Matt and I have been waiting for this day for going on three years. Our bags were packed, our apartment tidied up. Instructions for garden care and pet care left in the loving hands of our friends.
So, having found ourselves a few spare minutes in the DFW airport, we popped into a duty-free store — just to look.
We came out with a bottle f Johnny Walker Red for only $23.
After a few nips on our flight to Vancouver, Canada, we were quite attached. It sure beat $7 for a small pour inflight.
A few hours later, we walked into the Canadian airport, fairly deserted at 8:30 p.m. local time. We walked along until we finally reached the bottom of some stairs and realized we weren’t going the right way to our terminal or the food court.
The airport employee told us we couldn’t go back in. We’d come down the stairs and effectively had entered Canada. His stern look left no room for argument, only potential arrest. We had to keep walking and get in line with all the folks entering our friendly neighbor to the north. We told the guy directing the line what happened but all he could offer was a more sympathetic sorry-tough-luck downward glance and pointed finger.
“Arrg! I don’t want to go through customs again,”grumbled my dear husband.
“Oh, the Johnny,” I replied, trying to comprehend the upcoming inconvenience due to those dumbly unlabeled stairs.
“We can’t take that much liquid back in,” Matt said. “We are effectively on the curb in Canada. We might as well go have dinner if they don’t let us turn around.”
So, we were at the mercy of the customs officer. And, boy, she was a fierce one.
Fortunately, this happens all the time and she gave us a pink card that allowed us to re-enter. Ga! Why couldn’t they have said that in the first place!? I would have been much less frustrated.
On the upside, we still have the scotch. It’s delicious. Only three more hours until our delayed flight to the Philippines. And then, Thailand.