“Hello, bonjour,” the border customs official said brusquely.

“Hi!” So far, so good.

“Passport.”

Ooh gosh. I just put that back in my purse. I unzip it, root around until I feel something vaguely authoritative and passport-y, and pull it out. I hand it in the official’s general direction, but she doesn’t take it. Instead, she just keeps staring at me. She’s wearing one of those severe no-nonsense stares that makes you think oh god what did I do wrong this time?

“Oh,” I venture, “am I supposed to—”

Oh! Maybe I’m supposed to open it myself and show her. It takes me a few seconds too long to flip to the page with the unflattering photo of me, which I’ve figured is probably the most obvious passport page-spread to present, in the absence of any other cues.

I can’t tell if she’s staring at that now or still at me, because I’m holding my passport so that it’s right below my face in her line of sight. I could test that one way or the other by moving the passport around in space and seeing if her eyes follow it, but something about her demeanour suggests that she would not be amused.

“What is the purpose of your visit to Canada?”

Ah! A change of topic. Looks like I don’t have to worry about passports and placement anymore.

“Um—” I begin. I realise that my friends had done most of the trip planning, and I’ve forgotten what we’re doing. Eating? Hiking? Just sightseeing?

Or maybe she’s asking about whether I’m here on business, or for school, or something that involves visas. Will I be detained somewhere for a few hours if I say something wrong here?

“Pleasure,” I say.

“How long do you intend to stay in Canada?”

Oh good, that’s an easy one! It’s Friday morning, and we’re leaving Sunday night. Oh wait. So is that two days? Or three? Two and a half?

“Three days?” Whatever I say, I know I have to say the same thing as my friends who are waiting in line, lest the official get suspicious of us over our inconsistent answers. I hope they also say three days.

“Where will you be staying?”

“A hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

I don’t know the name of the hotel. I didn’t book it, and I feel silly for not asking Talia, who did. “It’s in downtown Vancouver?”

“What’s the name?”

Maybe honesty is not the dishonourable option. “I don’t know?” But that doesn’t stop it from being the awkward option. “Um, can I look it up in my phone?” I think Talia forward me the confirmation email. How would I look that up? Border customs official, Is this really worth holding up the line for?

“Where do you work?”

I guess she decided not. But now I have to answer this question about where I work.

“Los Angeles?”

“No, what’s the name of the company?”

“Oh.” Why do I keep messing these questions up? She must think I’m an impostor or something. “Pucker & Clench Theatre Company.”

“What is your role?”

“I’m a stage manager.”

“Do you have anything to declare?”

This should be a simple question, but now I am distracted by a fleeting vision of myself as a Southern belle, declaring in my old-timey twang, “Well, I do declare!” I am half-seized by a theatre-kid compulsion to inhabit her, responding in character, but at the last second I decide against it, because I’ve already embarrassed myself enough to fill a week.

“No.”

“Next, au suivant!” she calls to Talia, who’s next in line. I take my leave and shuffle awkwardly over to the gate to wait for Talia and Aditi, who were always more conversationally adept.