Archives: Detroit

October 15, 2006

Windsor has as many casinos and sleazy strip joints as
Detroit, but fewer boarded up buildings.

That may be an uninformed opinion as I only spent an
hour there before crossing the Ambassador Bridge and
returning to Detroit. It wouldn't be a story from me
if it didn't have a wrong turn; mine was towards the
truck lane.

I followed the 18 wheelers into the US,
sort of like an out of place, ugly duckling in my
rented Dodge Caliber. The one guy not paying attention
at that key moment when everyone else was.

The Customs attendant asked me for ID (I only had my
driver's license available, and had left my passport
at home ... bad idea) and told me to turn off my
engine.

Then began questioning.

"How long were you in Canada?"
"An hour."
"What was the purpose of your visit?"
"Sightseeing."
"Where did you sightsee?"
"I drove around downtown, near the casino."
"Is your engine off?”
“Yeah – I turned it off. There’s so much noise out
here, it’s hard to tell where it’s coming from .. ”
"Did you purchase anything while you were in Canada?"
"Um ... the Detroit Free Press. That's about it."
“Just a newspaper, or a newspaper and something else?”
“Yes.”
“Yes meaning you purchased only a newspaper? Or yes
meaning you purchased something else?”
“I meant to say it was just a newspaper.”
"Why are you in Detroit?"
"I came for the Tiger playoff games ... and went to
the Lions game today."
"Do you have any proof that you went to the game? A
ticket stub?"

I became a little scatterbrained and thought only of
the Tiger game on Saturday. This was a problem as I
had placed an online order.

TicketFast, the Ticketmaster division which carries
you from a 90% surcharge to a 100% service charge
(“And to think, Smithers, you laughed when I bought
Ticketmaster”), e-mails you a PDF attachment
containing your tickets. I had left the printouts in
my downtown Detroit hotel, a place called the Leland.
Which looks like the set of an Al Pacino/Robert DeNiro
gang movie: long, dark hallways that seem damp and
have cigarette burns all over the carpet. This is
where you go when you’re shooting the gang member who
was serving as an FBI informant.

The Customs guy was losing patience with my farewell
runaround.
"Do you have a ticket stub for the Lions game?"
"Oh wait ... let me check. Yeah, I've got it right
here ..."

A tattered stub emerged from my George Costanza
wallet, packed to the gills with ATM receipts and
about $7 worth of assorted change.

"Where do you live?"
"New York City."
"Where in New York City?"
"34th Street and First Avenue."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a military conference producer."
"Ok, you work for a defense contractor?"
"No, it's not a defense contractor. I work for a
company that plans events attended by defense
contractors."
"What is the name of the company you work for?"
"Worldwide Business Research."
"And you plan events for Worldwide Business Research?
You plan conferences attended by defense contractors?"
"Yes."

And with that, they let me go. Even Customs cannot
understand what I do, why I'm here, and where I'm
going.