Congeniality School for U.S. Border Guards

Question: Has any non-American ever crossed the border into the United States and been greeted by an immigration official who was actually pleasant? I am trying to figure out if I just happen to be blessed with a countenance that inspires brusque treatment, or if they are equally enchanting with everyone.

Case in point: this past Sunday, I was returning to the United States after a 3-hour sojourn in Tijuana. (Note to travellers: if you go to Tijuana, make sure to bring plenty of money with you, as I challenge anyone to be able to resist the enthusiastic salespeople there. Prices get slashed with each hem or haw that you may inadvertently emit, and eventually, you will feel obligated to buy something just to be able to escape from the store. Further, because of the desperation that clearly must be the motivation behind such aggressive selling, anyone with a conscience will feel compelled to spend money to support the Mexican economy.) Anyhow, I arrived at the border with my bus of fellow visitors. Although I am (was) in the midst of getting my green card, I had all the appropriate documentation with me: Canadian passport, travel authorization, and even the letter saying that I was approved for my green card and it would be forthcoming within 30 days). I reach the front of the line, expecting a routine (although curt) interaction with the border guard, and instead I am informed that I have to go to another building to get something stamped. He tells me I won't need to wait in line, and that I can come right back. Inconvenient, yes, but hey that's crossing the border, right?

So, I walk past the line of about 200 people, outside, and to another building. This one has a line of approximately 8 people, but I follow instructions and walk up to a fellow at the desk who isn't helping anyone. I show him my documents. He asks why I don't have multiple copies of my travel authorization. I tell him I didn't know I needed multiple copies, will that be a problem? I show him the letter that I am approved for permanent residency. His reply? "Well you don't have the card yet, now do you?" He directs me to the back of the line.

Now, one might think that a line of 8 people should move relatively quickly; however, that would assume that (1) the people in the line had legitimate documentation, and (2) the people working at the counter were working at a human speed. Instead, the line had several people with questionable documentation who were trying to make their case for getting into the country (although the interactions were taking place in Spanish, I'm pretty sure I am reaching the correct conclusion on that one). As for #2, well, I can only conclude that, like many bureaucrats, the Border Guard bible must be "The Tortoise and the Hare."

So, after 80 minutes of waiting in-line (and tempting fate by surreptitiously text messaging my sister despite the "No cell phone" sign positioned beside George W's smiling face and Cheney's smirking one), I finally get to meet with Mr. Personality yet again. Choice comments from him? "You're a long way from home aren't you?" (make sure to read with condescending inflection) Despite the fact that my house address didn't have a suite number, I had to tell him three times that I didn't live in an apartment. "Next time, you'll need multiple copies of this." Multiple copies of what? What next times? I had just given him the letter saying I would have my green card within the month! And, he photocopied the darned thing, so clearly it wasn't an issue. Maybe they are trying to save on the paper and toner costs...He stamps the paper, makes a copy, loses track of the copy he made 5 seconds prior, can't find his stapler, finds a stapler, randomly starts looking for rubber gloves for one of his colleagues, goes to help one of his colleagues with someone else's petition, struggles to take a staple out of my passport, looks in vain for a staple remover, removes it with his grimy fingernail, then FINALLY gives me my stamped piece of paper.

Relieved, I leave the building, walk past the line of 200 people to the side where I was instructed to return. I try unsuccessfully to get the attention of the previous border guard who told me to come back to the front of the line. Thankfully, a disgruntled "gentleman" in the next line yells out, "Get to the back of the line, sister!" which gets the guard's attention. I go to him, show my documentation, and am allowed through. No one even asks what I am declaring or what I purchased while there. No wonder the pharmacies do well over there and there are Cuban cigars galore for sale! I meet up with my sister and nephew who had been hanging out at the McDonald's for the past hour and a half (of course, the minute you cross the border the Golden Arches greet you. Can you imagine anything different?) And we take a taxi back to our car. Back at last!

And of course as luck would have it, what was awaiting me in my mailbox upon my return? My green card. Like I had said to the border guard, "There won't be a next time!"