THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, September 6, 1994 TAG: 9409070677
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: MATTHEW BOWERS, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 107 lines
One week. Canada and back. In a Jeep convertible. Me and my 10-year-old daughter.
We're talking freedom. We're talking bonding. We're talking crank-up-the-tunes, feet-on-the-dashboard, wind-in-the-hair, shout-at-the-sky fun.
Talk, as they say, is cheap.
Don't get me wrong. It was a good time. A worthwhile experience. But not quite an hour out of town, before I'd even gotten the rearview mirrors and seat set right, my daughter spoke for about the first time:
``I'm bored.''
(Note to editor: Remind me to double-check the quote. Last time, she complained that I misquoted her saying ``bad news'' instead of ``sad news.'' She told her whole class I misquoted her. She tells everyone she meets I misquoted her.
(Note to me: Reduce payments into kid's college fund.)
Bored. With only 1,500 miles to go. Not a good start for our big trip.
With work keeping Mom home this vacation, my daughter and I had looked forward to a chance to hang out together, father-and-daughter-like. But we needed some warming up.
Leave it to the classics. We popped in a Beatles tape, cracked open our cache of semi-sweet chocolate bits - Mom doesn't like either that much - and all was right with the world. Soon Daughter was singing along to each song, reading a ``Cathy'' comic book and pointing out the speed-limit signs.
No, we didn't discuss the Virginia Senate race or the situation in Haiti or even the merits of bellybutton-piercing. But we listened to tunes. We enjoyed the sights, from snowmobile-crossing signs in Canada to sailboats in the Chesapeake Bay outside Annapolis, Md. Mainly, we were just together. That's something we don't get too much of in the regular, workaday world.
More than that, we became a team. At gas stops, she hopped out unasked and squeegeed the headlights and taillights and what she could reach of the windshield. She fed me french fries as we droveShe played navigator, reading the directions I typed for her after she complained about my handwriting.
And she was game for new experiences. One was when we decided on a sit-down lunch for a change, but left the highway an exit too soon and wound up at Maxine's Continental Lounge and Restaurant in the middle of the Pennsylvania mountains.
My daughter's first truck stop.
The waitress was friendly, but the place was smoky, the meatloaf was crunchy - even with gravy - and the door on the women's restroom didn't lock. This last thing also surprised the woman we walked in on.
See? Fun.
That's not counting The Border Incident.
Real life has a way of intruding even on vacation, even 700 miles from home.
The Canadian customs officer waved us forward in line. We'd been through this many times over the years and expected no more than the usual 30 seconds of ``where-are-you-from-where-are-you-going-how-long-are-you-staying-do-you-have- any-alcohol-or-firearms-with-you?'' Which we got.
Then he looked at my daughter.
``What is your relationship with her?''
That threw me. Relationship? I never thought of us having a ``relationship.'' She's just my daughter.
``Do you have any identification for her?''
Oops.
Well, no. The question has never come up in our 10 years together.
``You are entering another country, you know. And you don't have any identification showing that she's your daughter?''
This was Canada, not Colombia. We drive the same cars. Eat the same Corn Flakes. Drink the same Molson. You don't need a passport to get into Canada. We've crossed this border many times.
But never alone, just me and my daughter. A man and a young girl.
Feebly, I handed over my wife's health-insurance card, which had our daughter's name on it. That didn't cut it with this guy. I offered to call my wife. Line's too long at the immigration office, he answered. I was shocked that he actually considered it.
Finally, he asked my daughter a few friendly questions about where we were going and if she had a lot of clothes and toys with her - looking for proof, I suppose, that I hadn't snatched her off a nearby playground. After several uncomfortable minutes, he announced he was satisfied but admonished me to carry birth certificates in the future.
All this left me with mixed feelings. As the father of 10-year-old girl, I was glad to see her being protected. I wouldn't want her whisked away by a stranger with nary a question asked.
But, also as the father of a 10-year-old girl, I resented the grilling. I know that I wouldn't have gotten the same treatment if I had been her mother or, for that matter, any woman. It seems a father can no longer go on a trip with his daughter without raising eyebrows.
That left me angry - at suspicious people, at the creeps who hurt kids and who happen to be 99-percent men, at a scary world in general. And it left me sad.
My daughter took it in stride, which I guess is the important thing. The man was just being careful, she said. He's just trying to protect kids.
And the bad feelings soon faded. We saw bunches of relatives and bushels of friends. She caught lots of little fish, but still wouldn't touch them - like daughter, like nonfishing father. She exchanged friendship bracelets with two girls she met. And she realized lifelong dreams of 1) riding in a golf cart and 2) bouncing on an inner tube pulled behind a motorboat.
All in all, a full, successful vacation.
Road trip, indeed. You never saw the guys on ``Route 66'' lugging around birth certificates. . . ILLUSTRATION: Photo
Matt Bowers by CNB