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...With Mishaps  The Peace Bridge crossing into Canada, where much of the drama of today's column took place. |
The plays were great fun
--with complications!
By DAVID ZINMAN
of TheColumnists.com
“Did you ever
have a feeling you wanted to go? And still have the feeling that
you wanted to stay?”
Those words come from a song Jimmy Durante made popular with
his gravelly voice in the 1940s.
They also describe the sinking feeling that came over me recently
as my companion, Kay Kramer, and I drove to Canada. It was as
if we had started our weekend getaway on a picture-perfect day.
Then, without warning, storm clouds darkened the landscape.
Let me give you the picture.
Kay and I were meeting our friends Peter and Helen, who were joining us at Niagara-on-the-Lake, 20 miles north of the falls.
Since 1951, the picturesque Canadian town
has been the home of the famous Shaw Festival, the world’s
only repertory company specializing in the dramas of George Bernard
Shaw.
As the years passed, the Festival added works of other playwrights
who lived during Shaw’s 94-year life span (1856 to 1950)
as well as plays by contemporary playwrights whose story lines
took place during the Shaw years.
I was looking forward to an exciting experience. As it turned
out, I got more than I bargained for—but not in the way
I expected.
As we approached the Peace Bridge into Canada. Kay turned to
me. There was a startled expression on her face.
“I forgot my passport.” She was half-smiling
as she spoke. But going to Canada without a passport was no laughing
matter.
As far back as I can remember, all you needed to cross into Canada
was a driver’s license. Canada and the U.S. have been good
neighbors ever since they got over the War of 1812.
Coincidentally, beginning Monday (June 18) of this week both
nations will start observing the bicentennial of that all but
forgotten war that historians say was unnecessary and settled
very little. But 200 years of peace followed, and the boundary
line between the two countries remains the world’s longest
undefended border.
Still, the world has changed. And so has Canada’s entry
rules. Now, you have to show a passport—or an equivalent
document like a birth certificate—to prove you are a U.S.
citizen.
“We have to go back,” Kay said. “I know
where I left my passport.”
“We can’t do that,” I said. “That
would take three hours. We’ve got theatre tickets. And we’re
meeting friends. Let’s take a chance and keep going.”
At the border, Kay told her sad story. The Canadian guard was
unmoved. He directed us to a parking area. There, a policeman
told us to go inside a building and see an immigration official.
Kay told her story again. My palms started sweating as I listened.
I thought of Kay cooling her heels in the immigration building
while I raced back home to find her passport.
Much to my relief, the third Canadian official said Kay wasn’t
the only forgetful traveler. “It happens almost every
day,” she said, reassuringly. Few turn out to be security
risks.
She asked if Kay had any other document to prove her citizenships.
Kay fished through her wallet and came up with her Medicare card.
The agent typed in some data into her computer, then handed Kay
back her card, and told her she could enter Canada.
A Medicare card was not a substitute for a passport. But the
agent said immigration officials consider it an “indicator”
of U.S. citizenship. The truth was, she added in a low voice,
Kay “just looks like an American.”
So off we went. But not before we got a heads-up. The agent warned
us that she couldn’t vouch for what might happen when we
tried to return.
With that unsettling thought, we checked into a bed and breakfast
near Niagara-on-the-Lake. Then, we joined our friends from the
States.
As soon as we met, I noticed Peter’s right eye looked red.
He passed it off as a minor irritation, and we had dinner at
the Niagara Golf Club overlooking beautiful Lake Ontario, one
of the five Great Lakes.
That evening, we saw “Ragtime” (1996), a rousing, musical
portrait of the early 20th century with a cast of over 40. Later,
we would see two period comedies: “Pleasant Laughter”
(1939) by Noel Coward and Shaw’s “Misalliance”
(1910). All three plays were done with the skill and aplomb of
a world-class repertory company.
Everyone in my group thoroughly enjoyed the productions, especially
“Ragtime,” which has been playing to sold-out audiences,
I had one caveat. I have a slight hearing loss and my inability
to follow the dialogue at times—even after renting hearing
headsets at the box office—detracted from my experience.
The next morning, Peter’s eye seemed to have reddened even
more. By nightfall, it was so bloodshot, you could not see the
white of his eye.
The question was: where could we find a doctor on Saturday night?
We persuaded Peter to go to the nearest hospital. It was in St.
Catherines, a town about 10 miles away.
Canada’s tax-supported national health insurance covers
all its 35 million people—not just those age 65 and over
like our Medicare program does.
I thought that Peter was lucky to be in a country whose national
health care plan covered foreign tourists. I turned out to be
wrong.
I also thought our Medicare covered seniors
outside the U.S. Wrong again.
I learned all this after Peter signed in at the emergency room.
A nurse talked to him about his hospital bill. She said he would
have to pay up front for his care. Then, he would have to try
to get reimbursed by his own insurance when he got home.
“How much would the bill be?” Charlie asked.
“It would cost $525 (for foreigners) to be seen
in the emergency room,” she said. “Then, there
would be the doctor’s fee and another payment for whatever
medical supplies he needed.”
Peter opted to leave.
The takeaway message is: Don’t take a chance and be without
medical coverage when you go outside the U.S. Travelers’
insurance is not expensive. For a weekend in Canada, I found
out, you can get $25,000 medical coverage for only $25.
The next morning, Peter saw a Canadian pharmacist who said a
tiny blood vessel had broken in his eye. There was no way to
treat it, but he should not be concerned. The pharmacist said
it would clear up in a few days. He turned out to be right.
And so on that happy note, we said goodbye and headed back to
the States. Now, I worried about what would happen if Kay could
not get back without a passport?
I told her to be cool as she drove up to the agent. She gave
the guard her driver’s license. She also handed over her
Medicare card and her membership card from United Services Auto
Association, an insurance agency for U.S. servicemen and their
families.
The agent did not ask for her passport. But he asked her where
she had been in Canada.
“The Shaw Festival,” Kay said and smiled.
“Oh? What did you see?”
A logical question. But it could lead to more questions if it
wasn't answered correctly. My brain shut down. I realized I had
totally forgotten the names of the plays we had just seen.
I hoped Kay was also not having a senior moment. My palms started
sweating again. I said under my breath: “Please don’t
come up blank like the dottering idiot next to you.”
As I waited, I had another vision of Kay left behind in Canada
while I drove home to try to locate her passport.
It didn’t happen. She rose to the occasion. She ticked off
the three shows without a hitch.
“Have a good day,” said the agent. And off we
rode back home.
Still, when I think of that trip, I look back with a positive
note.
Shakespeare had it right, Didn’t he name one of his plays
“All’s Well That Ends Well”?
©2012 by David Zinman.
The Zinman caricature is ©2001 by Jim Hummel. This column
first posted June 18, 2012.
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