My Driver

The last time I crossed the border into Canada, six years ago, I had to call for a taxi since bikes aren't allowed to ride over the bridge. Expecting to have to do the same again, I pulled all the way to the right of the toll booths and waited to catch the eye of a customs worker. I did. Two, actually- Kyle and her supervisor. ''Cross country?'' the supervisor was yelling to Kyle. ''Cross country?'' Kyle yelled to me. I yelled, ''Yeah.'' (It was noisy, so we were yelling at each other. Not to be confused with the Port Huron folk yelling at me that morning.)
The supervisor came over and told me to cross all the booths and that they'd give me a ride across in their truck. No charge either, a big difference from last trip.
Kyle (pictured above) restored my faith in the people of Port Huron, although I'm not sure if she herself resides there. She was very friendly and chatty (in the best sense). It took us at least 20 minutes to get over the bridge and through customs on the other side. She was glad for the break, she said, since she usually just collects tolls. This was her first time bringing someone over the bridge, and her first time crossing the bridge during the day. The drinking and gambling ages in Canada are both 19, and I'm guessing she's only about 20. We talked all about the border, and I was surprised to hear that most of the trucks that come into the U.S. here are garbage trucks... full garbage trucks that return empty. (Continued)