Border Crossing, Take 1.
Last August, in pursuit of Great Job, I embarked upon Giant Trip 2005. A grand endeavour, to say the least, consisted of absolutely no less than uprooting my entire life to move from Edmonton to Portland. It would seem luck was on my side, I noted as things fell into place. My brother and sister-in-law-to-be wanted to save some money for their upcoming wedding and I, weary of renters, offered them cheap rent for high standards of upkeep and cleanliness. My father managed some time off work and would drive down with me, my relationships had come to their natural conclusion, and even packing went by without any pepper spray incidents.
Even upon arriving at Ominous Border Crossing, I felt quite confident. Great Job Owner had hired Immigration Specialist to prepare my documentation. All sorts of materials and paperwork and signatures were reviewed by nice Border Lady who kindly informed me 'It's all good, except we need a copy of your resume.' A quick return trip into Canada and in no less than 45 minutes did I return to Border Crossing, resume in hand to complement Documentation.
'Hi, my name is Lucas and I'm applying for TN Status. I was just here and spoke with Officer Nice Lady and she informed me that she only needed to see a copy of my resume in order to grant me access into the Grand Ol' USofA.'
'I don't know what yer talking about, I don't know any officer Nice Lady (It's worthwhile to note she was standing about 10 feet away). Instead I'm going to have an entirely different officer re-review your case,' barked the Angry Customs Official #1.
I may have the order of Angry Customs Official messed up - it seems now, in retrospect, Angry Official #1 should in fact be #8, aspiring in life to be #1 but just not mean and cruel enough.
Enter Angry Customs Official #1, identifiable by a constant rolling of eyes, punching of fist angainst bad bad desk, starring with eyes composed of the opposite of anything, and an impatience that was negative 100 on the scale of jerk to saint.
Yes, I knew from the first sentence he spoke to me that I would not be entering any USA's that day, perhaps ever; and, sure enough, with no surprise at all, was I denied entry. Fingerprints taken, Documents signed, and ass kicked back into Canada. Boo.
On the drive home, my father complained constantly about the price of the UHaul rental and how the Company should pay for it, and that the Immigration Specialist dropped the ball and who's gonna pay for the gas. We stopped in at his brother and sister's in Calgary and they plotted and schemed the unfairness to the wallet this whole trip had been. I'd never felt further away from my father, assuring him No the Company's good the Lawyer did his best, sometimes these things happen, I'll pay you the money for the gas etc etc...
That was one shitty day, lemme tell ya. By the time we left, I was happy to be going home. It's all relevant.
Last August, in pursuit of Great Job, I embarked upon Giant Trip 2005. A grand endeavour, to say the least, consisted of absolutely no less than uprooting my entire life to move from Edmonton to Portland. It would seem luck was on my side, I noted as things fell into place. My brother and sister-in-law-to-be wanted to save some money for their upcoming wedding and I, weary of renters, offered them cheap rent for high standards of upkeep and cleanliness. My father managed some time off work and would drive down with me, my relationships had come to their natural conclusion, and even packing went by without any pepper spray incidents.
Even upon arriving at Ominous Border Crossing, I felt quite confident. Great Job Owner had hired Immigration Specialist to prepare my documentation. All sorts of materials and paperwork and signatures were reviewed by nice Border Lady who kindly informed me 'It's all good, except we need a copy of your resume.' A quick return trip into Canada and in no less than 45 minutes did I return to Border Crossing, resume in hand to complement Documentation.
'Hi, my name is Lucas and I'm applying for TN Status. I was just here and spoke with Officer Nice Lady and she informed me that she only needed to see a copy of my resume in order to grant me access into the Grand Ol' USofA.'
'I don't know what yer talking about, I don't know any officer Nice Lady (It's worthwhile to note she was standing about 10 feet away). Instead I'm going to have an entirely different officer re-review your case,' barked the Angry Customs Official #1.
I may have the order of Angry Customs Official messed up - it seems now, in retrospect, Angry Official #1 should in fact be #8, aspiring in life to be #1 but just not mean and cruel enough.
Enter Angry Customs Official #1, identifiable by a constant rolling of eyes, punching of fist angainst bad bad desk, starring with eyes composed of the opposite of anything, and an impatience that was negative 100 on the scale of jerk to saint.
Yes, I knew from the first sentence he spoke to me that I would not be entering any USA's that day, perhaps ever; and, sure enough, with no surprise at all, was I denied entry. Fingerprints taken, Documents signed, and ass kicked back into Canada. Boo.
On the drive home, my father complained constantly about the price of the UHaul rental and how the Company should pay for it, and that the Immigration Specialist dropped the ball and who's gonna pay for the gas. We stopped in at his brother and sister's in Calgary and they plotted and schemed the unfairness to the wallet this whole trip had been. I'd never felt further away from my father, assuring him No the Company's good the Lawyer did his best, sometimes these things happen, I'll pay you the money for the gas etc etc...
That was one shitty day, lemme tell ya. By the time we left, I was happy to be going home. It's all relevant.