anti-climax on the bureaucrat front

My flights north to Oregon since August have become so frequent that I almost feel as if they are nothing more than a commute.

The only big difference on this trip was to have a piece of paper in hand that I was not the equivalent of a covid typhoid Mary. Or, at least, that I was negative for the viral antigens. Which, of course, is not the same thing at all.

We already chatted about how simple and fast it was to get the test done at my favorite lab in San Patricio (are your papers in order?). With a Saturday afternoon flight, I had all of my negative documents in hand to slip past American immigration with a smile on my face.

My friend Lew Moody dropped me off at the airport with plenty of time to complete my usual task of obtaining a hall pass from Mexican Immigration to give me permission to leave Mexico. My permanent resident card will get me back in. 

The next step was to complete the we-don't-need-no-stinkin'-covid questionnaire and to have my temperature taken. None of it was new, and it ate up only about 30 seconds of my time. There were no other passengers at the table.

I quickly discovered where they were -- standing in line at the Alaska check-in counter. It was obvious that something new was in operation. The two people in front of me each took 20 minutes at the counter. I could see flurries of paperwork and pens that were new to the check-in process.

When Monica, my favorite Alaska clerk, started checking me in, she asked the usual questions and then handed me a three-page form and told me to "initial here" and "sign there." The lawyer in me started reading the form (in Spanish) until I got to the second line and decided it was going to take too long with everyone else in line.

But I read enough to realize it was a form disclaiming liability of the airline in the covid certification process. If I did not sign, I was not getting on the airplane. I signed.

Monica quickly scanned over my lab test and gave it back to me. I asked her if I needed to give the results to anyone. She said the airline was not taking the forms.

It turns out that no one (at least for returning Americans) was even remotely interested in my test when I landed in Los Angeles. Not Immigration. Not Customs. The immigration officer told me to keep it as a souvenir of my trip. I always appreciate a sardonic exchange.

So, the whole process was rather anti-climatic. At least, for me. In Los Angeles.

I suspect Canadians will have far more detailed tales of bureaucratic interaction. At least, what I have seen on Facebook keeps my hopes alive that citizens to the north will have scintillating tales to tell around the campfire.

One thing I do know is that getting back home to Mexico on Saturday will have even fewer steps.

And that really will feel like commuting.