Touched Down in Canada

One step further and I swear it would’ve been a strip search. True story.

Yesterday, returning from beautiful Costa Rica (sun-kissed, relaxed, and slightly over-caffeinated) I touched down in Canada, ready to re-enter the land of double-doubles and maple-flavoured everything. I breezed through Canadian Customs, no problem. But then came airport security, and that’s when things got a little out of hand. Literally.

They were putting everyone through the big scanner. You know the one. It looks like something out of a sci-fi movie, where you stand like a guilty starfish. Arms up. Feet spread. Dignity hovering somewhere around your ankles.

I was wearing cargo pants. Yes, I know… not exactly a French fashion statement, but highly practical for passport, wallet, plane tickets and international currency. After my first pass through the scanner, the officer politely asked if I had anything in my pockets. Fair question. With cargo pants, you can practically lose a sandwich in there and not know for days. I did a quick inventory and fished out a collection of paper bills, some U.S. dollars and a few Costa Rican colones. That was it.

The female security officer was glued to her monitor, probably wondering if I’d smuggled in a toaster, or perhaps eying me out. Meanwhile, the male officer asked me to step in and assume the position again. At this point, I was two scans away from qualifying for airport frequent flyer body exposure points.

Then came the question.

“Do you have anything in the groin area?”

I froze. Is that a trick question? If I say no, they’ll smirk. If I say yes, I’m basically confessing to something suspicious. Looking around to see if I was on the old TV show “Candid Camera”, I did what any red-blooded Canadian man would do in that moment. I shrugged and said, “Only what God gave me.”

He blinked. Then, just as calmly, he offered me a choice. We could do the pat-down right there in public, or he could escort me to a private room for a more, let’s say… intimate inspection.

I had a connecting flight and a shred of dignity left, so I said, “Let’s just get it over with right here. I like to make a scene.”

And so, in full view of passing travellers, a few potted plants, and possibly a small child holding a juice box, I was professionally and thoroughly patted down in the most sensitive of areas. Over the clothes, thank goodness. He was just doing his job, but I’ll tell you, having traveled alone, that was the most action I’d seen all vacation.

I was packing, but it was all natural, officer.

After a final nod of clearance and an exchange of sheepish smiles, I was set free, pride slightly wrinkled but intact. I sprinted toward my gate with one hand on my boarding pass and the other double-checking my zipper.

So yes, I made it back to Canada. Safe, sound, and slightly traumatized. But not before leaving a lasting impression on the scanner. And possibly the poor security officers who now knows more about me than my doctor. Wait, I’m in Canada… what doctor?