Imagine being the poor soul responsible for Tourism Boise.
He must have plenty of time to keep his desk clean. Moves his name plate and
Disney snow globe every half hour. Poor Mickey has viewed that frickin’ office
from every possible vantage point.
“Why Boise?”
I got that question repeatedly before I set out on my Spring
Break road trip. Usually the questioner would try unsuccessfully to repress a
frown. When the customs officer at the U.S. border asked, I responded with,
“Good question.” I thought I was being funny. Be warned. Bad humor will get
your car trunk searched, your whole suitcase rummaged through.
Of course, Boise was never the draw. I hadn’t seen my friend
Robert in seven years. We met as volunteers for AIDS Project Los Angeles twenty
three years ago when I was still in law school. He proved a refreshing change
from the academic set who could kill an evening by going on and on and on about
the top law firms in Los Angeles. (They didn’t appreciate my comments about McKenzie,
Brackman, Chaney and Kuzak, my first choice in an “L.A. Law” firm, mostly because
the men wore stylish ties, but also because I really wanted to work with Susan
Dey and Michele Greene. The fact that it was a fictional firm didn’t faze me.
There was plenty of fiction in law, wasn’t there? Alas, it was a sure sign that
my interest in a future legal career had already waned.)
Robert left L.A. for the same reason I did back in ’94: he’d
grown to hate it. Too sprawling, too artificial, just too much. He’d also
become an alcoholic and decided a change of venue would help ensure he wouldn’t
resume old habits. Some people might say Boise will drive you to drink as well,
albeit for a different reason: too little. Fortunately, he has settled
well—five years of sobriety and strong connections with local family and
friends. Just seeing that made the trip worth it. Sometimes travel is not about
sunshine, shopping and searching for a long distance Mr. Right.
 |
| It's true that I may have been a little concerned about my vacation choice when I dropped off my dog to be groomed at a place beside a SMOKES shop and a gun store. At least there was a church right behind the gun place. God would make sure people would do right with them guns. |
But that’s still hard to explain to most people. I was
reminded of this as I dutifully answered questions at the Canadian border. As
if to prove that I am a suspicious middle-aged man on an international level,
the border guard one-upped his American counterpart. He ordered me to pull over
and await further instructions from his colleague. I was directed into the
Canadian compound where I was further questioned. I’d set off a silent alarm.
Apparently, I’d failed to give a convincing, plausible response to one key
question: “Why did you go to Boise?” I didn’t feel the need to elaborate on its
variant: “How do you know someone in Idaho?” The obvious, highly prejudicial
subtext: Idahoans stick to their
gun-totin’, potato-plantin’ selves. How could I have truthfully declared
that I wasn’t bringing back firearms or edible contraband in the form of sacks
of spuds?!
Naturally, an official told me to remove my fierce miniature
schnauzer from the car and kennel him. Then I had to hand over my keys and wait
inside while they searched for guns, potatoes and whatever else they thought a
potential criminal like me might be smuggling. Half an hour later, I was
cleared which, as I’d feared, led to a chain of events that made me get home
four hours later than had I been waved through like all the other motorists. (Don’t
ask.)
It all reinforces my feeling that, yes, indeed, Boise is a once
in a lifetime experience.
Maybe the next time Robert and I connect, it will be in
Omaha. Or Moose Jaw. Let him deal with overzealous border officials.
And maybe next spring break I’ll do the sensible thing and
book a gay cruise. But then again, maybe not. Hot gay guys stick to their six-pack-barin’, carbs-averse selves. So
what was the true purpose of your trip?
Maybe staying home is best.
