Given our run of bad luck, we were due some good. Our lucky break came in the form of a smooth flight to Toronto including complimentary snowboard carriage (the kilts are working their charm). Upon arriving in Toronto, we face a barrage of automatic systems demanding various mugshots and screenings to proceed to the next stage: getting past the Canadian Border Controller. The mission, as it turned out, was a walk in the park. Stamp! Stamp! Scribble, tick and we were on our way. At the final kiosk, the Gatekeeper lets Gavin into the freedom of baggage reclaim. However, I am lead into a smaller room that reeks of shattered dreams and desperation. 

I found myself standing at the back of a massive millipede of people, queuing zig-zagged for the several rows in front of me. I was in the land of the immigration officers awaiting the verdict of my Canadian work visa. The most travel paperwork I had ever completed was a small piece of paper upon my arrival at border control. This time was different: I had to print off my police records, valid insurance policies, my invitation to apply as well as my application form. I search within my bag for the increasingly wrecked brown paper envelope that contains these crucial documents. Pulling them out, I straighten up before shuffling forward half an inch. 

Looking around the place, I examine the situation in more detail. The room is split in two: an area dealing with the application forms of the masses and a separate area made up of metal benches and frosted glass interview rooms. Based on border force (a television program), this area was probably to deal with suspect/incorrect application forms as well as searching folk’s bums for drugs. The décor of the room boasts a fascinating mix of grey pieces: a light grey carpet, metallic grey walls and dark grey desks possibly to enhance the overall waiting experience. I was currently queuing with the masses awaiting one of three staff members, manning a total of fourteen desks, to see me. A couple of translators run feebly from one to another to help the applicants. I shuffle backwards half an inch.

Twenty minutes go by, and I move up a total of three spaces. I start to feel guilty for Gav, who will no doubt be waiting in baggage reclaim, unable to move. I furiously attempt to get on the Wi-Fi to contact him. However, I continuously get my access revoked; I start regretting cancelling my UK sim card. Even worse, without internet, I cannot switch my brain off and scroll mindlessly through the depths of Facebook. I let out a deep sigh, the world wide web has ruined my patience for waiting.

Between the front row of people and the application desks, a single officer patrols the line, intermittently picking three or so applicants out and hauling them down to the private interview rooms. He instated himself as Sheriff of this town, making it clear with "authoritative" mannerisms and aggressive questioning tactics. His frustration showed each time he dealt with a non-native speaker, impatiently brushing them off and shouting, “I can’t help you!” 

Time crawls by and is marked by many coughs, clock ticks and tocks. The waiting starts to get to my travel weary body, and my joints creak as I bend my knees and stretch into a prolonged yawn. I am almost three-quarters of the way up the queue now and have only had to wait a measly hour and a half. The line lengthens at the back end and spills over into the other half of the room, curling up like a high score on Snake. 

The crowd becomes disordered, and a lot of shouting and complaining erupts as the Sheriff directs the one large queue into smaller separate queues. A woman pipes up and voices her concern on this breach of queue etiquette. “I AM A FEDERAL AGENT!” he roars defensively, “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Ma’m! If I tell you where to queue, you queue. I don’t have to justify my actions to you”. He wanders off, leaving the woman struck dumb for a while before she pulls herself together informing him of queue skippers and the fact she is a Canadian citizen. He turns around, red under the collar and obviously calming himself, speaks to her using his indoor voice. Eventually, he directs her to the next free officer.

Being skipped by a woman from the back of the line causes chaos from the crowds who have been patiently waiting their turn. Various heckles spew forth directed at the Sheriff. He breaks, shouting many retorts at the group, defending his decision-making capabilities and informing them of who was wearing the badge. He stares at the crowd with his beady eyes before shouting, “are there any more Canadian citizens?” A Sikh who had been the source of the brunt of the heckling sticks his hand up. The sheriff purposely ignores him and walks off.

I make it a few paces forward before the Sheriff makes his way back to the queue. I am in the front row now. He makes his way down the line pointing at folk and asking them about their visa application. A few Chinese girls ahead of me get flustered, not understanding what is being asked. I can see his rage build before he belittles them and hauls them out, directing them towards the private booths. My adrenaline starts kicking in, what if he does this to me!? What smart-ass comment am I going to respond with? Will I be able to keep my razor-sharp wit from filleting him and earning myself a complementary cavity exam? I tell myself to act cool, be the better man. He points his stubby finger at me, and asks, “Are you here for a travel visa?”, “Aye man” I respond. “Thank you, sir, please keep waiting in the queue” he says calmly before moving onto the next person. I sure told him. 

After two and a half hours I am finally seen by an immigration officer who asks me a few standard questions, looks over my documents and prints my work permit; making the whole thing all seem a little anti-climatic. The immigration officer informs me I can wait to get my social security number next door or apply for it when I get to Vancouver. I laugh at the thought of further queuing and make my way into baggage reclaims.

Within the baggage reclaim hall, I spot Gavin hugging a pillar, guarding the mass of luggage. I apologise for taking so long and bring him up to speed on the massive queue and the tin-pot dictator. He lets me know how he evaded capture himself, accused of loitering with intent by a similar airport staff member. We shift off towards the pub where we spend the next hour eating and drinking. 

At the bar, we are confronted by a strange Canadian custom. A man was sitting down, eating pizza with a knife and fork; truly this is a strange land we have come to.