Everyone knows, each journey of a thousand miles starts with an experience with a border guard.  If it’s a journey worth a damn, anyway. This trip, being extraordinary in every way (we’re all a part of it, it’s on the Internet, the South is a nice place, etc.) is no exception.

A recreation of my conversation with my strikingly loyal  and all around fine travelling companion (the boyfriend) is necessary.  It went down in Windsor, Ontario, close to the border, a bit like this:

Lisa:  Boyfriend, I think you should drive the car over the border.  The border guard will ask us where we are going, and I don’t know why we are going to Alabama.

Boyfriend (confused): Why wouldn’t we go to Alabama?

Lisa (sheepish): I know why, but others are confused by what we do.

Boyfriend (annoyed but agreeing):  Pull over, I’ll drive.

Lisa and Boyfriend arrive at the border.  The border guard looks particularly serious, and is checking every trunk thoroughly.  I am grateful not to be driving even before this exchange:

Border Guard:  Where you headed?

Boyfriend:  The South. Alabama and Mississippi. 

Border Guard (shaking his head disapprovingly):  Nope.  Nope.  There’s nothing there. Nothing. I used to be from Nashville, I’ve been to all those places, there is nothing there.

Boyfriend: That’s not true!  There’s the rocket thing in Huntsville, and the something else somewhere else and…

Border Guard (more interested than annoyed now): You really into history?

Boyfriend: Yeah.

Border Guard:  Turn off your car and give me the keys.

So, he looked in our trunk, opened the part of my luggage where I had my feminine hygiene products, and let us go. 

The moral of the story: Always listen to Lisa. Had I remained the driver, I would have been crying like a; well, a person being questioned at the border trying to explain why I was going to Alabama.