My sister Rebekah and I traveled to Toronto this summer to...well...to go on an "exotic foreign vacation" without having to actually go to an airport. Intercontinental-type foreign. (Mexico is too far and too hot, and I've never particularly liked the accent of Mexican Spanish. I'm partial to the Spain-Spanish lisp.)
The trip was horribly planned. So horribly planned, in fact, that we were detained at the Canadian border for an hour. I've since noted that I should take people seriously when they say, "don't act like you're a drug dealer at the border," or "at least act like you have a hotel reservation," or "make sure to appoint one person to talk".
We did all of those things wrong. After we had offered a measly "yersh" to the question about having hotel reservations (we lied), when the very strong-cage-fighter-ish border woman asked us if we'd been to Canada before, I said "no" and Reebs said "yes" simultaneously.
That put her over the edge. She was like, "these girls are crazy, drug dealing, evil Americans who love McDonalds. There's no way they're being granted entrance into the spotless kingdom of Canada."
So, we had to wait in a sterile detainment facility while I contemplated how all the kayaks and moose and vineyards and mountains and lakes that Canada could muster can not possibly justify the meanness of their border patrol.
These photos are of the gloriously colorful Kensington Market in China Town, Toronto.
