Meanwhile, Back in Texas

This is what happens when you get that call right before you go to bed.

My wife and our three kids take epic road trips every summer and leave me at home until I can meet them with my week of vacation. This is their sixth road trip and they have seen 43 states together with my wife’s best friend, Melissa. This year they’re driving 7,000 miles through the Eastern United States and into Canada. I’m meeting them in Maine and we’ll drive back into Canadian Maritimes. 

Every year I set a list of goals that I want to do in Dude Week, the week I don’t have to be a Dad. This year I set out to eat several pounds of pork chops and watch lots of WWII movies. The first week goes well and I perform some of the tasks on my assigned Honey Do list but I slack off and start watching too many movies and eating too many pork chops. I am due to meet the kids in two days and I need to get it together.

As I’m hauling a box of old books out to the car, I hear her ringtone, the blues piano riff—no ignoring that. I answer her call while opening the door and balancing the box of books on my shoulder.  I say “Hello” as the cat runs in and the dog chases her.

“Your car just got jacked!” my wife blurts out.

Jacked? Sometimes my wife reverts to a past self when she worked with skaters and musicians. Jacked? Makes me think of a bad movie but I get past her odd vernacular and ask, What? My car?  

“Ya. And I need you to send me the VIN number. My phone is dying. We have our passports. I’m headed to find the police.”

CLICK. She hangs up on me.

Shit. It’s Tuesday night at 9 and I'm supposed to be on a plane to Maine on Thursday to meet them. I sit down. This is looking like the start of an adventure and I really love having an adventure. 

I find the RAV4’s VIN number, text it to my wife, then pull up the insurance on the internet and call them. While I am waiting on hold I type in “Car Theft Montreal”. Tons of hits about people who had their cars stolen in Montreal. 

What?  It’s Canada for Christ’s sake. They’re a rather boring people who have little crime but lots of snow; really, just cold Americans. I live in Texas next to the more dangerous border and I’ve never had a car stolen.  Canada? 

I google some more and discover that white Toyota SUVs, specifically RAV4, are very popular in Africa and most of them are stolen from North America and shipped through the port of Montreal. I think back to every movie I’ve seen where the good guys are fighting African Rebels. The rebels are always driving a white Toyota SUV or small pick-up truck. 

The insurance lady finally answers. I add a lot of dramatic effect to our situation, by the end of my recorded statement, I have insurance lady crying. She has kids and thinking about it terrifies her. That is a good thing—the insurance lady on my side. Bonus.

I put the word out on Facebook that my wife and kids are stuck in a parking lot in Montreal and within minutes I have offers of help. I call her but get her voicemail—her phone must be dead. Next, I research the rental car companies and arrange a rental for tomorrow morning in Montreal to be dropped off in St. John’s, New Brunswick—across the border from Maine. I book another to be picked up in Portland, Maine, that we will drop off back in Texas when we are home.

Ignore the comma in the price and hit Reserve. I don’t want the kids to remember this as the worst vacation ever.

I forward the reservation to my wife’s email. I try and call her again—voicemail. It’s been hours. What next?

Shit. My clothes are probably on their way to Africa. She would have left them in the car. I dig through the closet—work clothes and winter stuff. All the decent stuff was packed in a suitcase in the back of the RAV4.

I heard her ringtone; I answer it on the second riff.

“Hey, I filed a report, I found a cab, we are back in the room, the kids are exhausted. But there is one thing we remembered on the way back here.” My wife hesitates.

I hate it when my wife hesitates.

“Your passport was in the car and it got stolen,” she continues.

She’s done for the day, who can blame her. She mentions she knows people who got a passport in 24-hours. We hang up.

I was feeling confident I had fixed our vacation but a STOLEN PASSPORT. SHIT.

I call a high school buddy who works the night shift for the Department of Homeland Security and tell him my predicament.

“How can I get a passport on the fly?” I ask. I don’t want to even think about what we would do I couldn’t get one.

His first idea is just show up at the border and he would talk me through how to get across.

“That sounds fishy,” I go on to tell him that after the family road trip vacation, me and the wife are going on a work trip to Quebec.

“So you need to replace it in 24-hours?” my friend asks.

“Yep,” I answer. “What do you think?” I afraid to hear what he has to say.

“So you want to try and convince a low-paid government employee, who sees thousands of people each with their own story, to give you a special passport? When it’s left up to their and only their discretion?  To leave their window and go through the extra effort to help you?  Just You?”

“Yep,” I answer.

He chuckles. “Look at passport agency website and see what their requirements are for special express passports. Call the passport office closest to you and go through their phone tree. Find the one with the earliest appointment and fly there. Be sure to have every piece of documentation that is required plus anything that could be used to prove your case. They are sticklers for documentation. Good luck, dude.” With that, he hangs up.

I start calling the closest passport agency offices to Austin. Houston—early next week, Dallas—later. I look outside of Texas—Hot Springs, Arkansas, or New Orleans? Beignets might be good. I call them and get an appointment for 8 a.m. Thursday, day after tomorrow. Great.

My original flight from Austin to Maine isn't until Thursday afternoon. Hum, not going to make that, but it’s a supersaver so no use canceling it. I book a flight to New Orleans Wednesday evening. I find a hotel and then a rental car. I reserve both.

The passport website says that I should bring evidence to support my claim for a special expedited passport. I don’t have any evidence. It says I can get a letter from my employer that I need a new passport for a business trip. I can get that—tomorrow. I need proof of international travel within two weeks. I have the itinerary that my wife emailed me, unread in my mailbox. Bingo—I print it out. Look there’s links to reservations, damn she’s organized. I print those too.

My phone says 1 a.m., I force myself to do all the dishes, vacuum the floor and make the house somewhat tidy. I throw a golf shirt, toothbrush and boxers in my computer bag along with the file labeled Passport.

I wake up early and call the house sitter on the way to get new passport pictures. I text my boss I need to see him ASAP. Somehow, the word has spread and the office knows my story before I get there—thanks to Facebook. I tie up some loose work ends, grab the letter from my boss, the fax from the Montreal Police and head to the airport.

