When Dreams are Calling (11 page)

19
Why J’aime le Canada

Bonjour,
bien sûr, comment ça va?

Hello,
of course, ne touché me pas.

We
might enjoy the same country,

But
we’ll never be, comment tu sais, amis.

Oh,
mais pourquoi, maudits Anglais?

Or
better say, you, tête carrée.

We
share the skunks, the beavers too,

The
touques, the fever et ‘ils se foutent.’

And
so it goes, day after day,

Pleasantries
stand in  the way

Quebec
serves snails, amour et vin

The
rest of it, just pays le prix.

When I
left Canada, Robert gave me three books:
one was
How to Be
a Canadian
, another one was
Living Abroad in
Australia
, and the last
one was
Chicken Soup for the Cat and Dog Lover’s Soul
.

He told me most
Canadians find the first
one funny, so I should take it as a test. The second one was just in
case I
ever get lost, while the third one had to replace an instant happy
phone call.

I never had the
time or the need to read
the last two, but to see how much of a Canadian I became after all, I
read the
first one.

What follows is
a glimpse of Canada through my eyes.

“Hey buddy,
wassup?” Robert said picking
up his cell.

“Jeez, I
haven’t heard your voice in
years. Not much, not much, dawg,” his friend, Paul, answered.

“Cool, cool!
Let’s hang out tonight at the
Timmie’s, eh?”

“For sure. See
you later, buddy.”

And so it goes.
Day after day, in Canada, whether you are planning on falling in love,
seeing an old friend, or running into your
neighbor, it is all easily done in one single place: the local shopping
mall.
You don’t have to search the Internet for local dates or ride your bike
far and
wide. Shopping malls get the folks together, keeps the cold away, and
the
wallets light. And the shopping mall Food Courts are the Mecca of any
true
Canadian. After the usual retail therapy, here comes the big choice:
where to
eat. The options are countless: Mexican or Greek, Indian or Japanese,
Italian
or Chinese, Thai or Vietnamese, not that I could ever tell the
difference
between the last two. The way I always made up my mind was by comparing
the queues.
Although some would say longer the better, I say shorter, the better.
After all,
we might be eating Greek, but we are Canadians, time is money, no
bailout loans
for us.

While
walking around Canucks, you should never
worry if you look
presentable, a bit flashy, or just plain. On the native land of
beavers, there
is no such thing as fashion and everything goes as long as it’s comfy
and warm.
The wardrobe of each Canadian consists of at least a dozen flannel
shirts and
another dozen of touques. You can wear them at work, at the mall, in
the summer
or winter; it really doesn’t matter, because all you are saying is: I
am
Canadian!

Even if
you find it difficult to part ways with
your pajamas, rest
assured, you may still enter any place you’d like. There will be no
fingers
pointed at you and no gossiping behind your back. Just don’t expect any
heads
to turn around in admiration. But this is something most of us are used
to
anyway.

The only
problem is that even if you look
ridiculous or hideous, no
one will do you a favor and tell you. People are polite and politically
correct
to the point of doing you a disservice.

What
better example of this than Canadian road
manners? If you are
at a pedestrian crossing with no traffic lights, the pedestrians will
invite
you to go, while you will invite them to cross. And the story might
take a
while. So, if you are in a hurry, just drive, for God’s sake.

But, when
it comes to blocking the traffic,
pedestrians are by far
the least of the evils. It seems to be a dark spell over all the
highways in Toronto. Once you enter one, you’re stuck there for a long
time and at rush hour each one
of them transforms into a huge parking lot. To use the time
efficiently, you
should take a driving lesson book and start reading. You might get your
chance
to practice one day.

Canadians
might be polite, sweet, helpful, and
all that is good and
beautiful in this world, but not when it comes to Americans. Americans
were,
are, and will probably remain their worst foe, at least the one they
openly
admit having. For whatever reasons, Canadians and Americans cannot
stand
each other.

It might
be the proximity. Now, if you were
stuck for hundreds of
years with the same partner, wouldn’t you hate him? I know I would.

Or it
might be the bad habit of Americans to
import the entire
Canadian stock of large and extra-large outfits, which forces all the
Canadians
to stay fit while their friends over the border indulge in “all you can
eat.”

Whatever
it is, it’s there to stay, so learn to
play neutral.

I loved
the Canadian flag, because it’s red,
simple, and close to
nature. However, I found it to be quite deceiving. It shows a maple
leaf, which
you rarely see considering most of the year is winter anyway. However,
what you
always see, no matter where you travel in Canada, winter or summer, is
Tim Horton’s
cafés. Everything a dietician will tell you not to eat, you will find
at Tim Horton’s.
It is famous for its sickeningly sweet donuts, filled with sickeningly
sweet
cream. It serves the worst
double-double
ever known to humans. But it’s
double. And, as a country that praises itself on having everything big:
houses,
portions, lakes, falls and whatever else you might imagine, that’s good
enough.
As a true icon, Tim Horton’s remains the first morning stop for every
true
Canadian. It’s the hidden daily tax Canadians pay for living in the
country of
the snowman.

