Friday 18 November 2011

Crossing the border (Day 1)

My worst fears are over.
I made it across the border.
I don’t know why I was so worried, but I do firmly believe that if I had not been so precautious, I wouldn’t have gotten through customs.
My stomach was in knots the whole way. I left early, even though time didn’t really matter.
I’ve only gone across the border alone twice before. I don’t think this was the right time to make it a third. Nonetheless, it happened.
I got into the very last line to wait for a CBP officer. For some reason, I always think the lines on the end move the fastest. Probably because I once read that the bathroom stalls least used are the first and last. And I apply that philosophy to everything in my life.
It worked. The guy was breezing through the line. People were moving from Canada to the US faster than I could read their license plates to see where they were from.
All of a sudden, it was my turn.
The officer was young. I was kind of hoping he had a soft spot for baseball, or even blondes. I was willing to take what I could get. He asked where I was going. I said North Carolina. He asked for how long. I said six weeks. That caught him off guard a little bit.
Then he asked why. I told him it was for an internship at Baseball America. I don’t think he knew what to do. He asked me to wait and he left the booth.
He was probably gone for four or five minutes but it felt like hours. I felt bad for the people behind me. All those innocent last-liners, seeing how fast this guy was moving things along. Until me.
When he came back, he had a slip for me and he told me I would have to go to immigration. I took it and made my way to the parking lot filled with people standing outside of their cars while officers searched them.
I bypassed them, and moved into a spot off to the side. I guess immigrants don’t need their cars searched because I was directed to a section of cars that looked to be left alone.
When I walked inside I was greeted by a sea of Asian people. I was immediately confused and looked around to find the place where I might belong because I had a feeling it wasn’t with them. One of the officers must have seen the look on my face, and he directed me to the other side of the room.
Apparently I had walked into a line of people from a bus trip, waiting for their turn to show their passports. I needed to go to immigration, a completely different side of the room, have a seat and wait for my name to be called.
I have nothing against the customs officers at the border. They were incredibly polite, helpful and kind. But they sure did take their sweet time getting to that point. I sat and watched multiple busloads of people walk in and out, as those of us on the other side waited in anticipation of hearing our names.
I didn’t know if ending up in immigration was a good step or a bad one. I was hoping I was where I wanted to be, not where they would say no to letting me into their country and send me back home to Canada.
Not many names were called before mine, but I still waited for almost an hour. I guess I should be grateful it wasn’t longer. They could have kept me for weeks and there wouldn’t have been anything I could or would have done about it. When the officer shouted my name, I didn’t know if I should be happy to finally be called, or nervous about what might happen next. It ended up being a little bit of both.
He asked me my citizenship and where I was heading. I answered and immediately handed over some of the paperwork I had in my hand.
I handed him a letter from my new boss (or what I hoped to be my new boss at the time) describing the work I would be doing while in the country, and I also handed him a form from my school, indicating the length of the internship with dates, and the fact that it was an unpaid position. I had highlighted those key things for his benefit.
When I handed them over he just stared at me blankly and asked what they were.
So then I pulled out my last piece of paperwork, an email response from customs answering the question my mother had sent in earlier, asking whether or not I needed to obtain a visa prior to coming for the internship.
Also for his benefit, I had the answer highlighted. It said I would have to obtain a B1 visa at the border, if I could present strong ties to my home country, an invitation letter from the internship explaining the work being performed as well as the length of time I would be in the US.
Had I not brought those items, I don’t know if I would have made it across. Thanks to my mom, I was well-prepared.
He asked me several difficult questions to which I had no answer, like what was the address of the place I was staying. When I told him I didn’t know, except that I would be living in Raleigh with two girls from UNC (which was false, I would be staying in Chapel Hill), he asked what I was going to do. My response was that my mom had given me her GPS and I pretty much thought that would be the answer to all of my problems. He didn’t press much further, lucky for me.
He wondered why Baseball America. I told him I had been working for the Toronto Blue Jays and it was probably because of my employment there that they wanted me. He asked me what I did for the Jays and I think he was a little taken aback at my answer. I know ‘statistician’ isn’t the same as ‘cheerleader’, but he seemed a little disappointed in my answer.
When he asked me how long it had been since I had last crossed the border I had the answer ready. Unfortunately, that was only because when the first officer asked, I couldn’t remember.
It was in August, when I went to the Great American Ball Park. I got to see the Reds, Torontonian Joey Votto, and we even managed to be there for the debut of Aroldis Chapman. It was a pretty fantastic time. But when the officer asked how long I had stayed, I had trouble with that one.
First I said three days, then maybe four. Then I just told him I was there for two Reds games. I think it was then that he started believing the whole baseball thing. I know it’s confusing, a Canadian girl who loves America’s favourite pastime, but that’s why I was trying to get into the country. If only he had seen that sooner. He didn’t seem impressed though, so I’m not sure anything would have helped.
I knew I was in when he took my fingerprints and picture. Every finger of both hands. I was surprised, but relieved.
When he told me it was going to be six dollars, I had to ask permission to get my wallet from the car. Then I think he might have even felt a little sorry for me. Not because I didn’t have the money, but because I was stupid enough to think that I wouldn’t need any. Nonetheless, he handed me a giant piece of laminated cardboard and told me to get it.
The cardboard said “Not released. Retrieving item/info” or something like that. Not embarrassing at all.
I got my wallet and he gently reminded me that I needed American money because I was in the US now. The stupider he thought I was, the nicer he was to me, so that was fine. I gave him his six bucks and he explained how my visa worked and that I have to come back to Canada when I said I would and all of that.
I was on my way to The Cheesecake Factory.

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