Crossing The Border

Yesterday we drove north on I-87 and crossed the border into Canada.

Crossing the border was no big deal, which I found mildly surprising.  You drive up to the customs checkpoint and border crossing and wait in line.  (Interestingly, you wait behind a painted line, just like there are when you go through customs in airports.  There must be some kind of uniform painted-line rule among the brotherhood of international customs officials.)  When it was our turn we drove up to the booth where the customs official sat, he looked at us, he examined our passports, and he asked us a few questions.  The questions were pretty basic:  Where are you from?  Where are you going?  When was the last time you were in Canada?  Are you carrying any firearms? Why are you coming to Canada?  Our answers must have been acceptable, because he waved us through.

After we crossed the border into the province of Quebec the road number changed, and the signs were, for the most part, entirely in French.  We followed the instructions of our GPS, looped around the outskirts of Montreal, and then headed due west to Ottawa.

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