As "Animal House" and "American Pie" sequels continued in the judiciary hearing chambers and on cable news 24/7 recently, I actually did what grandstanding Hollywood types merely threaten when any Republican win is imminent: I fled to Canada.
The last time I was in Canada for fun was in the early '90s with the wife and kids. We lived in Houston. Back then, as with the most recent trip, the itinerary involved airline passes that were about to expire.
In that earlier trip, American Airlines passes flew me and 3-year-old daughter Kathryn from Houston Intercontinental to Seattle via Alaska Airlines joint service. Waiting to board, Kathryn saw the aircraft's logo -- a giant and scary Aleut on the tail dressed in animal fur. Her screaming stopped once onboard and a flight attendant gave her crew wings and crayons.
Meanwhile, wife Linda, grade-school daughters Laura and Emily and toddler son Theo arrived separately thanks to redeemed miles on Continental. With the Talley entourage reassembled, we rented a Dodge minivan, enjoyed Seattle for a day or so, drove to British Columbia and boarded a Canadian ferry to Vancouver Island and charming, historic Victoria. We stayed in the venerable Empress Hotel where the girls enjoyed high tea. We visited English-style gardens and shopped, of course. This was during innocent, pre-9/11 days when one could freely travel to and from Canada or Mexico with only a driver's license as identification.
In Victoria we learned of ferry service across the narrow Strait of Juan de Fuca, a much shorter route to Washington State. We opted for it.
The day of departure, breakfast room service arrived late. Hair bows and sandals were missing, then found. Normal chaos. Meanwhile, man-child and I had but one duty: to get him and his diaper bag into the van. Finally, our caravan loaded into the Caravan. We barely made the boat.
M idway across I readied my Texas license. Linda reached for her purse but it had been left behind at the hotel. The diaper bag held an old wallet with her photo ID Sam's Club membership card.
At customs in Port Angeles, Wash., the agent viewed Linda's Sam's Club card and, as agents often do, tested with a few current event questions, as in "How are things economy-wise in Houston?"
Linda answered correctly, "Getting better since oil prices are going up."
"Welcome home, Mrs. Talley," he said.
Current century: Saturday a week ago, I drove to Kansas City bearing a round-trip pass expiring the following Thursday. Southwest took me to Maine, state No. 49 of 50 I've now visited.
After two days in southern Maine, I boarded The Cat, a sleek, jet-powered ferry from Portland to Nova Scotia. Again, I was on a ferry between the U.S. and Canada driving a Dodge Caravan, the only vehicle available upon arriving in Portland.
Following the route along the Bay of Fundy and the land of the Acadians, I happened upon Grand-Pré, the settlement from which they were driven out. Most eventually arrived in the southwest prairies of my native Louisiana. In July I visited by chance the Evangeline statue, famous for her waiting for Gabriel under the oak in St. Martinville, La. In Canada, here she was in October before her fateful departure. With nary a drop of French blood in my veins, I was misty-eyed reading the names of those cruelly expelled by the English (my heritage) -- family names shared by hundreds of my childhood school mates and life-long friends.
Ever since watching a junior high science film about the Bay of Fundy, I've wanted to see the famous tides. Tidal bores flowing near the towns of Truro and Maitland were dramatic, as were boats resting in the muck at low tide 20 feet below the docks. Another bucket list check.
Returning via New Brunswick, I detoured to Prince Edward Island. Crossing the high, 8-mile-long bridge to the island province was exhilarating. I was driving across the Atlantic Ocean in a rainstorm! Well, close enough: It was the Northumberland Strait.
Following the less-traveled coastal route, I crossed at Calais, Maine. The amiable U.S. agent scanned my passport. Among routine matters, he asked "Is there anything in Bentonville other than Walmart?"
I took the cue and recited my tourism capsule about Alice Walton's art museum and the ensuing cultural changes. I continued, relating my late wife is buried down the lane from Sam Walton's grave. So, I expect my kids will never be worried with the cemetery upkeep.
Laughing, he stamped my passport. "Welcome home, Mr. Talley."
Once again, Sam's Club "membership" ushered me home from Canada.
Commentary on 10/17/2018