Sunday, the milliner S and I decided to finally head down to Burlington, Vt, which we had been planning to do for a while. As we stepped out of my apartment, a few flakes fell. Nothing major, thinks I, and we get on the highway. Unfortunately, my directions were off slightly, and we ended up past Magog, just a tad too east. By now, also, there was about 10 centimetres of snow on the ground, and we were driving around 80k. Get to the border, tell the nice guard where we’re headed, and he kindly informs us that we’re way past where we should be. Gives us the directions on a sheet of paper (I guess this happens often), and we drive down blissful Vermont country roads in a raging snowstorm, the flooded fields to our left and right, coming up almost to the shoulder.
Finally make it to Burlington, but the city is practically deserted, and there’s not much to see. S and I walk the promenade, looking specifically for flip-flops. Afterward, we had a great meal at the Five Spice Cafe (if ever you’re in Burlington and don’t care to eat the normal American deep-fried batter sorry-excuse-for-food-preparation, then the FSC is the place to go).
Get back to the car, I sweep about another 15 cm of snow off, and we drive back on the proper highway. Get to the Canuckian border, and the old fart there starts asking the regular questions. “Where did we go?” “Did we buy anything?” to which we answered no. So, he repeated, are we sure? By now, I’m p.o.’ed. How dare he? We just told him no, that we simply went for supper. He lets us go, and about five minutes later both S and I look at each other, realising that we had totally forgot about the shoes. Had we been searched, we would have been in major trouble, if only because we had lied.