I get there at 2:00 for a 3:00 p.m. flight only to find out that the cheap flight I booked last night is a no-go. In my late night excitement, I put in the credit card information and apparently forgot to press Reserve. Could anything else go wrong?  I head to the bench and pull out the trusty laptop. I find another one—cheaper, score. I hit Reserve this time.

I text the wife the new information.

Before I know it, I’m landing in New Orleans. I get my rental car and point it to the French Quarter. I’m hungry and I might as well have some good food while I’m here. I type “Acme Oyster House” into my phone. I head in that direction thinking about chargrilled oysters, maybe some oysters on the half-shell and a cold Abita Turbo Dog.

Acme Oyster House has been serving up oysters and beer in the French Quarters since 1910; if you want to do it right, sit at the bar right in front of the guy shucking the oysters.  They shuck 10,000 per day at Acme.  I order some raw with a beer and eat those with lemon while I wait for the chargrilled ones. They start with oysters on the half shell, top them with a parmesan and mozzarella cheese topping, then grilled them and finish them off with a garlic herb butter. When it’s done right, you can taste the natural brine of the sea and the mineral taste of the oyster shell in the background. 

I always have to have beignets when I’m in New Orleans so I head over to Café Du Monde, a French Quarter icon. They can seat 400 and are nearly full 24-hours a day, 7-days a week, except when they’re closed for Christmas and the occasional hurricane. I place my order and eat them with a relaxing cup of chicory coffee as I try to fade into the chaos that is New Orleans.  As much as I love Café Du Monde, I think back to the conversation I had with the shucker at Acme.  Apparently there's a locals place for beignets that I didn’t know about. But first, bed, I need to bring my A game to the passport office, first thing in the morning.

The US Passport Agency in New Orleans is upstairs in a high-end shopping mall; it looks a high-security DMV office. There are plenty of security officers. I walk in with my folder full of my documentation and my briefcase. The first thing that catches my eye is all the bullet-proof glass with a metal detector and a X-Ray machine. I put my briefcase on the X-Ray’s belt and see a frown on the guard’s face. He scowls and looks up to inform me that I have a lot of wires and cords in my laptop bag.  

I smile and offer him my bag to look in, after all I need everyone to like me so I have a chance at getting a passport. I tell him that I should’ve thought of that before I came but I had flown from Austin to come to this office. He looks annoyed and waves me through. The second guard asks if I have an appointment and I answer “8 a.m.” The guard looks his list but doesn’t see my name. I smile and try to channel Gomer Pile as I pull everything out of my bag looking for my confirmation number. Finally the guard just waves me through. I smile some more and stuff the cords, wires and papers back in my bag and move on.

My next stop is the line, where I stand for 20 minutes to get to a window. Behind me there is a young man, claiming to be a Muslim convert, trying to get an emergency passport to get to Algeria to study Islam. He wants to leave in two weeks and has to bring a paper from his parole officer to try and get an emergency passport. I nod because I just found the guy with smaller chance of getting a passport than I do. 

A few minutes later, I’m called to the window. I start at the beginning and tell her how my wife and three kids have driven to Canada in our car where it and my passport got stolen. They are scared and I need to get there to rescue my family. I give it all I have as I push my passport photos, photocopy of my old passport, letter from my employer, my wife’s itinerary, the report from the Montreal Police Department and my personal letter stating why I really need to get a passport immediately. I tell my epic story of woe, I try to tear up. It’s even better than when I made the insurance lady cry. Finished, I look at her and expect something—some display of emotion. What I get—someone who completely ignores me. She inserts my paperwork neatly into a folder and hands me a number.

“NEXT.”

So I strike out on getting any interest but at least I’m past the gatekeeper and moving up the cue. I text my wife a simple, Made it through the first step and now waiting.  They’re out of the service area today in some park in Canada. I wait for my number to be called to see another lady at another window.

At 9:10 a.m., my number is called. I look through the window and see a woman with a head full of gold-streaked braids staring back at me. She’s my age so I’m guessing she might have a family. Time to pull out the family-in-distress card. As I approach I see her nameplate Miss Amber—not just, Amber, but Miss Amber. I kick in a little of the mindless Texas accent that I reserve for special occasions as I show her my paperwork. 

I start at the beginning and tell her how my wife and kids are stuck in Montreal, they got their car stolen, they don’t know what to do and they need me. The people up there speak French and in Texas we don’t speak French, like they do in Louisiana, and I need to get there and help them. I need to get there today to help my children. You know the boys are trying to help their mother but they are ten and six, I say.

At first, I think I’m done for and she’s going to tell me that I’ll have to wait until next week. Then, looks at me and asks me how many kids I have. “I have three, Miss Amber,” I answer.  I show her my kids on my phone. Miss Amber looks at my youngest, my 6 year old. I tell her how our car was stolen and with all of their things. I tell her about how my kids saved their money to buy their own Ipods and now those were stolen too. That my son’s beloved skateboard was stolen and all my daughters Harry Potter books. I tell her that we’re not a rich family and that we save our money all year to take road trips with our kids.  

Miss Amber shakes head full of gold-streaked braids and says, “MMMMMM…that’s terrible. I tell you Satan don’t just live in N’Orleans. He lives in Canada, too.”

“I know Miss Amber. I just need to get to my family.” I hear myself and hear the Baptist preacher from my childhood. 

Miss Amber staples my papers together and announces, “You come back at 2:30 this afternoon and I’ll have a passport for you. Gawwwd is gonna help you to get to your family.”  

I close my eyes, I shake my head and say “Thank you Miss Amber.”

If it wasn’t for the two-inches of bullet-proof glass separating me from Miss Amber, I would hug her. As I leave, I see her shaking her head, thinking of her own kids stuck in a foreign country with no car and loosing all of the things they worked so hard for.  

