Again, 7:30am ushers in breakfast time. I grab a quick bite to eat and head off to processing to check-out. I got escorted into a van along with two other detainees who are being sent home. After a nice drive for Cambridge to Gatwick, they dropped me off at Gatwick under the custody of the same people who stopped me in the first place. These cats (the airport authorities) aren’t nearly as nice as the guards in the center. They act as if they’ve got something to prove. So once more, I got searched and thrown into the Gatwick detainment room. I started a conversation with a nice fellow from Chad and before I knew it, it was time to leave.
This part gets me every time I think about it. Here I am; a Canadian student who didn’t get a proper Visa for a working holiday walking through the airport, escorted by 3 G4S security guard. I must have looked like some sort of a super violent criminal. My escorts got me in front of every line and first on the airplane. I felt pretty hardcore. Once everyone was seated on the airplane, I noticed that the seat Immigration got for me was surrounded by empty ones all around. For a second I though it would have been funny to put my jacked over my hands and try to give the “crazy eyes” to anyone who looked at me. Think Kate from Lost in the airplane without the federal marshal. That’s what I was going for.
Finally we arrived in Montreal. Here, I was once more escorted by security. I really don’t know what they expected me to do. Was I that big a flight risk? “Oh no! That deported Canadian kid is loose in the airport! He might go turn on the water in the bathroom. FULL BLAST. And go help build houses. FOR FREE!” Anyway, I got to immigration and they thankfully let me in. I got my passport back (it was taken from me by UK Immigration) and hopped on a bus.
And that, my friends, is more or less my deportation story. Sorry if it was long. It’s a much better oral tale, I tend to add things here and there. I think it’ll be the sort of tale that by the time I’m 40, there’ll be a SWAT team in there at some point, and I may have killed an inmate. I could go on about what I learned and how it changed me, but I really don’t think that’s very interesting to read about. I don’t regret having gone through the experience and I think I’m a more complete individual for having lived it. Plus I can really say I’ve done something unique in the UK.