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We drifted into Ogdensburg for lunch but in this case, then minimal diary let's me down. It says merely "crazy waiter." Nor could even Charlie Reed's bountiful memory give me a clue on this one. Whether the waiter was abusing, menacing, or just non compos mentis, remains a mystery. In due course, we drove on to the Cornwall Bridge, but found it a disappointment, why I do not know--another case of minimal diary being too minimal. But Canadian customs on the other side of the bridge was not a disappointment if by disappointment, we mean nothing of any note happened there. I was afraid briefly that I might land in the Cornwall hoosegow. We pulled into Customs in our spanking new Plymouth and stopped. An official came out of his house, asked us a few of the usual questions, which we answered smoothly and felt proud of ourselves. He then looked the car over in a casual way before asking me for the registration card. I whipped out my wallet, located the card, extracted it, and handed it over. He looked at it, then looked at the car again, then looked at me. He then walked to where he could examine the license plate, which he compared with the registration card. he then came back to me and gazed upon me once more. I was beginning to feel a strange uneasiness.

"Is something wrong?" I asked him with quaver in my voice. "This isn't the registration card for this car," he said somewhat coldly. 

"It has to be," I said.

"Where did you get his car?" he said, ignoring my statement.

"Why, in Erie, Pennsylvania," I said, more mystified than ever. "What's the matter?"

"Look at this card," he said, handing the registration card back to me. 

I looked. It was the card for our old Dodge which we' recently traded in for the Plymouth. I'd forgotten to take it out of my wallet and handled it to him by mistake. Enormously relieved, I fumbled in my wallet again and finally found the card for the Plymouth, handing it to him with many apologies. 

After comparing carefully with the our car, he returned it and sent us on our way with an admonition to be more careful in the future. I doubt if he really thought we'd stolen the car but he gave me a few uneasy moments. 

As we proceeded toward Montreal on the road running along the north side of the St. Lawrence, "river magic" immediately came into its own because we were very close to Quebec Province and the French influence took over. As a matter of fact, Cornwall is the last Ontario town that is across from New York State so that east of Cornwall there really isn't any more "river magic" as such because both sides of the river are Canadian. But there was a big change as we went on into Quebec and we had many and many a laugh as we drove along studying the signs and watching the life in the little towns we passed through. In the first place, most signs were in both English and French. 
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