Border Stories
© Adam Granger
Musicians have interesting experiences crossing borders. This is for several reasons: lots of people—officials included—suspect musicians of carrying veritable pharmacies of illegal drugs with them; they often have instruments with them—some of them arcane and suspicious; they often are on their way into a country to perform (and thus are in need of proper work papers); they often have merchandise with them to sell, which often must be inventoried and taxed; and they often are eccentric and attention-getting by their very nature and appearance. What follows are some of my border-crossing experiences as an eccentric attention-getting professional acoustic string musician.
In 1968, coming through New York Customs at Kennedy International airport on a return trip from Europe, I opened the case of my five-string banjo at the request of the officials and discovered that damage had been done in transit to my prewar 40-hole tone ring Gibson Mastertone (for those unaware, that's a valuable old banjo). I pitched a fit in front of God and the customs folks and everyone, and they waved me through, wanting to be done with me as quickly as possible.
In 1970, on a return from Canada flying through O'Hare, I was carrying a large crockery jug I had bought at a flea market in Montreal to play as an instrument. The Customs folks wanted to know what was inside, and I told that I though nothing. I had to wait for them to find a mirror small enough to fit inside the mouth of the jug. It was found to have a sticky substance in the bottom that was determined, by informal sniffing, to be really old rum.
In about 1995, I took a cab to the airport for a flight to Ottawa and was told at the ticketing counter that I probably didn't have proper ID for entry into Canada (I had forgotten my driver's license). I was flying on my birthday, and I was so uptight by the time I flew into Ottawa—having by then been told by officials of two airlines that I would like as not be turned back by Canadian Customs—that I blurted out to the Customs woman, “I don't have proper ID, but today's my birthday. Please don't send me back!” She laughed and said, “Welcome to Canada. Happy birthday,” and let me in.
On a flight to Glasgow in 2002 on our way to a tour of Great Britain, my musical partner and I changed planes in Reykjavik, Iceland, where the inspection personnel had a post in the middle of the terminal. Security was effected by their (randomly?) asking people to step over so they and their bags could be searched. At the Glasgow airport, officials were cordially curious about what was in some of our cases (the guitars they recognized; the mandolin and banjo they didn't).
Attempting to cross the border into Canada north of the Grand Coulee dam in Washington on my way to a gig in British Columbia in about 2004, the border officer determined I had the wrong work papers, and turned me away, telling me I had to go to a nearby city and phone my employer for the proper permits. I knew I didn't have time to do that and still meet my contractual obligation, so I went to the next crossing down, which was about to close. A little old lady was sitting in a folding chair in front of the old gas station that served as the office. Without giving me a chance to say a word, she waved me through. The next day at the gig, people I talked to, including one man who knew both border officials, were certain that she knew my situation and just wanted to get me into the country without further hassle.
Every other year or so, I teach and perform at the International Fiddle Camp at the Peace Garden on the North Dakota/Manitoba border. To get there, I drive past US Customs heading toward Canadian Customs, but between the two customs stations, I turn left and drive literally along the border until another left turn takes me into the International Music Camp, which is actually in the US. When leaving, I must go through US Customs, even though I haven't actually been to Canada. When they ask how long I was in Canada, I'm always tempted to say ninety seconds, since that's how long it takes to drive down the road that straddles the border, before my turn back into the US.
I've always been told not to joke with border officers, but crossing into Canada from Minnesota in 2009, the officer asked me if I had a gun with me to shoot the bears. I wanted to say, “You have bears in Canada?!” but I decided against it and simply said no. He smiled and welcomed me to Canada.
My rule has always been not to lie to people in uniforms. It is a policy which has served me well my entire life. A lot of musicians try to pull fast ones going into Canada, especially with regard to going in to perform without having work permits and sneaking in merchandise to sell. Lately, Canadian border officials have taken to checking the websites of professional musicians attempting to enter. If I'm sitting at a border crossing telling the officer that I'm just going into Canada to vacation and maybe do some jamming, and she sees on my website that I'm playing in Toronto the next night, I'm in trouble.
