Burgers & Borders

Last fall (when you could still do things like cross the border just for fun), after a few days in Niagara Falls and armed with birthday money and new passports, we crossed into New York in search of the Target toy aisle and its unique wares. 

The oldest two, seven and five at the time, were very excited to hand over their passports and leave Canada. They had recently learned that Americans have a larger toy selection than is available to us in the Great White North. So, off we went. We figured lunch in the USA and a trip to Target might whet their appetites for international travel.

My youngest, at the unpredictable age of two (and having the tendency to be a rather unpredictable child at the best of times), was not particularly interested in passport business. She was expecting McDonald’s.

***

I am no world traveller but I have crossed a few international borders in my lifetime. Usually it’s uneventful.

I remember the first time I crossed an international border, from Niagara Falls, Ontario to New York, circa 1992. My brother and I were probably not particularly thrilled to be seated next to each other in the backseat but we’d been given strict instructions that it was not a time to be silly or for someone to decide to pick a fight. I think we did ok.

Since then, I’ve answered questions of armed border officers and border officers who don’t speak the same language. I’ve had the trunk of my car searched. I’ve been welcomed home at the American border (even though I am not American). I’ve crossed a border with a screaming child in my arms. I’ve been sent inside to wait in a customs line only to be congratulated for getting such good shopping deals. I’ve even had to politely carry on a conversation with a very friendly officer who wanted to chat about why she and her husband decided not to add a third child to their family as we had (and it was just as awkward as it sounds).

But on that warm October afternoon last year, I did not anticipate my two year old’s fast food order.

***

I’d never thought about it before but, to the inexperienced eye, a customs booth, with its sliding window and long line of cars, looks strangely like a drive thru window.

You can imagine the excitement. She had been promised a Happy Meal and, as far as Little Miss Two could tell, it was Happy Meal time!

Of course, I was too busy passing on instructions about backseat passenger border crossing etiquette (and explaining that there wasn’t actually a line like all our maps indicated) to consider what might be going on in her mind.

It was our turn and after answering the obligatory questions about our destination and handing over our passports, the officer handed them back. I breathed a sigh of relief. My car was filled with hungry children, hyped up from a few days in a waterpark, and we did not have time for delays.

And then, just before we pulled away, a voice (loudly) called out from the backseat: “I WANT A HAMBURGER!”

I suppose she wanted to be sure no one forgot her order. 

It was followed by a fit of uncontainable giggles, also from the back seat. 

We drove away, all of us laughing now, free to continue our Target and McDonald’s adventures.

***

All this normal, adult stuff, viewed through the lens of less life experience, must seem a little off balance. The importance adults place on borders must seem absurd. I forget how they see the world sometimes.

They remind us there really are no lines in the sand, despite what the maps may claim. They miss the ideological baggage of borders, both between and within countries. They see a different kind of kingdom.

They see burgers.

The faith of a child.

May they always see the incongruity of adult things.

(And Little Miss Two did get her burger eventually.)