Life Is Such A Sweet Insanity.

So I’m back home, snug as a bug in a rug. I arrived to the smiling face of Earl around 7:15 p.m. last night, confirming my suspicions that Québec is about eight hours from our home, not including the 1.5 hours I spent waiting at the border to cross back into the United States. Sitting at the border was an absolutely fascinating opportunity to people watch. I was in the left most lane of about eight lanes waiting to cross. All lanes were backed up for about one mile. Three lanes over there was a man with a toddler sitting on his lap, allowing the child to steer the minivan full of people. I wish that I could have worked it out so that I could watch him try to get through customs without the child in a car seat. When I was a kid, we were often entertained by being allowed to sleep in the back window or sit in the steering wheel. Today kids are strapped in and forced to watch a DVD. Hmmm, we survived just fine.

The man at the border crossing was surprisingly very amicable. I think it’s because I willingly gave him both my passport and my driver’s license. “Are you bringing anything back into the United States?” “I have less than $100 in souvenirs, you can take a look if you want.”, was my reply. I think he liked that. He thanked me for my passport because he just had to scan instead of typing the information into the computer. He also had a blond version of my mustache. I like to think that we bonded in some way. He has my number if he wants to call.

Earl and I haven’t traveled in Canada very much since 9/11, mostly because I find the treatment of people coming into the United States rather disconcerting and I don’t want to deal with the hassle. But since this latest excursion, I can say that I plan on visiting our neighbors to the north a lot more. Plus, looking at a map I found a very small border crossing in northern New York that we’re going to start using so we don’t have to wait in the long lines on the interstate.

Here’s some of the observations I made:

1. Talk radio in Canada, both in English and French, discusses a wide range of topics with varying points of view. They talk about the environment, they talk about the upcoming gay pride parade in Halifax, they talk about nuclear power, they talk about crime rates and they talk about their health care system. As soon as I crossed into the states, talk radio was all about terror, terror, terror and more terror, the war, some more terror, the war, terror, the damn liberals, terror and a general “the sky is falling” attitude. I spun the dial several times trying to find something a little less bleak but all I found was more terror, terror and terror.

2. The number of SUVs on the road in Canada is only about a tenth of what we have here in the states. There are some cute little two seat cars, which look like half of a Cooper Mini. I don’t know what they’re called but they look to be quite fuel efficient. I also saw several electric cars, especially around Montréal. While I’m talking about driving, Canadians still use sensible lane discipline for the most part, meaning they still heed “Keep Right Except To Pass”. Here this little law is all but ignored, especially in New England and Upstate New York.

3. I was able to walk through Zellers (think K-mart) without seeing a person on one of the motorized carts that I think should be banned from stores (at least in all but a few extreme circumstances). I also noticed that waistlines are generally somewhat smaller on Canadian citizens. There’s still a lot of husky, but there’s not a lot of grossly overweight going on.

4. Prince Edward Island and New Brunswick seem to be very environmentally conscious in that there are no “trash cans”, there are recycling stations with “garbage”, “recyclable” and “compost”. Everywhere. McDonalds, Tim Hortons, the mall, the street; everyone is intent on recycling. This is good.

5. I confirmed that Americans as a whole are surly and depressed. Canadians seem much more chipper. Every clerk or cashier was friendly, smiled and accomodating. I never left a store without hearing “Merci beaucoup, au revoir!” (Thank you very much, good-bye). And they sounded like they meant it.

Our friends Sean and Jeffrey are going through the necessary red tape to move to Canada and become Canadian citizens. I must say that I applaud their efforts and I completely understand their reasoning. Given the opportunity, I would love to live in Canada full-time. Ten years ago or so, Earl and I discussed retiring to Southern Québec and last night I confirmed that game plan with him.

I love our neighbors to our North. I look forward to visiting them again soon.

So tonight I am in the gorgeous city of Québec, Québec. I haven’t been here since 1983, when I was here with my high school French class. It’s as beautiful as I remember it, with a unique blend of old and new. I love the province of Québec because it has it’s own culture and you definitely feel like you’re not in the States when you’re here.

One of the reasons I chose to come through Québec on the way home, which by the way added over three hours to my trip, is because I’m always looking to break out of my shell a little bit and by spending the night in a city that doesn’t have English as it’s predominant language I figured that I would be forced to be a little more outgoing.

I’ve startled a few people with my attempts at speaking French.

First of all, I don’t know why the New York State Education Department insists on teaching it’s students France French. Half the northern border of the Empire State is with a French speaking province, you’d think they’d teach us functional Québecois instead of France French. From what I understand (and I know Thom in Va. can chime in on this), the folks here speak a more proper dialect of French than the French do. It’s as different as American English versus British English and then some. No offense to Mlle. Hallinan (my high school French teacher), but the maitre’d does not care that Je m’appelle Jean-Patrick nor do they care that “Michel! Anne! Vouz-travaillez? Non, je regarde la télevision, pourquoi?” (We had to recite that last bit from our french book on enough occasions that it has stuck in my head to this day.)

I believe that when you’re visiting a foreign country, you should at least attempt to speak the native language before asking/demanding/jumping into your own tongue. I will make every possible attempt to get through a conversation completely in French, but I’ve been a little wary since that time I told the woman in Montréal that I was in heat (I meant to say it was hot). Now, when greeted with a cordial “Bonjour” at an establishment, I return the same and then try to muddle my way through some French before saying, “Je regrette, parlez-vous anglais?” There’s usually a sigh of relief when I get to this point. Said sigh is usually preceded by startled looks.

The “parlez-vous anglais?” bit worked perfectly at the front desk of the hotel, where the very attractive desk attendant went from perfect French to perfect English without so much as a bat of an eye. I think she was relieved that I wasn’t going to give her the “Michel! Anne!” speech nor was I going to quote Lady Marmalade.

Feeling quite cocky, I got myself gussied up and drove into Québec without a map or GPS at my side. I ended up in the gayborhood! Whoo hoo! I walked around a bit, hoping to find some little place that I could get une table pour un (cringing yet Thom?) and enjoy a little dinner. Unfortunately, that neighborhood seemed to be all about the sushi and/or Vietnamese food. As good as I was feeling avec mon francais, I wasn’t about to dive into some oriental version of the language nor was I going to try to bark out a number off a menu. So I did some more walking and enjoyed the crisp air before deciding I head back to the hotel.

Calorie starved and a little dizzy when all was said and done, I found a 24h McDonalds and decided to give it a shot. I walked up to the counter and did the Bonjour! response and my “Parlez-vous anglais?” to the young lady when she responded “Eh?” I asked if she spoke English again, this time a little slower when she responded with a meek “Non.”

Ugh.

So much for my cockiness. Time to muddle through another order and hope I don’t end up with McYak or something.

“Numero Huit.” I blame Earl for the Spanish I threw into the mix because I had just cleared my voicemail of him babbling in Spanish in response to my French message.

“Huit!” she said.

“Grande”, I asked, hoping to god that’s how I got to supersize.

She looked at me blankly, so I tried again. “Grande?” “Large?” “Super-Sized?” “Mondo Mondo?”

She made “large” motions with her hand and said “Trio”.

“Trio.” Who the hell cares if I was about to get three meals. (I’m thinking that the super sized meals here are called “Triples”, hence the “Trio”.)

When all was said and done I got what I intended and ended the transaction with a sweet merci beaucoup exchange between us. I like to think that the cashier and I had a moment.