Time to celebrate N’Orleans style, I need more beignets. I look up the place that the oyster shucker had told me about—Café Beignet, on Royal Street, where the locals go. I find a quaint open-air café with a curved ceiling painted with banana leaves. It has a larger menu than Café Du Monde but still sticks to the basics of po’ boys, omelettes and beignets. The beignets at Café Beignet are slightly larger and a little flatter with less powdered sugar than their counterparts at Café du Monde. While I eat my beignets and sip my coffee, I check on the flights to Maine.

First, I find out that my original flight from Austin to Portland, Maine, is postponed for two days because Hurricane Arthur is destroying flight itineraries up and down the East Coast. Hum, I check around and I can’t even get to Maine today. The Portland International Jetport is postponing all flights. I start looking around and I find that Logan in Boston is still open. Miraculously, I’m able to book a flight to Logan that leaves New Orleans at 5:33 p.m. but I will have to travel through Detroit. Not the best, but I book it.

I find another rental on the internet at Boston’s Logan and cancel the one for Portland, Maine. I discover that renting a car at the only operating airport, during a hurricane, the same day I need it, over the 4^th of July weekend and returning it sixteen hundred miles away from where I rented it…well, that’s expensive. I book it too. I have no choice.

I leave Café Beignet and head to the mall next to the passport agency to buy some new clothes. I walk into J Crew, look at the sporty-looking mannequin and tell the sales girl, “I’ll take that, all of it—the shirt, the shorts, the shoes, the socks and the belt.” A few minutes later, I’m dressed and ready to start vacation. I throw the work shoes away.

A quick trip upstairs to get my passport at the passport agency. I wave at the same guard at the X-Ray machine, he recognizes me and smiles back. I go through with no problems this time then I go right up to the window to get my brand new passport—it still warm and smells like the laminating machine. I look for Miss Amber but she’s at lunch, too bad, I wanted to thank her again. 

I look at my brand new passport with nearly as much love as my kids, I snap a picture and send it to the wife.

Next stop, airport. I get there and drop off my rental car. I sense a shift in the universe and things are going my way. When I get to security and they smile, wave and open the rope in the long security line and I get to go through Express. I don’t even have to take off my shoes, just walk through a small metal detector. It’s my lucky day. I arrive at my gate at 4:15, board my plane and we’re airborne as soon as we push back.

I feel like I’m in the clear—sure, in the back of my mind I remember there’s a hurricane running up the eastern seaboard, hell-bent on destroying the Fourth of July weekend, but right now, I’m happy. I have a bag of pretzels and a whole can of Coke to myself.

We arrive in Detroit on time and they make us disembark the plane. That’s funny, this is suppose to be a direct flight, no leaving the airplane. The crew members mutter something about offline operations. I glance at the departures monitor and see that my flight to Boston has been delayed from its original 9:45 p.m. to 10:30. OK, not too bad, I grab a seat and check in with the wife. 

I look up a few minutes later and see it’s been delayed to 11:00 p.m. I grab a box of sushi at the food court, when I get back to the gate, it’s 11:30. We’re circling the toilet, I’m going to get stuck in Detroit. The gate agent assures me that this flight is a go, even though our original plane left and headed west. I dig out my book and start reading, sure enough, another delay. 

I think to myself, I thought Miss Amber had some pull and got me in good with the big guy. Still no plane in sight. I text my wife the latest departure time and see that she has texted their room number in Portland, Maine--too late to call.

I look down at my book again and hope for the best. Before long, something catches my eye and I see the gate agent leave her post. She’s headed for the jet bridge and as I look over, I see the most beautiful thing ever—a Boeing 737 pulling into the gate.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are committed to get you to Boston tonight…”

I put my book into my bag and do a little travel math. If we get into the air at midnight, I’ll get into Boston around 2 a.m., pick up the rental and be on I-95 North little later, if I’m lucky I’ll make it to Portland, Maine, by 4:30. Better get a nap onboard. 

This plane must know it’s headed to Boston, because it has the luck of the Irish with it. All the other flights that were headed east have cancelled after numerous delays. We’re on board and airborne shortly after.

We land a little after 2 a.m. and the landing is a little dicey but I look out my window to see the wind has picked up. I rush to the rental car booth. There are only a few people in line ahead of me and I’m looking good. The other lines are at least twice as long as mine. This, unfortunately, is where my luck runs out.  

There must be some kind of problem with the customer at the desk because she had been there 20 minutes. The lines on either side of ours are moving along. It’s 2:45 a.m. and we’re still standing here. People start to grumble. Twenty minutes later we’re on the second customer and the lines on either side of ours are empty. The people in line go from grumpy, sleepy travelers to downright disrespectful by the time the third customer gets to the counter. At 4 a.m. I get my turn, this is after the rental car agent left his post and took a smoke break. 

I try to go as fast as humanly possible. I give him my name quickly, show him my confirmation and have my credit card ready. He does the normal bit of trying to sell me add-ons and hands me a bill that is $500 more than the original, outrageous price. I show him my confirmation. His response? Absolutely no interest. I’ve been waiting for 2 hours for the dumbest man on earth to try and cheat me out of $500. I ask to speak to someone else. He says come back tomorrow—there is no one else. I look around and start evaluating my options. At 4:15 a.m., I hand over my credit card and pay the extra $500. He gives me the keys and I go to find my car. When I get to the lot, I see just a couple of cars left. I do the math, one of the comrades in line with me is not going to get a car.

I get in my outrageously priced rental and head out of Logan at 4:30. Portland is two hours north of Boston on Interstate 95. I’m not going to make it so I pull into the Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and donut holes. Perfect for an early morning road trip in unfamiliar territory with almost no sleep. It’s 4:45 and they’re busy. I drive and 30 minutes later, I get another coffee and more donut holes. Another 30 minutes go by, I get more coffee and more donut holes. I repeat this all the way to Maine. At 6:35 a.m. I pull into the Best Western in Portland, the floorboard of the rental is littered with pink and orange logoed coffee cups. I head to the front desk strung out on sugar, caffeine and no sleep. I ask for the key that my wife left for me. The front desk agent refuses to give it to me even though the room is in my name, like she reserved it. I try to show him my ID but no cigar. I just turn and walk pass him to the room number she texted to me earlier in the night. She’s probably up already. 

