As I write, it is Friday night, October 22, and I am sitting propped up in one of the two sleeping options in our brand new Freedom II Serenity motorhome. Two months ago, it seemed that this day would never arrive, and frankly, it still has a dreamlike quality to it.
Bloggin' Roz
The first leg of this journey started very early last Wednesday morning, October 20, when we flew to Grand Forks North Dakota, where we were met by Don Klassen, our salesman from Leisure Travel Vans, the manufacturer of our new home on wheels, and his lovely wife Rosie.
On the way to the factory in Winkler Manitoba, to take delivery of our motorhome, we made a quick stop at Menke’s Parcel Service, in Neche North Dakota, where we had shipped six boxes of personal and camper items so we wouldn’t have to start out buying everything brand new. With domestic shipping costs half the price of sending packages to Canada and no need for customs declarations, there is a bumper crop of businesses that have sprouted up on the US side of the border. On the web, Menke’s ad looked professional, reliable and bragged of 20 years in business. Email communications with them were prompt and businesslike. Imagine my surprise when we arrived in Neche and found a village of 200, and Menke’s operating in a garage behind their home.
Menke's Parcel Service
At first I panicked, fearful that they would never find my boxes among the seemingly haphazard arrangement. I quickly found that small and rural does not equate to unorganized or inefficient. Within minutes an old gent jumped off his forklift, located my six boxes, took my money and sent us on our way. For $16.00 this little mom and pop shop saved us about $150.00 in freight. BTW, no checks, no credit cards, cash only. Pretty savvy, I’d say!
Menke's Freight Yard
After September 11, 2001, any border crossing causes a feeling of trepidation. As we approached the Canadian/American line, I felt a blood-draining fear and started an internal monologue to get our “story straight”. There really was no story to “get straight”, but somehow you feel like you better get it right or they might not let you in. We were met by a surly young woman who barked questions in an apparent attempt to trip us up in our responses. She took our passports and strode into her office, leaving us in the car to wonder about our fate. We all sat in silence, afraid that somehow big brother might be listening. When she came out, she looked even more official. She had donned gloves —thank goodness black leather, not latex— and approached our car with a swagger, her jaw set in a grimace. Expecting the worst, we were pleasantly surprised when she begrudgingly returned our passports and bid us farewell. Authority figures always give one pause.