It had been a perfect flight across the North Atlantic. We even were afforded views of Greenland’s southern tip and icebergs before slowly descending into a colourful Indian Summer afternoon. A glimpse of red bushes below, then flying patches of fog outside the cabin window, and a few minutes later we touched down safely and taxied towards that not very large terminal building.
Still a bit dizzy from hours spent in our passenger seats, we finally walked down the arrivals building and up to the immigration counter, staffed with a reddish-blonde checking passports and accompanying faces.
“Nextpleaseprochaine”, she exclaimed like a virtuoso, and we put our luggage on the bench in front of her.
Welcome to Atlantic Canada.
The entire procedure was a breeze, nothing compared to that humiliating drill you’re subjected to when arriving “three blocks to the south” at New York’s JFK (where it seems being “a Berliner” doesn’t buy you much either). Our Canadian border guard handed us back our passports, and we were good to go.
Finding a rental car was next on our list of walk-in travelling, but we were lucky and got the second-last in the building that evening. So off we drove from Stanfield’s airport into Halifax, Nova Scotia. [Excerpt only — To view the full article, please e-mail.]
©2015, Mark Mage. Publication or any re-use only with prior written consent.