GRANDMA WALTON IN THE TUNNEL

The combined populace of Windsor and Detroit must be enlightened about the Border. Capital "B" for Border, because only one is in question: the Windsor/Detroit division. If a traveller desires barbarous persecution, let that traveller pour his masochistic self through the Windsor/Detroit Tunnel.

Returning through the Tunnel to Detroit is akin to escaping gravity and achieving orbit. Each time I have entered the Tunnel I felt I was being slung into an abyss, accelerating through a halfgloom hung with shadowy expectation. Excitement grows. Yellow tiles flash by like the smiles of a million Bucky Beavers who have not used toothpaste. Finally:

The light at the end of the Tunnel. Finally: The warm eye of a waiting star. I reach my immediate destination.

"Where you from?" asked a leathery plasti-cop, an Immigration Officer.

I thought it was obvious I had come from the Tunnel, but I answered compliantly, as I had learned to do: "U.S. citizen." The plasti-cop retorted, "Seems to me you just came from the Tunnel." A grin revealed that this was Immigration Humor. He squinted into the chaos of my back seat. "Got anything to declare?"

"No, sir."