“Good morning, sir,” I say to the U.S. customs official, as I hand over passports for our carload of eager geocachers.
“Would you take off the sunglasses, please?” he answers.
“Oh, sorry, of course.” I am still smiling.
“Where do you live?”
“Quispamsis, New Brunswick,” I answer brightly.
“What is your purpose for visiting the U.S.?”
“Oh, just some hiking, I guess,” I hedge, not wanting to use the word geocaching in case he’s a Muggler.
“Will you be leaving anything in the U.S., ma’am?” he asks.
“Ummm … no,” I start, but honesty get the better of me. “Well, I mean, yes, but it’s just a little trackable device, well, not a device, actually more of an …. item …,” I trail off, wondering why I didn’t just say No.
“What sort of trackable device?” his eyes narrow suspiciously.
“It’s nothing, really, just …,” I backpedal, somehow without stammering.
“Would you please step out of the vehicle, ma’am?”
No geocachers were strip-searched in the imagining of this scenario!
overeducated & understimulated 