Now that the semester is over, Tony and I decided it was time for a small weekend trip somewhere. Orginially we were going to venture to NY and pay our respects to ground zero. For whatever reason those plans fell through and our next idea involved Niagra Falls. Those plans fell through as well. Third time is a charm and we decided to keep it short and sweet. We agreed on an over night trip to Canada. As beautiful as Canada is, this time of year it's damn cold up there. I had forgotten about that.
(above: the view from our hotel room)
Our hotel was right around the corner from the main attraction streets. It was a little old and rugged looking. But it served it's purpose and gave us a place to rest our tired heads. Our only real mission while in Sherbrooke was to find me a specific kind of yarn (that is only sold in Canada) so that I could knit some pichous. Pichous are a kind of slipper that I found out about when I was a little girl. Every summer when we would go up to Canada and visit family, my Aunt Alma also took us into her big walk-in closet full of pichous and socks that she knitted herself and we were all allowed to pick out a pair or two. Tony got his very first pair of pichous last year when my Pepere passed away. He loves them and wears them all the time. So he was all excited to find me this yarn so that I could make him another pair. Missions accomplished!
On our way back home, we got stopped going through customs. Most likely because my passport holds a picture of me with make up on and blue hair. Lately, I look nothing like my passport picture thanks to the stress and sleep deprivation of nursing school. We were instructed to pull the car over and step inside the building. I'll admit, I was nervous as to why we were being stopped, yet, I couldn't think of anything that we had done wrong. It actually was a very pleasant customs experience. The man asked us a bunch of questions relating to any criminal history, what brought us to Canada, what do we do for a living, etc. We informed him that neither of us had warrants out for us nor did we have a criminal background since I'm in nursing school and would be kicked out for anything like that and Tony has served nine years in the Army with an honorable discharge. We got to talking about Tony's diesel mechanic role in the Army and the fact that he is now in school working towards an automotive degree. The customs gentleman referred to it as gasoline mechanics. That's when my genius brain prompted me to pipe up with, "Diesel IS gasoline. There's no difference." Well, the man decided he would be nice and correct me, stating that, "Diesel is NOT gasoline." I couldn't wrap my head around that statement. I reminded him that diesel is, in fact, purchased at gas stations.. not the mall or grocery store. As we casually (yet politely) argued back and forth, he finally leaned over the counter towards me and said, "You know what? I think you should stay blonde." And he began to laugh. Yes, the man at the customs counter had just dissed me. I found it funny. Here is this man who plans such a professional and important role in border safety and he's cracking jokes with me. We filled out a claims form and were sent on our way. We were lucky enough to not have to wait around while our car was ripped apart and searched.
We made our way down to Tony's parents' neck of the woods. I have always enjoyed the ride so much more during the day rather than at night. It's so beautiful.
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