I walk down the hall looking at the burgundy and blue leaf-patterned carpet and think, could there be uglier carpet? I turn the final corner and see the room. 

Knock, knock. I hear little feet walk up and quietly ask, “who’s there?”

I lean into door and whisper back, “Daddy.”

What Happens After You Get a Car STOLEN on Vacation

The light peeks through the gap in the drapes, just enough to get my brain spinning. What city am I in and where am I driving to next, are the usual thoughts first thing in the morning when I'm out on the road.

But then it hits me hard, our SUV was stolen from the old port area of Montreal, Canada, last night. The carful of kids can't drive on to the next stop on our three-week road trip from central Texas to Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada, without a car.

I'm up now, no coffee needed--time to regroup. I told myself not to make any hasty decisions last night. But it's morning and I have to figure this out; three kids will wake up soon and I need some answers for them.

I turn over in bed and grab my iPhone, my remaining lifeline. I vaguely remember remotely deleting my MacBook and iPad late, last night--all my professional work, my life. Here's to hoping that back-up is safe and sound back in Texas.

Time to check the messages and email. My husband has been busy overnight and he's on it. Great.

Next problem--clothes. I tiptoe around the room to see what we have left. The girls are good but the boys lost their suitcase, all that's left is the dirty stuff in the laundry bag.

If I let them, they would wear dirty clothes for the next two weeks; I grab their bag and head to laundry room. Loading the machine, I see I'll have to replace some stuff before we leave Montreal. Time to start a list.

Back in the room, the kids roll over and Melissa is up. I motion to the bathroom, needing Melissa to join me for a conference.

Me: "Ok, here's what I've got. Spencer got us a rental car reservation with a mid-morning pick-up. I need to stop by the police department to get a copy of the report for the insurance claim he placed overnight, plus I have to report that his passport was stolen and that's a big deal."

Melissa: "OK, so what are we doing? Should I look for some flights home?"

Me: "Not for us, we can't get on a plane with the kids. They only have passport cards."

Melissa: "Aren't we suppose to check-out this morning?"

Me: "Let me go downstairs and get a late check-out. That will give us some time to regroup. I'll take a cab to pick-up the rental car and stop by the police station. Hopefully I can get all that done before noon or so."

Melissa: "OK, what about the kids?"

Me: "Can you stay with them for the morning, hang out at the pool while I deal with all of this?"

Melissa: "Are you sure you don't want me to come along?"

Me: "Nope, I think it's best for the kids to have some fun at the pool. Forget about last night and look forward."

Melissa: "What about our reservation at the park? Do you think we're going to make it? All the camping stuff was stolen right?"

Me: "We still have our sleeping bags and air mattresses. The camp site is equipped so we just have to replace our food, cooler and a lantern. Let's see how the morning goes, maybe we can get there by late afternoon."

Melissa: "OK, sounds good. Breakfast?"

The kids are already chatting when Melissa and I get out of the bathroom. Time to talk.

Me: "Dad's got us a car; what do you guys want to do, we could head back to the US or continue on to the national park for camping?

Boys: "We're going to get our car back. Can you get us some guns and hand grenades?"

I spend a minute listening to the boys relay their plan. This is a real-life adventure complete with bad guys. After a talk, the carful of kids decide to continue on with our trip. We have too, we won't let the bad guys win.

After a little research, I find a police station within walking distance of the rental car agency. The front desk calls a cab and I'm on my way.

On my way into Downtown Montreal, I see a Target. I make a mental note of its location for later.

Time to call Spencer.

Me: "Hey, I'm headed to get the car. What's up?"

Spencer: "Trying to get another passport on the fly."

Me: "You can get one, if you can work the system and prove need. I knew flight attendants that replaced them in 24-hours but it requires a trip to the passport office and all of your documentation in order, plus new pictures. The closest one is in Houston or Dallas. I think you need to open with My family has been a victim of international crime."

Spencer: "I pulled out my old one last night and I talked with a couple of buddies that gave me some advice. Can you fax a copy of the police report when you get it? I'll add it the file. How's everyone holding up?"

Me: "Great, we talked and we are moving forward; we'll be in Maine tomorrow to pick you up. Keep me posted on the passport, I don't even want to think what we are going to do if you don't get a new one."

Spencer: "Yea, I'm trying. Waiting for the passport offices to open so I can talk to an actual person. I got a toothbrush and boxers in my computer bag. I'm hoping to hop a flight later this afternoon if I can get an appointment for tomorrow morning."

Me: "Good Luck, I'll call you later."

At the rental car agency, I tell the agent my tale of woe. It seems they have lost rental cars at the port area, too. Great, good-to-know.

I get into my new KIA and look at the dashboard and see it's in KPH. This should be interesting; next stop, the Montreal Police.

I stand in line and see that there's a female officer, here's to hoping she takes care of me.

Officer: "Suivant." (Next.)

Me: "Je m'appelle Catherine Parker et je habite au Texas. Ma voiture a été vole la nuit dernière." (My name is Catherine Parker and I live in Texas. My car was stolen last night.)

Officer: "I know English, I went to university. I heard your story this morning when I started my shift." The French accent prevails.

Me: "Great, I am here for a copy of the police report." Good to know the carful of kids made an impression.

Officer: "Number?"

I hand her the card that the officers gave me last night with the number hand-written on it.

Officer: "It is not in the system. You will have to wait until the reporting officers finish the report."

Me: "And when will that be?"

Officer: "After they report for duty."

She goes on to explain, the finished report will not be ready for 14 to 21 days after the initial report is filed and I will have to request a copy in writing along with a check for $15, Canadian.

Me: "I need to add some additional items also."

I am trying my best to be polite. I hand her the list that we compiled over the last few hours.

Officer: "Who is Spencer Ford?"

Me: "He is my husband."

