Translated by Andrew Fentem

It was Saturday 6th September and no sooner had I left the plane after it touched down onto the tarmac of Montreal airport than I was met by two customs officers standing in the exit corridor waiting to check my passport. On reaching customs itself, I was asked a question by a customs officer, which was followed by a second and then a third. By the time of the fourth question, I had started to get irritated and asked if this was an interrogation. “It’s the law” the officer replied and led me to the immigration centre. Once inside, another customs officer started questioning me.
“I have family in Montreal and they’re expecting me,” I answered.
“What’s their address?”
“Well… do I have to give it you, is that the law too?”
“Whether it’s the law or not isn’t the point - if I ask you a question you have to answer me,” I was told.
Feeling somewhat annoyed, I gave him the address of my aunt, which I had jotted down at my mother’s house the previous evening just in case…
“Very well. Please take a seat, Mr Fransolet and we’ll go and check this out.”

Some minutes later, the same customs officer told me everything was OK and I could leave. However, my luggage still needed to be checked. I was then met by a fourth customs officer, who opened my hand luggage and the outer pockets on my rucksack. He was friendlier than the previous ones and told me I was quite within my rights to take some chocolate for my cousins but added jokingly he would keep some himself for his services. Finally, a few moments later, somewhat relieved and my chocolate supplies intact, I met up with my cousins at the arrivals hall and soon after we were joined by my aunt. She told me the immigration service had actually given her a call. They had even asked her if she was willing to provide for my upkeep while I was there.

The next time I took the plane, for a flight from Montreal to New York, I only had the pleasure of one customs officer at Montreal. He merely asked me what I was going to do in the States and how long I would be staying. Having learned my lesson from the customs officers in Canada, I told myself he was only doing his job, and calmly but firmly replied I was just going to the US for my holidays till Thursday of that week. He stapled part of a form which I had had to fill in beforehand to my passport, on which the address of my hotel was written and off I headed for my plane. Once on American soil, I was a free man again and I didn’t have to show my passport or my luggage once.