Paperwork regulations have relaxed in the past few years. We needed no paperwork at all to play a festival in Ontario last summer.
I am fascinated by border guards, and am eternally curious about what goes through their minds as cars approach them. In short, I LOVE border stories. Anyone out there have any good ones?
In 1968, coming through New York Customs at Kennedy International airport on a return trip from Europe, I opened the case of my five-string banjo at the request of the officials and discovered that damage had been done in transit to my prewar 40-hole tone ring Gibson Mastertone (for those unaware, that's a valuable old banjo). I pitched a fit in front of God and the customs folks and everyone, and they waved me through, wanting to be done with me as quickly as possible.
In 1970, on a return from Canada flying through O'Hare, I was carrying a large crockery jug I had bought at a flea market in Montreal to play as an instrument. The Customs folks wanted to know what was inside, and I told that I though nothing. I had to wait for them to find a mirror small enough to fit inside the mouth of the jug. It was found to have a sticky substance in the bottom that was determined, by informal sniffing, to be really old rum.
In about 1995, I took a cab to the airport for a flight to Ottawa and was told at the ticketing counter that I probably didn't have proper ID for entry into Canada (I had forgotten my driver's license). I was flying on my birthday, and I was so uptight by the time I flew into Ottawa—having by then been told by officials of two airlines that I would like as not be turned back by Canadian Customs—that I blurted out to the Customs woman, “I don't have proper ID, but today's my birthday. Please don't send me back!” She laughed and said, “Welcome to Canada. Happy birthday,” and let me in.
On a flight to Glasgow in 2002 on our way to a tour of Great Britain, my musical partner and I changed planes in Reykjavik, Iceland, where the inspection personnel had a post in the middle of the terminal. Security was effected by their (randomly?) asking people to step over so they and their bags could be searched. At the Glasgow airport, officials were cordially curious about what was in some of our cases (the guitars they recognized; the mandolin and banjo they didn't).
Attempting to cross the border into Canada north of the Grand Coulee dam in Washington on my way to a gig in British Columbia in about 2004, the border officer determined I had the wrong work papers, and turned me away, telling me I had to go to a nearby city and phone my employer for the proper permits. I knew I didn't have time to do that and still meet my contractual obligation, so I went to the next crossing down, which was about to close. A little old lady was sitting in a folding chair in front of the old gas station that served as the office. Without giving me a chance to say a word, she waved me through. The next day at the gig, people I talked to, including one man who knew both border officials, were certain that she knew my situation and just wanted to get me into the country without further hassle.
Every other year or so, I teach and perform at the International Fiddle Camp at the Peace Garden on the North Dakota/Manitoba border. To get there, I drive past US Customs heading toward Canadian Customs, but between the two customs stations, I turn left and drive literally along the border until another left turn takes me into the International Music Camp, which is actually in the US. When leaving, I must go through US Customs, even though I haven't actually been to Canada. When they ask how long I was in Canada, I'm always tempted to say ninety seconds, since that's how long it takes to drive down the road that straddles the border, before my turn back into the US.
I've always been told not to joke with border officers, but crossing into Canada from Minnesota in 2009, the officer asked me if I had a gun with me to shoot the bears. I wanted to say, “You have bears in Canada?!” but I decided against it and simply said no. He smiled and welcomed me to Canada.
My rule has always been not to lie to people in uniforms. It is a policy which has served me well my entire life. A lot of musicians try to pull fast ones going into Canada, especially with regard to going in to perform without having work permits and sneaking in merchandise to sell. Lately, Canadian border officials have taken to checking the websites of professional musicians attempting to enter. If I'm sitting at a border crossing telling the officer that I'm just going into Canada to vacation and maybe do some jamming, and she sees on my website that I'm playing in Toronto the next night, I'm in trouble.
Paperwork regulations have relaxed in the past few years. We needed no paperwork at all to play a festival in Ontario last summer.
I am fascinated by border guards, and am eternally curious about what goes through their minds as cars approach them. In short, I LOVE border stories. Anyone out there have any good ones?
