shanmonster | My American Vacation

The other day, I went on a miniature road trip with Raine. Originally, we had just planned on going to Woodstock (a border town in NB). But when I suggested we keep on trucking and go straight through to Houlton, Maine, my sister said sure. It was only about fifteen miles further, so why not?

We did pull into Woodstock, first, though. It was an unseasonably hot day, and we needed to grab something to eat, and, more importantly, to drink. While buying our food at an Irving convenience store, we asked the way to the local thrift shops. Ostensibly, this was the reason for our trip in the first place.

And so we found our way at the first shop. It looked promising from the outside. It was an old furniture store, and therefore, very spacious. But when we went inside, we saw it was all a sham. Despite the large size of the store, the stock was sparse. And what little there was wasn't at all tempting. Disappointed, we went to the second thrift shop: a Salvation Army store. We walked in an were assailed by very loud gospel music. The Jesus tunes were almost as loud as nightclub music. But there was lots of stuff, and I found two glittery scarves, a jewellery box, and a good eight inches of bleach-blonde human hair. Yes, I bought someone's hair. It was fifty cents, and I'm going to give it to Whitefeather for her artistic endeavours.

Driving through town, Rain spied a Stedman's and insisted we go in. In case you don't know, Stedman's is a chain of small department stores endemic to small towns. It's the old-fashioned kind of shop, selling lots of crap and usually also the site of a lamentably greasy spoon diner. Stedman's almost hold a sentimental value to us. Since we grew up in villages all over Canada, Stedman's outlets were the main destination of most of our childhood shopping excursions. It's where we'd get our occasional new items of clothing and where we'd spend our meagre allowances on penny candy and cheaply-made plastic toys.

The diner was closed down in this store, and the building smelled like rotting wood. A roped-off entrance to a basement level taunted us. Below, we could see dusty old store fixtures in the gloom. We could also smell hamsters.

At the back of the store was the pet section. Goldfish and betas stared fixedly at us, and we looked down at a small pen of adorable baby guinea pigs and dwarf rabbits. The parakeets were on sale half-price for $9.95. I stared at them, and they stared back, nervously, switching perches any time I moved. We left the imprisoned animals alone and meandered through the aisles. I bought three drinking glasses with big fat farm animals emblazoned on, and a bottle of spice-scented conditioner. Raine bought a glass, too. And then sentimentality got old, and off we went toward the border.

Ever since last year's trip to Bangor, borders make me nervous. This trip through was much worse than the last time. We pulled up to the gate, and the border guard gave us the usual routine. He asked to see our identification, our destination, how long we'd be staying, and if we had citrus fruits. Then he asked us if we had anything in the trunk.

Dutifully (heh), we told him about the drinking glasses and conditioner we had just purchased. Then he asked to see inside the trunk, so Raine popped it and off he went. A few moments later, he sternly said, "What about these beads?"

"Oh, I forgot all about those," said Raine. "I do beadwork and carry stuff around with me. I forgot I even had them with me."

The guard was obviously concerned about Raine's two cups of contraband seed beads, and he sternly told us to park the car and go inside to speak with an officer.

So we parked the car and went in. A man at the immigrations desk asked us if we were here to see him. "Uhh, I have no intentions of immigrating," I said. "We just want to visit Houlton to see what it's like."

"Come over here, then," he said. His Maine drawl was friendly, but insistent.

We walked over, and he showed our ID to us. "Are these your ID cards?"

"Yes."

And the twenty questions round continued anew before he asked us to give him the car keys and take a seat. For a half hour, we sat under the simian gaze of a President Bush portrait and the knowing grin of Vice President Cheney. Americana eddified the walls around us. Pictures of the Twin Towers with red, white, and blue lettering saying "We Will Never Forget" stood beside the border station's mission statement. It read something to the effect of the border being the first line of defense against terrorism.

I felt guilty and nervous--like a criminal--as background checks were run on us and the dilapidated old car was being searched for god knows what. I was afraid to smile or laugh lest it be misconstrued, so I sat still, and commented merely on the fact that the chairs were comfortable. That much was nice, at least.

Finally, our ID was given back to us along with the keys, and off we continued to Houlton. I still felt tense, and told myself there was no way I'd be going to the dance workshop in Maine this year, let alone vending at it. I couldn't imagine the hassle I'd be going through in selling Middle Eastern handicrafts across the border if just two cups of seed beads and a rattlebucket of a car had just gotten us a half-hour, nail-biting wait.

But on we pressed to Houlton, our Holy Grail du jour.

We were sorely disappointed.

It made Woodstock look booming. I'd been hoping it would be a bit more bustling, but the small town almost made Bangor look exciting. The only real difference I could see between it and Bangor (aside from size), was the fact that Houlton had plenty of bank machines. The whole of Bangor seemed to only have two.

We stopped in a Salvation Army Church and I asked for directions to the nearest thrift store. The officer, a cheery-looking woman who seemed naked without her Christmas donation ball, was accompanied by a tiny yap-beast of a terrier. It only weighed about two pounds, but it thought it was a rabid Rottweiler, from all the snarling and threatening it did. The thrift shop was right around the corner, and we beat a hasty retreat from the ferocious ankle-biter.

The store was a bust. It sold almost nothing but crap, although Raine managed to score a nice pair of DKNY jeans for $3. It did have the most interesting clientele, though. I saw an enormously-obese mullet woman and a bleach-blonde mall hair with inch long black roots in powder pink track pants and a Def Leppard tshirt. And right around the corner of a clothing rack was an enormously-obese Rottweiler. Hmm.

We walked up the street to a consignment shop, but the prices were very steep and all the clothing very Mumsy.

Bored, we went back to the car to go home. As we were driving away, we saw a potbellied man in a greasy wifebeater say, "Hey! That's Tony's old car!" while pointing at us. We drove on, paranoid that someone was going to come after us for car theft. Aside from the border guard incident, our visit to Maine had taken about twenty minutes, tops.

Our trip back to Canada was much smoother. The border guard was young, and I'm sure he was flirting with us. The only thing we had to declare was a $3 pair of pants, so he waved us through with a happy grin.

The heat was intense, and the car not air-conditioned, so I dozed most of the way home. Before Raine dropped me off, we made one final stop at a thrift shop--a Fredericton one--and I found two summer halter tops.

I think our next trip will be much more local. Instead of braving the border again, I think next time we'll go to Moncton or Saint John. Or maybe I'll just bike up the hill....