Montreal was a pain to traverse as usual last Tuesday morning, but the drive to the cottage we had rented in New Hampshire was pleasant otherwise, under lowering dark clouds.  And then we reached the Derby Line border, saw there were a surprising number of vehicles waiting to get past border security, and my husband made the choice to go with the middle line-up.

Never one to suffer from indecision, he made a snap judgement, barely reason to even think of it, driving into the line-up, all three of which seemed to host a similar number of waiting vehicles.  And then, we waited our turn.  Giving us ample opportunity to witness which of the lines were moving expeditiously, and ours was not.  Obviously, the border agent was taking his time with each of the cars he motioned to move forward, while on either side of us, the line of cars stopped briefly and then swiftly re-commenced their journies.

When we eventually made it to his station, he accepted our passports for scrutiny, asked what's this? when he was handed the card from the veterinarian clinic testifying that Riley had all his shots.  Brusquely informed my husband his hat was to be removed, closely scrutinized our passport photos, returned them, and began questioning us. 

Earlier, we'd watched as the car directly before us had been halted interminably, the occupants questioned, orders obviously given for the trunk of the car to be lifted, watched as he went around back of the vehicle to rummage about, watched as the driver, a young man with long hair exited his car, did a comical little jig of sheer frustration, raising his arms to the heavens, appearing to tear his hair, eventually joined the border officer at the back of the car, seemed to expostulate, and finally resumed his place behind the wheel as they were permitted to leave.

We had been given due warning.  After all the other routine questions and clarifications, the one that asked whether we had any fruits and vegetables we were transporting.  We had a freezer chest on the back seat - we don't travel light, and in it were a few items, mostly perishables that wouldn't have lasted the week in our home refrigerator, so we had taken a few salad vegetables along with us.  Also in the freezer chest was a small, neat little zip-cooler-bag I'd packed a brunch in, to enjoy a mile distant from the crossing at a State of Vermont hospitality and tourism spot.  It contained two bananas, two clementines, two sandwiches, two napkins and hand-wipes.  One thermos of coffee, the other of tea.

He flipped up the lid of the freezer chest, pulled out the little cooler bag and unzipped it.  That's our brunch! I wailed, there are clementines in it we plan to eat within ten minutes!  Clementines, is it, he responded, locating them, withdrawing the plastic bag containing those small orange orbs, and depositing them directly in the garbage bin beside his glassed-in hut.  I could, he confided, hunkering down beside our open window, a tall young man in uniform, with authority and confidence in his wryly insincere smile, fine you $600 instead.

Quite the initiation to our week away in New Hampshire, enjoying the hospitality of our American neighbours.