Points North (2)

By James Fife

Piece of cake...

The Big Decision to buy a residence in James Bay and start a life that, for a while, will be one of dual culturalism beyond the geographic split of 'home' between Victoria and San Diego, followed in the wake of some reflection my wife Marilyn and I had to make about how we felt about Canada, its people, its lifestyles, its (gulp) weather. The decision to go ahead and buy naturally meant that, at some level, we felt OK with that choice of hitching our wagon to the Canadian star, even as a part-time journey at the start. But that decision, that commitment, required some attention to just how easy that adjustment to Canadian life would be. In short, just how different is life in Victoria from San Diego. For instance, I've already felt concerns that some of my expressions (like the idiom in the title) may be Americanisms that don't quite translate. I know we've already had to learn new vocabulary, like strata, (eggs) benny, and toonie.

Of course, there are the physical differences, obvious right away. As "mild" as we hear Victoria's climate to be, we know it just won't top San Diego's for complacency or its topography for variety (beach, snow-decked mountains, and desert, all in the same county). That will be different; Marilyn's already looking a bit concerned at the thick window panes and wondering whether they are thick enough come our first winter.

No, that difference is too up-front to be of concern. What I am more intrigued by is what differences lie in the way we, as life-long Americans, think and perceive things and our natural assumptions, versus those of our new neighbors (always bearing in mind these are deliberately sweeping generalizations we are dealing with here). Marilyn has no known connections to Canada (barring some unsuspected skeleton in the closet). However, I was raised with a misty awareness that my family was in some ways a quintessentially Canadian one:  Father and three grandparents who were born Canadians, and, for good measure, half English-speaking and half French-speaking. At that level, I had Canuck in my blood.

That gave some cover to explain our strangely frequent vacations in Canada, a place we had no seeming direct ties to. I usually told my friends that we liked to visit Canada on vacation because it was almost like going to a foreign country. Like most Americans, I was aware of only the most basic differences between the two nations; you know, the stereotypes: hockey, bacon (which just looks like ham to us south of the border), French, "eh," and a thing for the Queen. I even felt a little superior to my benighted compatriots, because I could name maybe two or three prime ministers without hesitation. I might even recognize a picture of them.

But, as I said, those were stereotypes, and as I have learned thoroughly in other travels in my life, actually meeting people quickly breaks those down. But a core of truth remains; the images are not conjured out of thin air. So, indeed, Americans are loud, they are brash, they are demanding. But not all. And I've now met several Canadians who have never said "eh" in my presence. Maybe they were on good behavior for company. But I expect as Marilyn and I spend more time in our new home Up North we will hear it more often as naturally spoken, and, I hope, as people we know in Victoria gradually forget who we are and start thinking of us as just more James Bay 'locals.'

So, I expect we will have a lot to learn about Canada, Victoria, and James Bay. Heck, I may bother to learn the name of the premier (already showing off that I know that's someone different from the fellow in Ottawa). But I am happy to say that I've realized now that it will indeed be a learning process, because, despite the images, there's a lot to learn and a lot that's different. I'll see if I can point some of them out to you as I go along in these notes. But the task of learning all that, at our age, is not daunting. It will be the best anti-Alzheimer's mental exercise we could throw at ourselves. It'll be a piece of cake.

Or, as I intend to start mystifying our San Diego friends with, "It's a piece of Tim Horton’s donut."