Among the numerous and sometimes conflicting doctrines we try to observe in my household is that of treading lightly on the Earth. That is difficult to accomplish in a society that seems dedicated to waste and self-indulgence, where the only feasible means of long-distance travel is the automobile and the only way to feel good about oneself is to buy something new.

It is also a difficult concept to pass on to children whose friends race here and there in parent-purchased cars, communicating continually on parent-purchased cell phones. And it becomes especially hard to convey when there is work to do in the garden or at the woodpile. Nonetheless we attempt to set an example through consumer restraint, household economy and energy conservation.

Energy conservation was one of the main motives behind our choice of a vacation this year: bicycling to Canada. That isn't as rigorous a feat as most Americans might suppose, for the nearest border crossing lies only about 110 highway miles from our door. Avoiding deadly highways requires more mileage, but the round trip still falls within a week's easy cycling, during which we can ignore traffic jams and oil-industry gouging.

The flatter terrain of southern Maine might have been a preferable choice for bicycling. The coast is lovely, but it is usually packed with people from places no one wants to live, and by their mass presence they often make Maine feel like another one of those unpleasant places. There is something immensely gratifying about gliding all the way to an international border on such ecologically sound transportation.

There is something appealing about entering Canada by any transportation, for that matter.

Canada is a different world, at least from Vermont and New Hampshire. The U.S. side stands in the tall conifers of the great northern forest while the Canadian side slips immediately into rolling farmland and occasional, distinct towns, with little of the endless suburban sprawl that ate up so much of the United States so quickly.

The abrupt change in language offers an instant taste of Renaissance Europe, at least for those who remember their professor rattling off Middle French, and what can be more therapeutically humbling than trying to recall the vocabulary of a seldom-used language?

The money adds to the European atmosphere. Canadian bills are pieces of art, emblazoned with exotic historical characters and scenes in a variety of colors. The larger denominations are decorated with ornate engravings that mimic embroidery, and in that currency we have a dollar that still makes the American version seem as though it were actually worth something.

One-way cordiality

The strongest attraction Canada exerts may be the calm, peaceful atmosphere, which, unfortunately, seems especially foreign anymore. Just note the difference in customs officials.

Since the first time I crossed the Canadian border, I've never had an unpleasant experience with a Canadian customs officer. All of them have been flawlessly courteous, most of them are quite congenial and many are even unarmed. Approaching the U.S. border, meanwhile, usually turns the stomach sour.

Certain U.S. border stations in Vermont long ago developed widespread and well-deserved reputations for rudeness and unwarranted, invasive searches. Since the commencement of King George's War, the U.S. crossings have served as an introduction to American paranoia, with suspicious officers engaging travelers in deceptively inquisitive banter.

On my last re-entry by automobile at Beecher Falls, a pleasant young agent asked me the usual questions and wished me a safe trip, but as I started away, his older colleague interceded, hand-near-holster, and awkwardly initiated a perfectly artificial conversation. When I inadvertently misquoted the New England price of a New York Times, he grew as stern and mistrustful as an East German border guard. Welcome home, Yank. (next page »)