An Expat And A Repat Cross The Border
Our expat immigration story is less about paperwork and more about perspective. One of us was arriving for the first time; the other returning home—and both learned something before the stamp came down.
An Expat Meets the Border
I expected crossing the border to feel official and formal. Here was my first personal encounter with a representative of the Canadian government. I anticipated we would be facing a grim employee. Unyielding. Pointedly inquisitive. Firm. You know, like an appointment with the IRS. Except these folks would be in uniform. And they wore hats.
However, thanks to Sheila, we had our ducks in order. I did not expect friendly and accommodating. We were crossing a line drawn on a map that in my case separated today from tomorrow. This, to me, was a big step. It was important. I was resolved and ready. I wanted to cross the border. Quietly. When I crossed this border things would be different. Brighter. It would be like darkness disappearing at dawn.
A Smile, Not a Standoff
Yet everything was strangely personal – a friendly uniformed stranger checked our paperwork. No hat. He smiled as he thumbed through Sheila’s detailed documentation. He wasn’t rushed or bothered. Actually, seemed impressed – and friendly. Maybe disarming. He asked questions appearing interested in us as people, not strangers or foreigners – wondering what we were doing here. I left a country I loved.
Leaving wasn’t dramatic. No gauntlet of border guards. No music or beating drums. We pressed forward. And I didn’t look back. I knew what I was leaving. I was stepping away from a place I knew and loved (still do) and trying to enter a place I had been dreaming about. Still, leaving after over fifty years in California was like walking off a sandy Pacific Ocean beach. You’ll be carrying beach sand in little corners of each pocket and in your shoes and socks for quite a while. I don’t know if you can ever be free of that sand.
The Repat: Coming Home Isn't Automatic
For me, crossing the same border felt less like departure and more like a long-awaited family reunion. I had been gone over fifty years. Yet, I imagined coming home would feel automatic, like slipping into an old jacket. The truth is it felt magical. I was trying on something I knew had been altered while I was away. Still, it fit—the fabric right, the smell recognizable—but it would require adjustment. Probably both of us would. I knew eventually both Canada and I will fit like jigsaw puzzle pieces.
I was returning to a country that lived in my memory, however, never lived on Vancouver Island. Only visited Victoria a few times, as recently as six months earlier. Street signs and driving rules were a little different. I had never seen so many bike lanes. Figuring out how to navigate them safely still intimidates me. The cyclists here are different than I was accustomed to. Like ice skaters on a community rink, they dodge slower skaters, stop abruptly, spin, turn, and cut people off. I’ve lived in ‘bike towns’, but Victoria welcomes and encourages cycling with vigor and probably a little hope. Fewer cars on the road and cleaner skies are a great by product. Another surprise? The cadence of conversation feels subtly different. Home, it turns out, doesn’t wait for you. It keeps living. It would take time to catch up.
With each small realization about the way the city carried itself—I felt myself crossing more than a physical border. This wasn’t about paperwork or procedure anymore. It was about recognition. About whether this place would recognize me back.
After just twenty minutes, the agent finished stamping our paperwork and handed back my binder. Then he said the words I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear:
“Welcome Home.”
Happy tears followed. Twenty solid minutes of them.
No shame.
The Expat: Watching the Border Ballet
She’s right—it was only twenty minutes. I was there for most of it. Handkerchief duty included.
I watched Sheila’s binder performance unfold: inventory and auto documentation, inventory of goods to follow, rabies certificates, receipts. Post-it notes. Color coding. Staples. Lots of staples.
I’ll be honest: I didn’t really know what was in that binder. As Two Norths evolves, you’ll find tips about how to best to find and organize required immigration documents. It can help save your sanity. But that’s Sheila’s expertise. To me, it’s wizardry.
But I wasn’t watching a grilling or an inquisition by a customs official. Sheila was taking charge and sharing what she had done with all of Canada’s immigration requirements. As I watched, I was reminded of early school days with show and tell sessions. She walked the gentleman through her process, flipping the pages forward and backward and answered questions like she was a docent. She likely had a suggestion or two around improving their immigration procedures, but that’s a warning sign for me to tune out.
The Repat: Returning Is Participation
There was comfort in watching him navigate the unfamiliar with curiosity rather than resistance.
Returning isn’t about reclaiming ownership.
It’s about participation. Joining.
Crossing the border wasn’t an ending or a beginning. It was like opening the door to a house I hadn’t seen in years. The lights were on. I knocked. The door opened.
I was welcomed back.
The dogs slept through most of it.
We overthought everything else.
And yes—we brought more sweaters than necessary.
First Steps In Victoria As An Expat
Victoria. What a city. The Empress Hotel, the harbour planes, Butchart Gardens, cruise ships and friendly people. And don’t forget the bicycles. What made the moment steadier was that we were doing this together. I kind of felt like my country was pushing, but Canada was pulling Sheila.
There was comfort in watching her recognize things I was just beginning to notice: the rhythm of a city that seems to know its place in time, the gentler pace, the way small kindnesses aren’t announced – just done. I was taking my first steps into a world where hope wasn’t a last swing at desperation.
Together: What Borders Really Do
Later, we laughed about how little the moment resembled our expectations. There was no thunderbolt. No revelation. Just a smile, a stamp, a nod, a welcome and a reminder that identity doesn’t change at borders, it reveals itself.
I hope this reduces any trepidation a reader may have at the thought of being interviewed by border officials. We will discuss other immigration issues with more detail as we take this journey into Canada. Vancouver Island is our focus right now, with a look at Victoria and other locales. If you aren’t familiar with Canada, you will find it both invigorating and challenging. We hope you find time to join us. We’ll tell you what we’ve found – the good, the bad and the ugly. Although, to be honest I’ve only seen the best, the incredible and the unbelievable.
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