A & W serves fries in tiny fry baskets. And that’s the best thing that can be said about Toronto’s Pearson International airport.
Traveling on air miles sometimes makes for lots of connections; on this recent trip we had cause to fly through international airports in Charleston, Boston, Baltimore, Toronto. In this past year or so, I’ve flown through Chicago, Montreal, Philadelphia, London’s Heathrow, Dusseldorf.
I get a warm fuzzy feeling when I hit customs coming home, and this time was no different–the sign that says “Welcome to Canada” makes me feel so happy, so proud, so contented to say “I am Canadian”.
In TO, that feeling lasts about 30 seconds, and this time was no different: ignorant, petty bureaucrats–rude at worst (perhaps if you listened to what I was saying, you might direct me to the correct line up, small man), indifferent at best (I’m talking about you, woman customs officer). I got a warmer reception from a German border guard in Frankfurt. I have never seen such a collection of overpaid, underproductive sloths in one place. Yes, I’m generalizing, but that’s what happens–the actions (or inaction) of the majority dictates the impression.
Welcome to Canada, indeed.

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