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     anyone else had been listening. His pronouncement seemed too serious for the start
     of tour party atmosphere, but standing here, in the cold grey light, my sneakered
     feet very small against the freshly poured black tar parking lot, surrounded by broad
     men in uniform, holstered and booted, I realized what he was talking about.
    Finally, the papers were found, and luckily the spelling matched our passports. Tristan
     had an American and a British passport, due to his American mother and British father,
     but all the paperwork was for the American one. The permits were granted. It seemed
     a lot to go through for what was going to be only two nights in Canada, but I’d been
     through enough crossings to know this wasn’t the time to start questioning the politics
     of it all. Especially the border patrol, who were there to do a job, rely on the easy
     power a uniform and a gun gave them, then go home. Not there to question the system.
     I’m sure they missed the days of waving through Americans on a driver’s license and
     a smile. It had probably always been tougher for musicians though, those irregular
     leather-clad creatures making a mockery of everything decent. I jogged in place to
     keep alert. I felt like I could drift off. But the surreal sensation of feeling like
     we were under arrest even though we had done nothing wrong was unpleasant enough to
     keep me awake.
    After a check which involved another series of questions on the merchandise we had
     brought to sell, and an examination and count of the t-shirts and posters and CDs,
     with a tax form to fill out if they were sold, and one more mirror check under the
     chassis, we were free to go. Canada. As with so many land borders, the landscape had
     changed. We had left the mountainous forests leading down to the lake, to a long flat
     plain. The horizon was blocked from a clear view with round European-style road signs
     and long stretches of farmland. The bright colors of the houses and the billboards
     in French and English felt weirdly foreign, as though we’d left New York City on another
     planet somewhere, rather than mere hours away down a highway. Then the land began
     to fill in, more houses closer together, more signs, the highway widening. The first
     bridge over the river seemed longer than usual, held up in the middle by an island
     that held the remnants of a distant world fair. The highway curved around, and we
     were there—following the river, past the Molson Beer Factory, the uneven skyline of
     small modern buildings scattered among the older factories and houses.
    Finally we turned off, and there were traffic lights. Streets. Apartment buildings.
     Shops. One café raising its metal bars over the windows. It looked quiet. Too early
     for much activity on a Sunday, except for a few people who could be going home, or
     going to work. I was the only one on the bus who was up. The driver expertly pulled
     into a large parking lot, and stopped. The lack of motion and background sounds echoed
     in my ears, and I felt a little dizzy. I stood up and suddenly the bus seemed very
     small, even for someone my height. I sat down again, breathing.
    The bus driver climbed out and stretched quickly, then patted his pocket for his wallet.
     He nodded to me. “What’s your name again?” I told him. “Lily, that’s right. Look,
     Lily, I’m going out to pick up a coffee, something to eat. Can you stay with the bus
     please? I’ll be 20 minutes, maximum. I appreciate it. Thank you.” And he was already
     opening the door.
    I was just quick enough to follow him down the stairs, a Canadian five dollar bill
     in my hand. “Sure, fine. You’re Hank, right? Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand.
     He shook it, quickly. “Listen, can you leave the door open? I won’t go anywhere. Bit
     claustrophobic. And would you bring me back a coffee? Milk sugar? I’d really appreciate
     it. Cheers.” He took the money, shrugging, and turned towards the