Officer: "Where is he?"

Me: "He is in Texas."

Officer: "Why did you have his passport?"

Me: "He thought he might forget it so he gave it to me for safe keeping. I'm meeting him in Maine tomorrow night."

Officer: "He's an adult, right?"

I used to like a French accent before they stole my car and insinuated inferiority with every statement.

Me: "Yes, he's an adult." Obviously, this officer is not married with three kids.

Officer: "He needs to keep his own passport if he's an adult. I can't make a stolen passport report unless that person is here to make the claim themselves. You don't even have the same last name."

Me: "I see, what if it was for my children? Would you accept my claim then, they have a different last name?"

Officer: "Yes, of course."

I take a deep breath and explain that my husband has put a stolen passport claim into the passport office back in the United States already and they have flagged it as stolen. I just needed to follow up and put it on the police report. It seems the US doesn't have the same issue.

Me: "I will work with my government and their passport agency. Can you just add it to the report along with the other stuff?"

Officer: "We like Americans, we have a special relationship." She hands me a printout of what she has on file.

I feel real special right now as I grab the paperwork and head for the door. I hop into my rental and make my way back to the hotel across the St. Lawrence River. It might be a while before I want to come back to Montreal again.

When I arrive at the hotel I find Melissa has loaded all of our stuff on a valet cart and they are sitting in the lobby, dressed and ready to go.

Can't steal my smile!

WOW, that's a friend.

I fax what I have in lieu of a police report to my husband's office. Everyone pitches in and gets the rental loaded. It's just a bit after noon and with a quick run through Target, I think the carful of kids can make it to La Mauricie National Park by the late afternoon.

Hotdogs for dinner and muffins for breakfast; new jeans, new underwear and a couple of shorts for the boys; new water shoes for all and of course, marshmallows. I stuff the receipts into an envelope from the hotel labeled THEFT/INSURANCE.


Before heading out of Montreal's cell phone range, I call my husband. After a quick update, we merge onto Autoroute 40 and head north out of Montreal.

La Mauricie National Park is in the Laurentian Mountains in between Montreal and Quebec City and is two hours away. I have reserved an oTENTik for the night, part A-frame, part platform tent.

I unload the rental, Melissa fires up the grill and the kids find wild strawberries.
There is a wildflower meadow right next to our campsite. I take a deep breath and enjoy the moment, I have earned it.

As I walk over to Melissa, I look over my shoulder to see if the kids are busy.

Me: "Hey, Spencer is on his way to New Orleans to try to get a new passport but that storm we have been watching, it's strengthening and threatening to shut down the East Coast now."

Melissa: "Geez."

How to get your Car STOLEN While on Vacation in 3 Easy Steps

Me: "Hey kids, Mom's tired. Can we check out the fireworks from across the river, closer to the hotel?"

Melissa: "Great idea, my feet hurt. Let's head to the car."

The carful of kids lumber across the parking lot from the Canada Day street festival (the birthday of Canada) in the old port area of Montreal. Revelers fill the streets enjoying street food and listening to one of several bands; everyone is flapping their little Canadian flags. They wait for the climax of the evening, the fireworks over the St. Lawrence River.

Me: "I think it was here."

Melissa: "I don't know, I can't remember."

The carful of kids walk around the parking lot for the second time.

Me: "Yes, it was; I remember, we parked in front of that grassy section, right there."

Melissa: "Yep, I remember that, too. Where is it then?"

The carful of kids, still in denial, stand in the middle of the parking lot looking in all directions for their 2012 white RAV4, with all-wheel drive. Melissa spots something in the distance.

Melissa: "Hey, there's our roof carrier, did the wind blow it off?"

Me: "Ugh." Denial fading.

Melissa runs to the black, soft-sided roof carrier laying on the ground. She picks it up. The kids follow, still confused.
Melissa: "Look, your passports!" She looks side-to-side to see if the perpetrators are still lurking in the background.

Fade to every poorly-written spy thriller I've ever seen.

Me: "#^*%, stay with the kids! I saw the police at the entrance to the parking lot. I'm going to get them!" I run off leaving my best friend of 30 years to deal with my confused kids.

*** 

Previously on the Carful of Kids blog--a mom, three kids, aged 6, 9, 11 and one best friend and traveling companion were on a 7,000 mile road trip from Central Texas to Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada. We had driven up through Memphis, Virginia, Pennsylvania and Vermont before crossing the Canadian Border into Montreal.

Earlier in the day, we toured the BioDome, Insectarium and Montreal Botanical Garden; we drove down to the old port area of Montreal to eat some crepes and to enjoy the fireworks over the St. Lawrence River.

***

My mind zooms past light speed as I race to the only entrance of the well-lit, security guard-paroled, paid parking lot that I chose for those reasons just hours before. I grab my phone and dial. <Step 1>

Husband: "Hello?" Hissing of the cat in the background, the sound of dog's claws scratching the wood floor is unmistakable. A large thud.

Me: "Hey, the car just got jacked."

Husband: "What? I can't hear you. I'm moving the office chair. The cat and dog are at each other again."

Me: "Are you listening? I don't have time to explain. Our car has been stolen. We are OK, but I need the VIN number. I don't have much battery left so text it to me soon as you find it. I'm running to find the police."

I hang up before he can say what? again. I see a man in a uniform. I run to him.

Me: "I need the police, I need to report a stolen car."

Man: "Pardon?" (all dialogue should be read in the best Pepe Le Pew accent you can muster)

***

Kids: "Where's our car?"

Melissa: "I think it might be gone."

Kids: "Who took it and when is it coming back?"

Melissa: "I don't know. But your mom is looking for the police and your parents have lots of insurance."

Son #1: "What about my skateboard? My surfing magazines?"

Melissa: "Might be gone."

Daughter: "My Harry Potter's, I have five in the car."

Melissa: "Good Heavens, five? I'm sure your parents will replace them."

Kids in Unison: "Our iPods!"

