On the Road

I wrote this after a particularly harrowing experience while on the road with my husband and his mum. 

This is my husband trying to swallow the Space Needle in silent protest of the unabashed douchery of the US customs officers.

After finally checking into a double-bedroom motel suite in downtown Seattle, I lay down on the carpet and kicked my heels around like Jim Carey. We’d made it. At last we were in the picture postcard home of such influential forces as Tom Robbins, grunge [arguably], Jimi Hendrix, Bill Boeing [as in 747], Jerry Cantrell, Ray Charles, Quincy Jones and Ted Bundy. 

For you to understand the child-like glee I felt at finally having arrived in a cheap motel suite in Seattle, I have to back track. The joy-feeling was bigger than live music and bigger than science fiction. It was bigger than American sized shots – and they are pretty large. It was a deep, visceral joy that was like drawing breath after drowning.

We were there on holiday, taking an extended road trip around Canada and the northern states of America. We all piled into one brave and brawny Canadian RV: my husband, his mom and I. We call his mom the Silver Fox. She is an achingly beautiful woman, short and vague, but with a firm jaw and a wide smile. She has a penchant for bargain shopping and (possibly because of this) lives in Canada, in a small town, much like South Park, that is nestled deep in the butt-crack of the Rocky Mountains. The Silver Fox sponsored our getaway; it was her belated wedding gift. 

The downside of taking a road trip through Canada and America with your mother-in-law is not that you’re with your mother-in-law - although that does add a soupçon of teenage rage and frustration. Oh no. It’s crossing the U.S. border. 

In retrospect we should have known what to expect. We had heard the stories. 

The Fox has an olive skin. She also likes to wear bindis and long flowy purple things. Once she was detained for hours because a “barely literate” U.S. border guard misread “South Africa” and took her in for questioning because it was South Korea that is the problem child of the East… right? Hah! Misread and misinformed, the officer stopped just short of loving her long time in one of those back rooms no-one ever speaks about. 

This is just one of her many horror stories. Understandably, our dear Ma has an obvious loathing of the U.S. police force. Given the opportunity - and a glass of red wine – she will indiscriminately tell anyone about it, at length and with no regard for propriety. 

There are few things more nerve-wracking than hearing your sweet, salt and peppered, 68 year old mother-in-law mutter "They can't even fucking read" under her breath while, not five feet away, a humourless homeland security officer struggles to sound out loud the syllables in her passport. I sweat cold at the memory. The Fox’s “inside whisper” has the same resonance and subtlety as a bingo announcer’s. Subsequently we found ourselves inside the border post’s “waiting room”. 

My husband has an interesting collection of passport photos. The earliest is of a bright-eyed young chap, full of promise and calcium. The next in line was taken when he was in the throes of a Marilyn Manson and Cannibal Corpse flavoured adolescence. Missing one eyebrow, sporting dyed-black hair and staring belligerently into the camera, he really owned this one. After growing up a little and spending more time listening to The Clash and Rage Against the Machine, he posed for his third pic, the U.S. visa one. I thought his belt-length dreadlocks were quite fetching; the border guards thought he had a kilo of heroin stashed in his rectum. That, coupled with a four-year old “Minor Misdemeanour Charge” involving a Montana spray can and an epic stencil of “Mr T” at a ski resort in the Rockies, meant that we were in for a looong wait. 

Ironically, I was the only one they didn’t call in for questioning. My misspent youth, though noteworthy, must not have made it onto their radar. Not that I’m complaining – there are some horrors I can live without. 

Three hours later we were back in the van. Our surround sound was a wounded silence. The Fox was so subdued she didn’t even point out the Costco signs. I have never experienced such rage. The realization that, in that situation, travelers have absolutely no rights What. So. Ever. leaves one feeling weak and violated. Bitter and barely contained. We lasted about two minutes without speaking before we exploded like wet spitting cats. Like vulgar sailors we spouted forth such crude language. Although the Fox has been living in Canada since 2000, she swore like a bergie on a bender. Afrikaans is by far the superior language to cuss in. My skoonma se mond! 

Several hours later, and after much derisive conversation about putting the world to rights, we crossed the bridge into Seattle. The lights almost instantly soothed our jagged wounds. The indescribable feeling of being where your heroes have been, oh it is balm to a hurting spirit. Signs advertising the Battlestar Galactica Exhibit at the Science Fiction Museum (I know!) and EMP (Experience Music Project) didn’t hurt either. 

 I discovered that although the world is cold and hard and square, and although life is a very soft shape, living is made easier by the existence of grunge music and science fiction museums. And American sized tots - could the imperial system win points for this one? 

Now you understand why I was so giddy to arrive in an underwhelming motel suite in downtown Seattle. From the window I could see the Space Needle shining up the sky, and at most, the customs officers on the way back into Canada would say something along the lines of: “Ooh hi folks. Soooo long as you doon’t have any avocadoos back there, you can move right along noow.”

Bliss.