I came to Canada on a whim. It had been roughly nine months since I graduated university and the prospect of getting a "real" job was looming on the horizon. It was time for one last adventure, another twelve months of putting off the inevitable. I found a company online called BUNAC, who specialise in working holiday visas, applied for their 'Work Canada' scheme, and three months later I got on a plane to Vancouver.
Fast forward three years, and one huge life decision later, and I'm at Pacific Crossing, the US/Canada land border, about to give one of the scary looking immigration officials my landing documents.
It's a Friday evening, and it's raining. This is a slight issue, as the 40-year-old Chevy Nova that Tissa and I own is currently lacking working windscreen wipers. Whoever is in the passenger seat currently has to lean out of the window and manually move the wipers. I hope the rain doesn't intensify.
We walk down the path, past a stone marker signifying the end of Canada, and the start of 30 or so yards of No Mans Land, before the other marker, where you enter the United States. We're the only people on foot, and having got this extremely ceremonial, and perhaps slightly needless task out of the way, we continue back to the immigration office, where I get in line to be processed.
Fortunately we're the only ones there, so instantly the burly official beckons us to the desk. I tell him we flagpoled, and that I need to "land" in Canada, to finish off the past 26 months of paperwork, waiting, stressing out, and being tied to my job.
He ignores me and asks Tissa for her ID. She passes him her Drivers License. To which he asks her status in Canada. She's a permanent resident. But where is her Passport and Permanent Residence Card? "So you left Canada?" he asks. I guess we did, and technically that was illegal, as Tissa isn't in possession of her necessary documents. "Sorry," I reply, meekly. The border guard moves his attention back to me, and starts to study my documents. I'm told to sit down and wait to be called back.
A few minutes later and my name is called out. Mr Border Guard asks me the standard questions. Have I ever been convicted of a crime? Do I have any dependants? Have I ever been expelled from Canada? With those questions answered (no, to all - in case you are wondering!), I initial and sign a form - my landing document. A copy is put in my passport. "Congratulations", says the border guard. "Thank you," I reply. "This has been the most stressful process I've ever had to go through." The Border Guard breaks into a smile. "Can I shake your hand?", I ask. We shake hands, he grins, and we say our goodbyes. It's over, I'm a landed immigrant, a permanent resident, one of the locals.
We walk to the car and head back home. The rain isn't too bad, so we can see fine on the highway. Naturally, the first thing to do when one ends a process as immense as this is to find a place to eat. Bacon. Lots of bacon. We stop at Denny's. It's an American style diner. We both marvel at the ridiculous quantities of horribly unhealthy food on offer. Eggs Benedict. With Bacon. And a milkshake. Welcome to Canada.
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