by Kimberly Devine

Created on: March 15, 2009

For a girl who grew up three hours from the Canadian border in upstate New York, a trip into the Great White North would not normally be considered a trip to a foreign country. After all, it took nearly three hours to get to the nearest mall. Plus, Canadian coin was used as frequently as American and we never bothered to charge the right exchange rate.

However, I had missed the family trips to Niagara Falls and had never crossed the border myself. In college, I finally got that opportunity.

Our theatre trip to the Stratford Festival was seen as the culmination of our educational goals. Stars from 'Anne of Green Gables' had performed there! We had a long list of what we were allowed to do and what was off limits, but I never read it before I signed. I was too excited to be crossing over.

"Do I need a passport?" I asked eagerly when the trip was first discussed. My fellow theater majors and professors just laughed... and laughed. When the guffaws had finally settled to a random chuckle here and there, I asked again. "Well, do I?"

The border was its own heavenly treasure of mystical excitement. People were lined up and examined, everyone wondering if they were good enough to get into Canada. When it was finally our turn in front of the noble guardian of Canadian purity. I held up my ID and smiled, attempting to look as innocent of international espionage as any 19-year-old had ever looked. My eyes batted and my head tilted in my desire to be welcomed into this magical foreign realm.

At last! Acceptance!

I don't remember much of the drive to Stratford from the border. Canada, in that area, looks much like America where I'm from. However, my classmates remember and remind me frequently. Apparently, I spent the entire time repeating, "I'm in Canada! This is CANADA! WE are in Canada! I'm here in Canada with my friends! Can you believe it?"

If they had been having trouble believing it, I convinced them before we reached the festival.

Our group drove through town and the festival. Then, we were left in town to find lunch. What we found instead was a SPORTS BAR. The drinking age in Canada, at the time, was two years younger than the drinking age in New York. We were able to just walk in to a sports bar and buy a beer! In fact, we learned quickly that it was possible to even purchase a pitcher... with the consent of the law! This was heady stuff.

Never mind that we had signed papers indicating we wouldn't drink on the trip, this was our first experience with Molson XXX! If you have not had the pleasure, may I caution you before hand: It is strong.

Eventually we wandered our way back to the pick-up point and headed to see the first play. I don't really remember that either... It was one of the Alice in Wonderland stories and was vaguely frightening in my inebriated state.

I was young and quickly healed, so that evening we took a taxi, my first ever, out to a club in town. Taxis are rather expensive, but the club was amazing. They played the same songs that we listened to in the States, but some of the bands had different names! Imagine.

The next morning we headed to our last play. It was excellent and left me in tears, but the time had come to pack and head home. Somehow, the border back into the United States wasn't nearly as impressive. After all, they had to take me back... eventually.

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