When it
comes to bureaucracy, Canadians have
their own version, much
more polite, but with the same lethal effects. In some countries you
may jump
any queue by strategically placing an envelope stacked with cash in the
hands
of the responsible person. In Canada, you are just stuck.

If you
have the patience, the best you can do
is make a phone call
and start listening for an hour or more, shaking with fear that you
might get
disconnected, to the same beautiful speech:
“We apologize,
but currently all
the lines are busy. Please wait on the line and someone will be with
you
shortly
.” If you have enough battery power on your phone, you
can spend an
entire day like that: once in line, it will take ages to get out of it.
It is called
a paid online hide-and-seek service.

But,
with a good range of degrees to choose from, all with minus in front,
life in Canada is fun.

If you
think it's not cold enough in Toronto, you
can always go to
Montreal, and if it is still too warm for you, you might try Calgary
and so on
until you end up in Yellowknife, which reaches temperatures of minus
sixty-four
Celsius. If it’s still not enough, then maybe it’s time for you to have
some
blood tests done.

The
national smell found all around Canada is
provided by the
population of
skunks
. No
one ever complained of the
efficiency and prompt service of their scent glands. Their foul odor is
strong
enough to be carried almost one kilometer by the wind and can be found
everywhere, at any time, in unlimited supplies. This traditional
all-organic
perfume fills the air in spring, autumn, summer, and winter.

Just in
case you might ask: no, they do not
hibernate.

And one
more thing: in Canada, when you don’t
know what to say, just
say thank you. The more the better. 

By the
way,
thank you
for
reading this.

PART THREE
Australia
,
Living the Life of My Dreams

“A few years ago we colonised this place with
some of our finest
felons, thieves, muggers, alcoholics and prostitutes, a strain of
depravity
which I believe has contributed greatly to this country's amazing
vigour and
enterprise.”  

Ian
Wooldridge

20
Melbourne: Footie and Schizophrenic Weather

Pussy
cat, pussy cat where have you been?

I've been to many places far in between

And,
out of all, I have to say,

My
love for Melbourne goes a long way!

Why
Australia? Why not Australia? It was ever
farther from my homeland, had poisonous creatures
ready to set me free each day of the year, “convicts” roaming freely
proud of
their heritage, fearsome crocodiles still mourning for their beloved
master
Steve
Irwin,
long enough beaches to
encircle an entire continent and warm to hot weather all year round. To
make it
even better, in the Land of Oz, you know with certainty the world will
not come
to an end today because for you it is already tomorrow. On New Year’s
you go to
bed first and when you wake up somewhere there is still the Old Year.
Whether
that’s good or bad, it depends on how your year has been.  

But
immigrating to Australia is not an easy
thing to do. Whoever
tells you differently must be part of the boat people party paddling
along for
a better life. Usually, they are the ones reaching the shores of
Australia faster than anyone else, welcomed by lots of officials, given
a free shelter,
then used as a bargaining chip at each federal election.

As for me,
I was more afraid of swimming than
of flying. Traveling
the oceans in search of Australia on a small, flimsy boat was not
exactly what
my heart would desire or my mind advise. Instead, I filled some forms,
took a
number and said a prayer. And, looking for some reassurance, I bought
some
books about spiders, sharks, and deadly jellyfish and wait patiently
around the
fire dreaming of hot sunny days.

After six
months, I got the answer: despite
having no serious
criminal record, I was a wanted woman.

Although,
it took Australia six months to
invite me onboard, it took
me an entire year to say goodbye to Canada.

After all,
it’s always hard to say goodbye and
most of the time it’s
not because of some profound feelings: it’s just the bloody assets.

“What
should I take with me and what should I
leave behind?” I wondered,
looking around my apartment.

Each piece
of furniture, each book, each dish
had a story. They all
reminded me of my humble beginnings, of my struggles, of my fight.
“That’s how
any hoarder begins! Damn it! I’ll give you all a free cruise to
Australia.”

They might
not have appreciated it, but I was
happy. I could die in
peace or live forever blessed.

Out of all
the Australian large cities, I
picked Melbourne,
following the method of exclusion:

“So where
shall we land?” I asked myself while
sitting impatiently
in front of my laptop. “Sydney?”

Nope.
Too big, too crowded, not my thing
,
my friendly inner voice argued.

“Darwin?”

Isn’t
that the place of cyclones, Japanese
bombs, and crocodiles? 

“Is it? I
thought it was the place where the
thermometer does not go
down when the sun does and where box jellyfish form a welcoming party
committee
each time a croc missed you.”

It
might be both. Not good! Darwin out! Next
one.

“Let’s
see: Canberra?”

Canberra
? No way! It’s more exciting to
be eaten by a croc than die of boredom. Plus, there, you definitely
don’t perspire.
If anything, you expire.

“Perth
then?”

Those
guys are in a constant state of
excitement: Western Australia,
the State of Excitement. It must be the mines getting to their head!

 “No
good. Too much
dolce
far niente
never killed anyone,
but too much excitement? Hmmm…it just might. Perth is out.”

Adelaide
?

“I don’t
know much about it.”

