Where are you from?

Another big problem with not having a stable home I discovered this weekend: Customs. I was barraged (well, maybe not barraged, but asked) a bunch of questions crossing the border both ways. I’m not sure what I was expecting – something along the lines of me showing them my passport and them welcoming me to Canada/U.S. Yeah, didn’t go that way.
First question: Where do you live? Hmmm…that’s kind of complicated. I want to go with the simple answer, and since all of my paperwork says it, I say, “Missouri.”
What are you doing here? “I’m going on vacation.”
How long are you going to stay? “Probably two days.”
Probably? “Yes, two days.”
What are you doing up here, I mean, in this part of the country?
OK, I’m nervous by this point. What does he want? My whole life story? “I was in Olympia for four months working as a reporter covering the Legislature.”
He stopped asking questions after I said “reporter.”
On the way back to the U.S. (I took a ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles), I was questioned by three different officers. It was kind of crazy. First question: Where are you from? Ughhh…not THIS question again. I explain myself. One of the officers: “You’re traveling ALL by yourself?” Yep, is that strange or something? “Why did you go to Canada?” Uh, vacation. “Were you visiting a friend?” OK, I don’t see why she needed to know this, but if she finds it SOO unfathomable for a 20-something single female to travel ALL BY HERSELF—I tell her, I did see a friend. We had dinner. It was true, after all. “Well, OK, then.” I know she’s just doing her job, but customs officers make me very nervous. I don’t think I’ll be leaving the country again for a while.

Crossing the Strait of Juan de FucaGoing into Port Angeles.

Gorgeous view from the Olympic National Park.

At Hurricane Ridge.

Pacific Ocean from the west side of the Olympic Peninsula.