Going My Way?

Going My Way?

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For our anniversary, my husband and I decided to travel outside Canada. We spent months getting our passports in order and making sure we had all the right documentation. My husband, Lyle, is Canadian, but I am a U.S. citizen with landed immigrant status, which allows me to live, work (and pay taxes) in Canada.

When my new American passport arrived with a picture reminiscent of Phyllis Diller, Lyle drove me to the Canadian consulate to have it stamped.

“I’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes,” he said, as he dropped me off across the street from the consulate, “I’ll drive by, and you can jump in.”

Finding the right department at the consulate and getting my passport stamped took most of my forty-five minutes. I rushed outside, crossed the street, and spotted our gold Lincoln coming my way. I began waving frantically, but he just drove by. Fortunately, as he neared the light, it turned red.

Sprinting into the four-lane street in my three-inch heels, praying the light would not change as I made my final charge. I jerked open the car door and breathlessly jumped in. Fumbling for my seat belt, I looked up into the horrified face of the driver who was not my husband. By now, the light had changed to green and we just sat there. “Am I being carjacked?” He asked.