Leaving Canada

I left White Rock, Vancouver, in July. The sun still painted, in warm golden flecks and blinding white flashes, the body of water that lay between Canada and the U.S - and then, in its caprice, scratched back to the deep blue shadows and inky black depths of shaking little waves. Still to the north, in the centre of the city, it threw its light twice down glass walled ravines, filling cold dark shadows with a cold metallic glow. It shone on the parks full of people, cycling and skating and jogging, and it shone on the beaches - on the people playing volleyball and on white men going red. It shone on ladies feeding chilled, bottled water to their dogs and on men pushing trolleys full of tied up plastic bags. On people playing hockey in the street. On dancers. And beggars. And on dancing beggars. The sun still shone on a million lives, in Canada´s south west, lying between the sea and the snow capped mountain peaks.

I left White Rock, Vancouver, fatter than I was when I arrived. And happier. And still more full of memories than before with a life a little richer in experience.

As I looked across the water, to Washington´s northern shores, and felt as always that rush of nerves and excitement that a new country, or perhaps simply the uncertainty of the future, arouses, I thought about the last week and the safe unchanging past. I thought about meeting my cousins, here, on the other side of the world. About my evening with Stephen, Michael and Catherine. My evening with Di and Geoff. And I thought about the wonderful kindness of Jayne and Carmelo, who had shared their home with me for a week and had helped me out so generously with so much.

As I cycled towards the border I was so lost in fond recollections of my journey that I had forgotten, almost entirely, the warnings people had given me about crossing into the lower 48. I was likely to be questioned thoroughly, I was told, and quite posibly searched before being allowed to continue. The process could easily take a couple of hours and I should prepare myself for an interrogation. I was thinking about Christmas in Kuala Lumpur when a man´s voice brought me from my daydreaming.

"Hey!" It was the border guard. "How you doin?"

"Oh. Good. Thanks."

"Where you goin, buddy?"

"umm... Mexico."

"Mexico?"

"Yep."

"On a bike?"

I nodded.

"Hey!" He called to his colleague, scanning my passport without looking at the photo. "This guy´s goin´a Mexico! On a bike!" He turned back to me and smiled. "Goodluck, buddy. Take care."

And that was it. I was in the States. Heading towards Seattle and a wonderful weekend with Paul, Rosemary and Daisy, and out towards the coast, and heading south. That´s right, buddy - to Mexico! On a bike!