks me if I have the title for my car. I tell him I don't have it and he quietly asks "Where is it?" Does it matter where it is right now? What difference does it make where it is - it's not HERE, is it? Because I don't have the title with me, I cannot "import" my car at this time. OK, thanks very much.

While leafing through my forms he finds a log book in a drawer and opens it up. In it are hand-written records - it looks like a restaurant reservation book. I'm wondering what this book is for - it can't be part of the official importation/customs process.

As he looks over my paperwork, he asks me if I totaled up all the values. No, I tell him, as I think, How would I know to do that? How would I know you want a total value when there's no TOTAL line on the form?

We add it up together and agree on a number. He writes that number in that log book as I tell him I came to that number without including the declared value of the car. He gives me a look, like Dammit, now I have to do it again and he grabs some WHITE OUT from the desk.

HE WHITES OUT the number he just wrote down in the log book. There is no computer data entry, no triplicate forms with carbon paper - just a hand-written book listing a total dollar value of goods imported, per importer.

No one asked where the trailer is to maybe have a look at the stuff I've said is inside of it, no one wanted to see the car I said I'm driving. At this time, only I know what's in that trailer and what I've said it's worth.

With a few official stamps on my paperwork, I was on my way back across the street to ABF and headed back to PoCo to continue a marathon of errands with the traffic station helping to avoid delays all through town.

The traffic station is incredibly useful for not only avoiding accidents, but for knowing where the radar speed traps are set up. They play the Dragnet theme song and tell you exactly where they're trying to catch speeders. THAT I like.