Ooooh, Canada.

En route to Shanghai, I experienced my first foray into the wild party above America better known as “Canada.” Among the several differences I noted between us and our North American brethren (including the confusing use of Celsius, military time, and the term “cheddar burgers” rather than cheeseburgers), I discovered that Canadian customs agents are much more…um…diligent than those in the good old US of A.

Pretty pleased with myself for having successfully made it this far into my journey across the world, I confidently walk up to the “B” counter for international connections and hand over my passport and boarding pass to the gruff looking agent behind the desk.

…And the Canadian interrogation commences. “Where did you come from.” Sounds more like an accusation than a question to me.

“…America?”

“No. Airport.”

“Oh…uh…Atlanta.”

“Where are you going.”

This one I can answer with confidence. (Although I do wonder why he didn’t just consult my boarding pass, still resting idly in his left hand). But whatev, to each his own. “Shanghai.”

At this point, the agent looks up at me, rearranges his glasses in characteristic Mafia fashion, and goes, “Why are you going.”

“Oh. Uh… A job.”

A quizzical expression crosses his face, and he starts to size me up. Incredulously, he says, “A job? What kind of job do you have in China?”

What, does this guy not believe me? Does he think I’m trying to pull a fast one on him—do I look like an international woman of mystery to him? (My exceedingly unintimidating brown cardigan and capris imply otherwise) I figure, at this point, it’s better to specify the job so as to diffuse the skepticism that is permeating this increasingly awkward exchange. “I’m teaching.”

“Teaching. Where are you teaching.” I can feel the proverbial glow of the interrogation light on my face. Weren’t these the type of questions the (justifiably suspicious) Chinese government was supposed to ask, not some guy behind the international connections counter in Toronto?

I am also noticing that my old friend behind the counter hasn’t written any of this classified information down. That is the suspicious thing about this exchange, in my opinion.

“Hangzhou.”

His brow furrows. “Never heard of it.” And he looks at me as though he is trying to decide if I had made up the 6-million-person city of Hangzhou in a futile attempt to conceal my true motivation for flying to Shanghai on this (apparently) exceedingly suspicious of September mornings.

“Yeeeah..It’s nice….” is the only response I can muster at this point. But, what I really want to say is: Just give me my completely legitimate boarding pass and work visa back, and my suspicious cardigan and I will be on our way.

Old Man Gruff smirks, scrawls a seemingly meaningless scribble across my boarding pass and says, “Enjoy the flight.” He pushes my captive passport and boarding pass across the desk and abruptly swivels his chair around to face the desk counter behind him—an obvious and melodramatic signal that the interrogation is over.

Of course, I take this opportunity to shoot him an unnoticed, but no less gratifying, scowl and make my way to the gate, convinced that, if I can survive Canadian interrogation methods, Chinese customs will be a breeze.

Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait a little longer to test out my mad customs skills. My flight has been delayed 3 hours (hoooooray). Hence, here I sit in the Toronto airport, watching a CNN-like news loop with more references to Canada than I’ve ever heard in my life, waiting to make my second sojourn to the Middle Kingdom.

In other news, in Canada, I have also learned the 0.3% of Canadian traffic accidents involve a moose. Use this information as you see fit.