Melissa: "Ok, what else was in the car?" Digging out an old envelope from her purse to write on, she realizes her iPhone is gone too.

***

Me: "J'ai besoin de la police." (I need the police)

Man: "Ah," the man points to another man in a golf cart. "Securite." (Oh, Security.)

This guy is not the Police but the uniformed officers I just saw minutes before when we walked past them on our way to the parking lot have moved on. <Step 2>

Me: "Ma voiture est allé." (My car is gone.)

Security Officer: "Pardon?" (No translation needed. But add more Pepe Le Pew)

Me: "Ma voiture a été...comment dites-vous...Stolen! (My car has been...how do you say...Stolen!)

Security Officer: "Ah...your car?"

Me: "C'est une 2012 White Toyota RAV 4 avec Texas Plates."

Security Officer: "Ah...White Toyota? All-wheel Drive?" (more French accent)

Me: "Oui, j'ai besoin de la police. Aurez-vous les appeler?" (Yes, I need the Police. Will you call them?)

Security Officer: "Oui, bien sûr. Où avez-vous garez?" (Yes, of course. Where did you park?)

Me: "Huh? Je parle un peu français." ( I speak a little French.)

Security Officer: "Pardon, you speak well. Did you study aboard?"

Me: "No, j'étudié le français au Texas. Où sont la Police?" (No, I studied French in Texas. Where are the police?)

Security Officer: "D'accord, Oui, show me where you left your car?" (OK, Yes, show...)

The wind whips through my hair as the security officer drives as fast as his golf cart will allow back to the scene of the crime. The sense of denial has vanished--my SUV and its contents are gone; I will not make it back to my hotel room anytime soon. 

I hold onto the roof of the golf cart as the security officer rounds the last corner on our way to the location of the alleged grand theft auto. As we arrive on the scene four faces look into mine, hoping that I have found our SUV and we will be on our way shortly.

I look at Melissa and shake my head in the tiniest of shakes that only a friend of 30 years understands. As I open my mouth to break the news--I hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, just as Rick Perry--the Texas Governor used to us before every big hurricane. I just don't know if the kids are going to lose it. This is their first international crime experience while on vacation.

Me: "Hey, guys, it looks like our car got stolen."

Son #1: "Yea, we thought so."

Daughter: "Melissa told us."

Me: "Hum, Ok thanks for being so cool about this." I tell myself a Good Job Mom, I raising some well-adjusted kids.

I turn to the security officer, who has been inspecting the crime scene.

Security Officer: "So where did you last see your car?"

Me: "Right here, next to the Toyota Sienna--it's still here." I point to the minivan for added effect.

Security Officer: "Yes, it appears your car is gone. I will call the police and check the security cameras." (the French accent is really pissing me off now. It seems I have been asking for this for 10 minutes.)

Me: "Ok, and what should we do?"

Security Officer: "Ah, yes, stay here. The police will be here shortly. Make a list of the missing contents."

The security officer walks back to his souped-up, turbo-charged golf cart and flicks gravel up in our faces as he speeds away. (Think Inspector Gadget)

Me: "OK kids, thanks for taking this so well."

Son #2: "It's OK, Mom, it's just a car. Melissa said you would buy us new iPods."

Me: "OK, it might be a while."

The carful of kids sit down on the only thing we have left from our SUV--the black, soft-sided carrier that holds all our sleeping bags. We use it as a bean bag chair in the middle of a random parking lot in Montreal 2,000 miles from home. We itemize our lost contents. The sun sets.

***

As the golf cart screeches to a stop, we all stand up.

Security Officer: "The police shall be here shortly. It's a busy night, it's Canada Day--lots of people."

Me: "Yes, there are a lot of people walking around. I thought that would've prevented my car from being stolen." (testy tone, it's been a long day.)

Security Officer: "Yes..." He looks away.

Me: Is he in on this? I think to myself. Or is it the statuesque blonde at the entrance booth selling parking. 

The Montreal Police car drives up with lights on but no siren. I hear Melissa humming The Pink Panther theme song. The officers get out and introduce themselves. 

Police Officer #1: "You reported a stolen car?" (Would they quit with the accent.)

Security Officer: "Yes, a white Toyota RAV4, with all-wheel drive."

Police Officer #2: "Ahhh." He nods.

All men give each other knowing looks and speak to each other in French so fast I can't translate.

Police Officer #1: "Does someone else have keys?"

Me: "Yes, my husband."

Police Officer #2: "Ah, yes. He took the car?" Ready to solve the crime, be the hero.

Me: "No, he's in Texas." Sorry Frenchie, I'm a Texan if it was that easy to solve, I would have done it myself. I squint as I keep that comment to myself.

Police Officer #1: "Oh. Did you lock the car?"

Me: "Yes, I locked the car. I tested the doors. I looked around to see if anyone looked suspicious. I felt safe and thought my car would surely be here when we were finished sight-seeing." Really...<Step 3>

The police officers and the security guard look at each other. Police Officer #1 grabs his report book out of his back pocket and opens it.

Police Officer #1: "Your name?"

I give the police officer all my information.

Police Officer #1: "Do you have anyway to identify your car?"

Me: "Like the VIN number? Do you want the VIN number?"

Police Officer #1: "Yes, do you have that?"

Me: "Yes, my husband texted it to me, from Texas."

As if on cue, my phone dies as the officer writes down the last digit of my VIN number.

Police Officer #2: "I see you have an iPhone. Is it a 4?"

Me: "No, it's a 5S."

Police Officer #2: "Nice."

Me: "Do you have a charger?" (I might have adopted the French accent and could have been asking for a cigarette or charger.)

Police Officer #2: "No."

Police Officer #1: "What was stolen besides the SUV?"

POP! Bang. The fireworks start. We stop for a moment to enjoy them.

Police Officer #1 to Security Guard: "They are nice this year, no?"

Security Guard: "Yes, very nice."

