I have made many border crossing endeavors in my life.
And it’s true. There are few times that you feel less guilty than approaching a customs or immigration agent.
I wonder why that is.
It’s like when you know you have done nothing wrong and suddenly police lights fill up your rear-view mirror.
I mean, crossing the US/Mexico border at one time was nothing, like taking an evening stroll.
But the last time I crossed over on the Del Rio bridge, they were asking for passports and birth certificates, and practically, our blood types.
The way my wife tells it, we nearly spent a week in a Mexican jail.
I find out of long experience that I admire all nations and hate all governments, and nowhere is my natural anarchism more aroused than at national borders where patient and efficient public servants carry out their duties in matters on immigration and customs. I have never smuggled anything in my life. Why, then, do I feel an uneasy sense of guilt on approaching a customs barrier?
-John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley In Search Of America
