“Where are you folks from?” the border agent asks.
“Irvine, California.”
“How long were you in Canada?”
“About half a day.”
“Why such a short stay?”
“We’re staying in Seattle for a few days and just came up for a visit.”
“How do you like this cold weather?”
“No big deal. I grew up in cold weather.”
My son makes a sputtering noise in the back seat.
“Is he okay?” the agent asks.
“Well, unfortunately he’s got irreversible brain damage to his frontal lobes. We still love him though.”
“Is anyone in the car carrying $10,000 or more in cash?”
“American dollars or Canadian?”
“American.”
“I wish.”
“Is that a yes or a no, sir?”
“Sorry. No.”
After we pass through the border check, the boy says in a mocking tone, “‘I grew up in cold weather.’ In La Mirada.”
“La Mirada is subject to extreme temperature fluctations,” I reply. “Much more so than Irvine.”