Me: "Ok." Interrupting. "I have a MacBook, 2 ipads, one with the retina display, 2 iPods--32 gig, 2 iPhones 5s, my Canon 60D camera with upgraded lens and external flash, 6 audio books, 2 pieces of luggage with contents and a box of camping equipment." The police officer stops me, having a hard time writing everything down.

Police Officer #1: "Nice stuff, you do well in Texas."

Me: "You wrote down Canon camera, I need the model number attached for my insurance." I tell the Police Officer, who adds it begrudgingly.

Police Officer #2: "Do you have the Find Your iPad app?"

Me: "Yes, but my phone is dead."

Police Officer #2: "You can use mine, they might still have your iPad on."

Me: "OK."

I sign into it but I get the offline message.

POW. Raining Sparkles--my favorite. I look up to enjoy the show.

Kids: "Oooo, Ahhh."

Me: "Did you really think they would have left the devices still on?" I say to Police Officer #2.

Police Officer #1 interrupts: "They were professionals, see." Calling our attention back to the parking spot where are RAV4 was parked just hours before.

We walk over to the alleged parking spot and look on the ground. We see tiny bits of metal, like shrapnel.

Police Officer #1: "They drilled out your lock. See? They are good."

Police Officer #1: "Your passports, do you still have them?"

Melissa: "Yes, I found them on the ground."

Police Officer #1: "They were nice, they left your passports."

Me: "I would've appreciated it if they'd left my car."

A couple of shrugs and a lip curl from the men. I sigh.

Police Officer #1: "I think we have enough. Can you sign this report and I will give you a case number."

I dig through my purse for my favorite 4-color pen, in the girly colors of pink, lime, turquoise and purple. I ignore the police officer's offer of his blue Bic. I find it at the bottom, pull it out.

Me: "It's French." As I look down at my pen.

The police officer shrugs and puts his pen back in his shirt pocket.

Me: "And my car? Leads?"

Police Officer #2: "Oh, it's gone. Probably on a ship down the St. Lawrence already."

Me: "What?"

Police Officer #2: "Yes, they are loaded into a container and put into a cargo ship within a few minutes."

Me: "Where's it's going?"

Police Officer #2: "Africa, probably. They like the white Toyota SUVs with all-wheel drive. Rugged, you know."

Me: "So...?"

Police Officer #1: "Bonne Chance. Little chance of recovery." (Good Luck) He shuts his report book and slides it into his back pocket.

Security Officer: "I have the tape pulled if you would like to come to my office?"

Police Officer #1: "Oui, Bien Sûr..." (Yes, of course.) Fast, French talking ensues.

Me: "And me and my three, tired kids? Can you give us a lift?"

Police Officer #2: "No, sorry. Too many people. A cab will get you back to your hotel."

Security Officer: "Yes, I will call a cab. But it will be awhile. There are a lot of people down here. Canada Day, you know."

Siiiing. Flash. BANG.

I walk back to the black roof carrier, sit down and watch the last of the fireworks with the kids. I consider renaming us the Carless...with Kids.

The fireworks end. People see us. They ask questions. They all seem to know about the car thefts. Some elude to organized crime. Russians, maybe. Son #1 wants to know all we know about hot-wiring. Son #2 falls asleep. I breathe heavy and long for my hotel room bed.

When the majority of the cars have left; the security guard screeches through his empty lot to inform us, he has secured us a cab. He seems to be amazed by our good luck or impressed by his skill at hailing cabs. I would have been happy if he had done the one thing he is paid to do--KEEP THE CARS FROM GETTING STOLEN. But maybe this is his job security.

When the cab arrives, the cabbie offers us a discounted rate to take us over a bridge I've never heard of and back to our hotel but only if I agree on his price before we leave. I kindly tell him Merci but I use to live in NYC and the meter would be fine.

Me: "Et prendre le pont du Jacques-Cartier sur le Boulevard Taschereau, s'il vous plait." (And take the Jacques Cartier Bridge to the Taschereau Boulevard, please." In my best French that I can muster.

Cabbie: "Oui, Madame."

We load the black carrier into the trunk and climb into the cab. Melissa sits in the front seat with the cabbie. I sit with the kids in the back. The traffic has thinned out. The winds whips through the rolled down windows blowing my hair into my eyes. All the kids fall asleep. I look out the window and mumble.

"Montreal, you may have taken my car but you will not take my spirit." (If I had had a cigarette, I would have lit it.)

I slide the card into the lock and push open the door. The kids flop on the bed while Melissa pushes in the valet cart with the black roof carrier. We heave it into a corner of the room like a dead body.

I plug in my phone and wait for a minute. Sure enough, it starts to beep and vibrate. I look at Melissa.

Me: "Well should I call him?"

Melissa: "You have to."

I dial his number and my husband answers.

Me: "We are back. We are tired. I want this day to end. And by the way, your passport that you thought you would forget so you sent it with me. Well, it got stolen."

And that is how you get a car stolen abroad in three easy steps.

Exploring the Montreal Botanical Garden, Insectarium, BioDome and the Old Port of Montreal

He LOVES ice cream

The carful of kids crossed over the Canadian-US border
and explored Parc du Mont-Royal and St. John's Oratory. We will continue to explore Montreal, carful of kids' style, focusing on outdoor activities with a visit to Montreal's Botanical Garden, Insectarium and BioDome--conveniently located together at the original site of the 1976 Summer Olympics.

We have a room across the St. Lawrence River in a suburb of Montreal named Brossard--it has several bonuses. Montreal is an urban area with nice hotels downtown--not the best fit for my active carful of kids. The nicer hotels charge for parking, WiFi and breakfast--all things I like to get for free.

Plant Love!

It's a quick drive to the Espace pour la Vie complex (Space for Life), I look around and realize I'm an oversized vehicle and I can not fit in the garage. Hey moms back home, I'm driving a Toyota RAV4 with a soft-sided roof carrier; I even downsized the SUV for this trip and I still don't fit.

Our first stop is the Insectarium ($19.25/CAN adults, $9.75/CAN kids 5 to 17), where the carful of kids marvel at the humongous bugs of every color, including a display of live carpenter ants. They work day-in and day-out as if every ant has humans staring at it all day. The ants aren't encased within a protective display--instead they have a moat, so close you could touch them (not advised).

