Sunday night's super moon on St. Margaret's Bay, Nova Scotia--taken from our deck.
In one of the most impulsive decisions of all time, we moved to Nova Scotia. We drove cross country in a Fiat 500, which is the size of a big roller skate. When we reached the border crossing, we said too much. We scared the border guards with our ebullience.
How long are you staying was her question.
We want to stay forever, we said.
She looked us over carefully. Two grinning, aged adults.
You can only stay six months.
Frowny faces. No, no.
Do you have health insurance? Do you have proof of income?
Not on us.
You'll need proof.
Customs officer to Tom: Sir, have you ever lost your passport?
Tom: I don't know. Maybe.
Customs officer: this passport has been reported missing. I'll have to take it away from you.
Come back tomorrow with proof of insurance and income.
Have a nice day.
The next day we came armed with paper work--thank you Joanne Worley and Utah First Credit Union, and despite Tom's missing passport, we were allowed in.
We should have said we were on vacation and they would have whisked us through.