“Bonjour,” said the landlady of our miserable Montreal AirBnB standing at our back door. Patricia had emailed her to complain about the torn up streets, dawn construction noise, barking dogs, broken doors, and terrible parking. We didn’t mention the rancid wine and coffee dregs she’d gifted us.

She was not apologetic. She said we should be sympathetic for her because she couldn’t park in her own backyard and had to park several blocks away.

About the crack-of-dawn construction, she said, “Well, the people who live on this block all go to work early and the noise doesn’t bother them. If you wait an extra day it will be the weekend and they will stop their construction at noon.”

“But it will still begin at 7 a.m.?”

“Of course. They must finish before winter.” She offered to give us a one-night refund on a three-day reservation. No apology for her misleading photographs of a peaceful tree-lined street.
“Many streets in Montreal are under construction and are not as close to downtown. You are getting a deal.”

Shortly after she left, we left. We got out of town as quickly as possible, headed for the nearest American border. We hoped that our American border patrol would be more welcoming than the foul-spirited Canadian interrogators. Wrong. It was equally ugly.

We pulled up to the booth and handed our freshly signed passports to the guard all at once, not wanting to make any mistakes. The booth guard, an oversized Archie Bunker with a permanent scowl, asked. “Where are you coming from?”

“Montreal,” said Gino. “We were going to spend three days, but we weren’t having any fun, so we are coming home early.”

He didn’t say anything. He just glared at us. He told me to remove my glasses. I did. He shut his window and sat motionless. Then he got up, left the booth and stood with his back to us, looking at the guard building for several minutes. Finally, he put our passports under the driver’s wiper blade and told us to park in front of a series of cameras and go inside.

Inside another unpleasant fellow told us, “Leave everything in your vehicle. No purses. No cellphones.”

We put our stuff back in the truck and sat, and sat, and sat, and sat. We watched other tourists come, get interrogated, and be released. No one spoke to us. We looked outside at our truck. It still sat unattended where we’d parked it. Behind the counter about eight border patrol officers were hanging out, chatting with each other, drinking sodas, and going in and out of doors. It the back room were a few more officers wearing bulletproof vests. On their big-screen TV, Fox News was on.

“God, I gotta pee,” said Gino. “So do I,” I said, trying to meditate the pain away.

Finally, they drove our truck into an open stall and began tearing all our possessions apart once again. We watched them open suitcases and manhandle our clothing. They crawled into the cab from all four doors and dug through everything. Then they stopped and disappeared. Ten minutes later, a guard came to the door and told us we were free to go.

We hurriedly drove to the nearest restrooms, then inspected our belongings. Our clothes were rumpled and stuffed in crooked. I had an unsealed envelope of cash in my suitcase in a zippered compartment with about $400 in it. I pulled the envelope out to check it. It had been torn open, even though it wasn’t sealed. My cash was gone. I freaked. I felt a knot well up in my throat. I began digging around and found my cash. They’d tucked it in the right corner of the zippered pouch, and jammed the empty envelope into the opposite corner. Gino’s shaving kit was dumped out into his suitcase.

We felt violated, couldn’t even think of any gallows humor to cheer ourselves up. Our conjecture was that both borders were miffed or defensive because of Trump’s recent bad behavior at the G6 + 1 Summit. It seemed both sides wanted tourists from both sides to be as uncomfortable as possible.

We surely didn’t want to give Trump any victories, but we all agreed, we are not going back to Canada anytime soon. The deterrents were working.

OK. Lights up. Cue joy and happiness.

Welcome to Vermont! This day would be all about meandering, seeing sites and attractions. This is where the negative part of our journey ended. Everything ahead was wonderful.

“What’s to see?” Gino and I asked the womenfolk in the backseat. Gino drove. I navigated, and the women were in charge of finding fun.

“Hm,” said Susan. “Not far from here is a place called Alchemist Brewery. Ever heard of it?”

I almost came out of my seat. “Ever heard of it? The Alchemist? It’s famous! Their beers are all world-class. This is the chance of a lifetime.” For me, everything we’d endured up to that point had been worth it, like finding a winning lottery ticket after being trapped in a well for a month. We were driving to the home of the Heady Topper, the number two beer in America, fifth in the world.

Steve Gibbs is a retired Benicia High School teacher who has written a column for The Herald since 1985.