Green Man 

After touring the insects, we walk out the door into the Jardin Botanique (Botanical Garden) located next to the Insectarium, this is one of the world's best botanical gardens and a great place for families. There is a children's area with great playscapes and snack stands sprinkled throughout.


To the garden-lovers in the SUV, it is nirvana. The Montreal Botanical Garden has 185 acres of cultivated themed gardens, including a Japanese Garden, Alpine Garden, Toxic Plants Garden, Rose Garden, Chinese Garden and the list goes on.

Our lunch, French-Style

The Botanical Garden is so large that we have to break for lunch at the garden cafe. My kids are good eaters thanks to their chef dad--there isn't a kids meal but the sandwiches taste as fabulous as they look.

The carful of kids continue on and discover one amazing garden after another, each one better than the last. Throughout the botanical garden, the roses and tender plants are dug up each fall for protection in their greenhouses due to the harsh winters.

After several hours of exploring the gardens, the carful of kids walk over to the BioDome ($19.25/CAN adults, $9.25/CAN kids 5 to 17); the original 1976 Olympic velodrome. The BioDome (House of Life) opened in 1992 as a collection of four different American eco-systems located indoors.

It is amazing--the carful of kids travel from the tropical rain forest to the Laurentian Maple Forest and the Gulf of St. Lawrence and finally land in the sub-Antarctic Islands. Each exhibit replicates the light, temperature, plants, birds and animals--both land and water. Again the human visitors are minimally separated from the inhabitants.  Kids and adults alike are mesmerized.

After spending the majority of the day at the Espace pour la Vie, the carful of kids load up to explore the Vieux-Port de Montreal (old port of Montreal's historic district). This area is located along the banks of the St. Lawrence River and has been used for transportation and trading since 1611.

Along the St-Lawrence River

The old port area of Montreal is a pedestrian friendly area that has a European-feel without the flight. A great way to introduce your kids to a different culture and language without leaving the continent.

The carful of kids find a parking spot near a street festival in a paid lot and head out to do some people watching. After catching several street performers, we duck into a creperie for crepes, both savory and sweet.

With full tummies, the carful of kids still want to see the famed fireworks that dazzle everyone several nights a week over the skies of Montreal. For it is the host of the Montreal International Fireworks Competition.



Up Next: We say Goodbye to Montreal and hello to Parc du Canada de la Mauricie

Bienvenue au Canada--Welcome to Canada!

The carful of kids are headed to Montreal, Canada, later in the day but first we wrap up Vermont by exploring Burlington. Yesterday, we explored the Waterbury/Stowe area and loved it. Between the fall color and the skiing--I wish we lived closer so we could visit during the different seasons.

The carful of kids walk along the Church Street Marketplace, a four-block pedestrian shopping district.  For the kids there is Ben and Jerry's ice cream to eat and giant boulders to climb and for the adults shopping and sidewalk cafes--they also have festivals year-round.

The carful of kids load up in the SUV and look north to Canada even though we want to stay in Vermont a little longer--maybe another time. This is the kids' first visit outside of the United States and they are excited to get going.

Church Street Marketplace

It takes about an hour to drive to the the Canadian Border from Burlington, Vermont, through the idyllic countryside. But to take your car, kids and contents across the border there are several things that you need to keep in mind.

I pulled together a folder full of documentation for crossing the border, remember that the border agents have the authority to deny entry into Canada if they want to. I am traveling into Canada with my children that are under 18 with only one parent present so I want to have all my documentation accessible to make the process as easy as possible.

The carful of kids got passport cards earlier in the year, there are inexpensive ($40) and good for five years.  Passport cards are good for land and sea travel into Canada, Mexico, the Caribbean and Bermuda.

Items I carry in my travel folder:

• Passports and Passport cards and a copy of Melissa's passport (just in case)
• Notarized letter of consent--see below
• Copies of the kids' birth certificates--I left the originals at home 
• A copy of our itinerary which includes the addresses of hotels and campgrounds plus their reservation numbers.
• A copy of our car insurance. If your state issues a paper car registration add that as well 

The notarized letter of consent:

• A statement from my husband stating he is a legal guardian of our kids with their full names, dates of birth, and passport numbers
• The full names and addresses of the people the kids are traveling with (Melissa and myself) along our passport numbers and dates of birth 
• The dates we are traveling and when we will return
• His contact information
• His signature
• Notary stamp and signature

At home I have left a similar folder with copies of all the information for Dad as well, just in case. 

We say good-bye to the US and approach the Canadian Boarder Officer-- we roll down the windows, pass them our passports and offer them the folder. The agent takes it and looks over the letter of consent and asks the kids a question. They thank me for pulling together the appropriate information and let us through. Yea.

Beaver Lake

Another hour or so to get to Montreal, but this is when I realize my navigator doesn't read or speak French but the driver can speak and read enough to get by. We spell the street names instead, remember French is the official language in the state of Quebec.

Our first stop is Parc du Mont-Royal, named by Jacques Cartier in 1535 for his royal patron, it's in the center of the city and a devoted green space. Designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, he designed the gardens of the Biltmore Estate, it includes hike and bike trails, sculpture garden, playgrounds, and the popular overlook--Belvedere Kondiaronk, or Mount Royal Chalet.

The view from Mount Royal Chalet

The carful of kids spend the afternoon exploring the park, stop for a picnic dinner and hike to the Chalet. Large city parks are a great place for kids to unwind after sitting in the SUV. 

After several hours exploring Parc du Mont-Royal, we load up and drive over to St. John's Oratory, a Roman Catholic Church that was commissioned in 1904. St. John's has the third largest dome in the world and is a National Historic Site of Canada; it is also another popular site to see the city lights.

The carful of kids climb the stairs to the top and then enjoy a moment to sit and enjoy the view. 

Up next: Another packed day, more to do in Montreal.