absent.canadian

The Dreadful Angola Stop

Whenever I cross the border into Canada, I make a point of stopping at the nearest Tim Hortons.  Partly because I can’t stand the stretch up the New York State Thruway (and the insidious toll booths), and partly because I look forward to the comfort food of my youth.

There was something remarkably different about my trip to Tim Hortons this time around.  For starters, I went in wearing my Lululemon T-shirt and jeans; the dress-code of warm spring days like the one I left behind in Raleigh on Friday afternoon.  Everyone in Tim Hortons was bundled in Canadian winter attire, and they eyed me momentarily.  I thought it had more to do with the weary look I had after driving for 14 hours.

But there was something else going on; something a lot deeper.  For the first time in my life, I felt like a foreigner in a foreign country.

I was born in Canada.  Raised in Canada.  Educated in Canada.  Employed in Canada.  Paid taxes in Canada.  Virtually everything I do is somehow influenced by Canada–right down to the eBay auction I just paid for, for a copy of a Canadian music magazine from 1972.  I still travel on my Canadian passport, I keep a Canadian $5 bill in my wallet at all times, and I still spell words in their Canadian forms (like “centre”, “theatre”, and “grey”).

But somehow, I felt more American than Canadian this time around.

I glanced out at my car; a little Mercedes sports coupe with Continental sport tires that are more at home in sunny North Carolina.  Its taut suspension keeps the car only inches off the ground, and I had no doubt the car was marveling at the white stuff beneath its belly pan.  The traction control probably got more of a workout on this trip than it had in the rest of the five years I’ve owned it.  But it’s a Mercedes–a stout German breed that’s made to handle anything.  And it did.

I glanced at my own reflection in the mirrored reflection of a coffee machine and wondered just how much I looked like a foreigner.  A Tim Hortons in St. Catherines surely isn’t mystified by someone with a slightly American accent.  And that’s part of the pain of having lived in North Carolina for seven years; I’ve picked up a few “southern” sounds in my speech.  Enough that Canadians know there’s something “off” about me.  Nor would I ever be mistaken for a North Carolinian; my enunciation of words like “badminton” and “schedule” offers me no cover.

That means I’m in the middle somewhere.  Not in Pennsylvania or West Virginia, mind you, but with tiny shoots of roots in many places.  I like being a nomad, but I miss the comfort of “going home” and blending in.

I lingered for a moment in Tim Hortons with my “everything” bagel and cream cheese.  A few deep breaths of the air, scented lightly by snow and salt brought my mind a bit closer to home.  I put my ski jacket on when I got back to my car; all the better to blend in.   Hurling myself across the QEW again, I munched on my “everything” bagel and felt a bit closer to home.

It’s the first official day after vacation.  I rolled out of bed at 6 this morning – a little less than exuberant from my 4 hours of sleep.  Thankfully the day started slowly, and I wasn’t inundated with phone calls and meetings.

The funny thing is: I feel more relaxed than I have in months.  This vacation may go down as the “most needed vacation”, and it worked wonders.

And as much as I loved the cold weather, it’s nice to be back to an open sunroof in my car.