We had a fabulous time in Vancouver, an extraordinarily beautiful city, as the pictures below will attest.

So it was well worth the spot trouble we had getting into Canada in the first place.

Here follows my conversation with a (young, male) Customs Officer on a Tues. afternoon in the Toronto airport. He was certainly only doing his job, but this was by far the worst grilling I’ve ever had in a fair amount of international travel over the course of my life.

Let me preface it by saying, with confidence, that I am by no means an imposing or sinister figure—I’m a curly-haired, bespectacled person, only about six inches taller than my nine-year-old. I don’t think I looked particularly crazed on that afternoon, though maybe a little frazzled by international travel with two children under ten. The kids in question sat dopily by while all this is going on.

Customs Officer: What is your purpose in visiting Canada?

Me: Attending a conference—my kids are coming with me.

CO: Who’s going to be looking after the kids while you’re working?

Me: Um, my friend found a babysitter.

CO: And you trust this babysitter?

Me (slightly put out now): Well, I trust my friend.

CO (skeptical, but on to something else now): Where’s their father?

Me (taken off guard): Uh, in Colorado. I’m divorced.

CO: Okay, then—let’s see your letter.

Me (taken completely by surprise): Letter?

CO (impatient): Yes. If you travel internationally with your kids, you need a signed letter from the father giving permission. Didn’t anyone tell you that?

Me (starting to get a little freaked out): No, no one told me that. I had to get a signed, notarized form from him to even get them passports—I thought that was all I needed.

CO: No, ma’am. You also need a letter.

Me (unable to get my head around this): But I have full custody. I really still need a letter?

CO (solemnly): Yes, ma’am. [and getting a little personal now]. Do they see their father?

Me: Yes—they just saw him yesterday. He knows all about the trip. You can call him if you like.

CO: Can’t do that—privacy issue [“What about my privacy?” think I, but absolutely do not say aloud]. You still need a letter. You can understand why we ask for it—you know what kinds of things go on.

Me (switching tactics to full-on obsequious charm, as wide-eyed and earnest as possible, because, seriously, this has gone long enough): Oh yes sir, I do. I can completely understand why you ask. I just didn’t know about the letter—but I absolutely understand why you need to be vigilant.

We go back and forth for a bit about the terrible things that happen and the depravity of mankind, and he eventually seems somewhat mollified. But he has one
more parting shot:

CO: Where are you staying in Vancouver?

Me: With my friend.

CO: And how do you know this friend?

Me: Well, we went to grad school together. I’m American and she’s Canadian….

CO: She’s Canadian?

I nod.

He lets us through.

Now, let me say in his defense, that:
1) I have been in Heathrow and LaGuardia in the past few months, as well as the Vancouver and Toronto airports, and Toronto was by far the busiest and most hectic of all of them—even at 6am, when we passed through on our way back (no trouble in that direction, just a glad-to-get-rid-of-you sneer).

And 2) Yes, terrible international kidnappings of children happen every day, and objectively speaking, I’m glad the Customs Service is vigilant about this.

I asked people in Canada about the letter business, and many had heard of it, though no one traveling alone with their kids had ever been asked to produce said letter.

It’s just that weird sensation of being taken for a much more suspicious person than you in fact are, y’know?

Guess I’ll bring a letter next time.

And in any case, it was well worth it to get to Vancouver:

Wild in the streets

I spent most of the past week trying to finish a long overdue essay on "Women and Power in the Enlightenment" (you can see the irony anvils falling from the sky already, right?). I thought I'd begin said essay with Mary Wollstonecraft's famous line, "I do not wish [women] to have power over men, but over themselves." But after a week of buying new shoes for the boys, dealing with the blisters from said new shoes, intermittent puking and non-stop rambunctiousness, I feel like saying, "you know what, Mar'? I think I'd settle for the former right about now."

It made me think of my favorite passage from Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own,

"What had our mothers been doing that they had no wealth to leave us?...If only Mrs. Seton and her mother and her mother before her had learnt the great art of making money and had left their money, like their fathers and their grandfathers before them, to found fellowships and lectureship and prizes and scholarships appropriated to the use of their own sex...[But no, because] to endow a college would necessitate the suppression of families altogether. Making a fortune and bearing thirteen children--no human being could stand it. Consider the facts, we said. First there are nine months before the baby is born. Then there are three or four months spent in feeding the baby. After the baby is fed there are certainly five years spent in feeding the baby. You cannot, it seems, let children run about in the streets. People who have seen them running wild in Russia say the sight is not a pleasant one."