Returning by bridge from Toronto with a friend Sunday at 9 p.m., I was quizzed in depth by the uniformed guy in the booth, then told it was my "lucky day" -- I had been randomly selected for a secondary inspection.
I don't resent being pulled over. That happens, even if you are a law-abiding citizen in your late 50s with no criminal record, no terrorist leanings and no contraband of any sort. We even declared the chocolate Easter bunnies we had bought on W. Queen Street.
What was bothersome was the Third-World paramilitary vibe: The guns. The barked orders. The funky office. The overweight guy behind the counter telling you which way to look while you stood there, awaiting processing.
I've crossed the borders dozens of times over the decades, and lived in Canada. This was a jarring encounter that really brought home how arriving in Detroit in the post 9/11 era can be a highly unpleasant experience. I politely asked one of the guards who searched my car why I was randonly selected. "When you cross the international border you got to expect these things," he said. He wasn't smiling.
At least no one asked for bribes.