Chesya in Toronto

I had applied for a passport to attend WHC in Toronto this year, about two months before the convention. But it didn’t arrive. Now, the state assures you that you can get through, as long as you also have your birth certificate. However, what they don’t tell you is that they send that along with your passport. So, here I was with only a driver’s license and my wit and overly abundant charm to get me through. I drove to Detroit where Maurice Broaddus, Debbie Kuhn, Lauren David, and Carrie Rapp picked me up.

On the way, Maurice assured me that he would leave me at the border, and pick me up on the way out if I couldn’t get through. I then assure him, that I would find the only gun shop in Canada, purchase a riffle and shoot out his tires, just so that I would not be stuck alone on the border. You see, I’m self absorbed that way.

However, when we got to the border, we sailed through without any hassle. She didn’t even ask for the passports. Of course, I was happy, I didn’t have one.

At the convention, I had a blast. I had dinner with my agent, and we talked a bit about things. I also got to meet up with Jenny Rappaport, who I will be working with on another project. She has a good grasp of where I’d like to go with this, so I’m looking forward to working with her on it.

Got to see many many friends, including Cullen and Cindy Bunn, John and Becca Hay, Jenny Orsel, Simon Wood, Eunice Magill, Wrath White and Michelle Mellon. And all those folks who make a convention worth attending.

The entire weekend, I was reminded that I not only didn’t I have a passport, but that it is much harder getting back into the country than it had been to get out of it. My dear friends relished in the idea that I would be stuck a whole country away from them. Some friends they are, eh.

On the way back, I took over before we reached the boarder. By the time we arrived, I had about forty five minutes until my plane flew. We sat in the long line watching the boarder guard stopping all the other cars, and searching them. He even stopped and nearly strip-searched a man on a motorcycle, who they were convinced had hidden something somewhere, obviously in plain sight.

I pulled up to the guard and he asked where we all were from. I answered a few questions, then he asked for our paper work. I handed him all of the passports and my ID. He scanned them all and then looked at mine. “Do you have you birth certificate?” he asked.

“No, I had to send it in to apply for my passport,” I said. “But it came in the day after I left, so I had my husband fax a copy.” Now, the picture on the copy looked like the silhouette of something that once may have been a person, but it could just have likely been a very hairy dog. He looked at the picture and back at me, and I smile the most innocent smile I can muster. Yeah, I know, imagine that.

“Well, this doesn’t look much like you, does it?”

I shook my head, “No, it doesn’t.”

He smiled, “But I trust you.”

Thus, I got back into the country on my wit and overly abundant charm. Just as I said I would. Maurice, sorry darlin’. He really wanted to be able to title his blog, “why we left Chesya at the border.”

The guard wished us a nice day, and assured me that I wouldn’t make my flight. However, he underestimated me. I drove that big bus of a van, dodging in and out of traffic, while behind me the others moaned, fearing, no doubt for their lives. As the van reached ninety five miles per hour, it rocked back and forth in the Detroit winds.

I got to the airport, jumped out, wished everyone well and ran inside. At the counter I realized I had left my wallet with my ID in the van. I called Maurice, and he had to circle back around and bring it back to me. By the time he had brought the license, I had two minutes to get on the plane.

Ok, I can do this, right?

No.

The line to get through the check through was wrapped around the corner. I walked pass everyone, went up to one of the agents and told him my flight left in two minutes. He said, there was nothing he could do.

“Fine.” I said. I turned to the crowd and scream. “LOOK! MY FIGHT LEAVES IN TWO MINTUES, WHO WILL LET ME IN FRONT OF THEM? TWO MINTUES. MY FLIGHT LEAVES…”

People stared at me as if I had lost my mind. But I didn’t care. I had a plane to catch… in two minutes as I kept reminding them. Then, one by one, they urged me onward until I got to the front. After passing the check through, I didn’t bother putting back on my shoes. I ran through the corridor without them, my stocking feet sliding on the linoleum. By the time I got to the gate everyone in the airport was watching this big, black woman run—fast—and even the cashier behind one of the food counters was cheering me on.

I caught the flight, and as I got on the plane, the passengers and crew clapped for me, probably just happy to be able to leave.

But, I had a wonderful time, and I look forward to seeing all again soon.

Special thanks to the following people:

Lucien Soulban, for the beer. My husband loved it.

Brian Keene. Thanks for the long talk and helping me make a decision that I had been putting off.

Jenny Rappaport, for the shopping adventure. I had a blast.