Holiday In Winnipeg

Sometimes being a smartass can be pretty dumb

For most of my life I had a problem with authority. Not surprisingly, authority had a problem with me.

Even when I’d outgrown the habit of being openly, aggressively defiant, I still frequently felt the need to be snide or ironic, while maintaining an outward manner that was formally polite, even excessively so (older readers will recognize this as the Eddie Haskell approach).

If I’m being honest, I’ll have to admit that underlying this attitude was the (generally incorrect) assumption that I was smarter and more sophisticated than the person who was questioning or challenging me. My razor-sharp wit would sail right past their bureaucratic mindset while providing me with a silent chortle and a self-aggrandizing anecdote to share after the fact with my fellow clever clogs.

This was presumably what I was thinking (if in fact I was thinking at all) when I landed in Winnipeg on a wretchedly cold and windy (yes, I know, redundant) February night. It was just before midnight, and I was one of the last off the plane. By the time I reached the head of the line and handed over my passport, the immigration hall was all but empty except for a lone border guard and me.

“What brings you to Winnipeg?” she asked, reasonably enough.

Now the simple truth would have been quite enough: my favourite band, the Weakerthans, were commemorating their fifth anniversary by playing four consecutive shows at different clubs around town, and I intended to see them all. If I’d said that, she might have thought I was a little odd or obsessive, but otherwise unremarkable.

Instead, with what I thought was just a soupçon of undetectable flippancy, I responded, “Holiday!”

Her face darkened, and I tried to remember if Canadians said “holiday” or “vacation.” I’d been living in the UK for some time, so my natural default was to “holiday,” but regardless, I couldn’t imagine why she’d get upset over an incorrect word choice.

“In Winnipeg?” she said sharply. “In February?” As if to emphasize her point, she glanced toward the window, through which you could see whirligigs of snow being tossed up and about by a gale howling loudly enough to be clearly audible inside.

Sensing I had gotten off on the wrong foot, I saw the opportunity to not only explain myself, but also impress her. The Weakerthans were local celebrities, probably the biggest band in Winnipeg at the time. The border guard was young, young enough for me to assume that, like most Winnipeggers, she would be buzzing with excitement over the upcoming shows. And not only was I there as a fan, I confided; I knew the band members personally.

“Never heard of ‘em,” she said in a sharp, almost barking tone. “Open your bag.”

What followed was the second most intrusive search and inspection that I’d ever encountered at the Canadian border (there were no body cavity inspections, something I had experienced at the Detroit-Windsor crossing back in the 1970s). But every article of clothing, every item from my toiletries kit, my laptop, my cellphone, a couple notebooks filled with my indecipherable scribblings, all of it was laid out on two separate tables for exacting examination. Even when it had become obvious that I was no smuggler or international terrorist, she carried on, sighing with quiet exasperation every time another item proved to have no obvious criminal purpose.

The whole rigmarole took at least 45 minutes, after which she gestured that I was free to repack my things and get out of there. I briefly considered, then rejected, the idea of asking her for help, since she was the one who had taken everything out in the first place. Since there were no other travellers arriving at that hour, she stood with her hands on her hips watching me struggle to fit everything into my bag, something that had taken me over an hour when leaving home, and which felt even longer under her unblinking scrutiny.

It was nearing one a.m. when I was finally able to walk out of there. I was still seething, not just over my treatment, but over the idea that she claimed never to have heard of the Weakerthans. How could you live in Winnipeg, hell, how could you live in Manitoba, and be that oblivious?

As I reached the exit doors, she called across the room, “Enjoy your stay in Winnipeg!” She was too far away for me to tell whether at least a hint of a smile was playing across her lips, but given that throughout our time together she’d wielded the one of the most impressive poker faces I’d ever seen, I doubted it.

“Now who’s being ironic?” I almost called back, but I had at least temporarily learned my lesson. Instead, I gave her a polite, respectful wave, and headed out into the night.