Then,
maybe you shouldn’t. We are not going to
Adelaide.

“Cairns?
Brisbane?”

Go
where the jobs are! Stop fooling around!

“Melbourne?”

Hmmm…not
sure. Tell me another one.

“Another
one? That’s all there is. It’s a
continent, dear, what do
you want? But, if you want to be a Bedouin, that’s a different story.
Plenty of
spots for this one. Right in the center. We have to settle somewhere.
So, what’s
going to be?”

If
we have to, we might to. We’ll go to
Melbourne.

“Amen.”

But
Melbourne didn’t seem to be too excited
with my decision. As
soon as I got off the plane, it gave me a chilly look without a
warning. At
eight Celsius in the morning, the city was the least sunny of it all,
surpassed
only by Canberra. When I landed, I was wearing the same summer dress I did in the forty-five degrees Celsius heat of Dubai,
revealing the
shape and form of a freezing goddess: me. What better way to warm up
than singing? 

“
…
cold as ice…”

Foreigners,
cold
, this song
and this
artist were saying it all for me.

“You mean
cool
as ice,” a
guy passing by said, blowing me a
kiss.

Just about
when
I was ready to blow him a kiss back, my inner voice, shouted at me:
 

Stop
singing! It’s serious business going on
here. You landed in the
land of Oz, dream chaser!

“Indeed, I
have. I’ve done it again!”

But there
was no point to despair about the
weather, as Melbourne is also famous for having four seasons in a day:
at night winter sneaks in, in
the morning fall takes over, spring shows its shy face around lunch,
and summer
smiles in all its glory in the afternoon. So, all I had to do was to
wait. With
such variation two things were clear: I’d never get bored and I’d never
be dressed
in tune with the season, simply because there was no clear season. My
city of
choice had a schizophrenic weather meant to drive whoever attempted to
make a
plan well in advance insane.

But
Melbournians are optimistic people who take
pride in having a
swimming pool in the backyard and try desperately to use it once per
year. They
must be really scared of hot saunas.

So, let’s
make one thing clear: Melbourne is
not freezing cold, but it’s
not suffocating hot either. The winter takes its time, and the summer
is not in
a rush to come. Don’t pack just yet! You might be happier where you are!

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• In life, few
  things are worth keeping:
  travel light.
  
• Too much planning
  does not guarantee
  your success. Confidence does.
  
• Be prepared for
  the worst; let the best
  surprise you.
  
• Australia
  , a backwards country always ahead of every
  other one.
  

If seasons
take their time, people mimic the
seasons. Down under,
everything and everyone is a bit slow, not backwards, but just slow. To
get the
drift, here are two real life examples:

First one,
writing an email at work:

“Hi,
Janet. I wrote you about three weeks ago
in relation to an
urgent matter. I have not heard back from you…”

Should
I write, “Please respond to your
earliest convenience?”
I asked myself.

“No, no,
no! What will be the point? She does
that anyway.”

I started
again.

“Hi,
Janet. Bla bla bla…I look forward to your
reply.” Whenever that
will come.

Second
one, waiting for my Aussie 
lover
:

“You know
you’re late, don’t you?”

“No way!
Again?” he asked with the face of an
angel.

“Yep,
that’s exactly my point:
again
!”

“Oh, luv,
just when I was making an effort.”

“Rrright,”
I said making a mental note to pick
the next one anything
but Aussie, preferably German-made.

The moral
of the stories: in the land of Oz,
don’t worry, be happy
or like they say: no worries, mate! They surely live by those words and
you’d better
do the same.

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• There is a time to
  run and a time to
  rest. For Aussies, the first usually happens in the morning, for the
  second
  they take all day.
  
• If you are
  punctual, learn to wait.
  

If, after
waiting for him for hours, you still have doubts whether he is a true
Aussie, wait till he opens his mouth. There is nothing like
the Aussie
accent. It’s
unique, impossible to reproduce and even more challenging to
understand.

Not
convinced yet? Go figure this true example
of barbaric butchery
of the English language. Then, try turning it into a song: Phew!

I
am a fair
dinkun aussie,

I
luv my
mates and footie games,

I’ve
my
brekkie early mornin’

And
watch my
pitches nightie night.

I
spend the
day missing my missy,

Wait
for the
Chrissy to hold her tight.

I
hate the
Poms each time the’re picky,

I
hate the
mozzies and skippies too.

I
cook my
chooks right on the barbie,

Might
throw a
prawn, a croc or two.

G’day
G’day
ya shifty bugger,

It’s
me your
dirty gutsy shagger.

G’day
G’day
ya ginger luv,

G’day
G’day,
sis’ “ows it goin”?

Shut
up you
arse or chatter box!

You’d
better
go and buy some avos,

Or
otherwise
I’ll tell your boss!

However,
don’t be surprised if they consider
others messing up with
their native language. Some would rather think you are the one with a
Euro trash
accent than admitting they are the
descendant
s
of Eliza
Doolittle. 

Their road signs seem also to be a bit
“interesting:” “Right turn
from left only.” Say that again?

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• If you speak
  English, but Australians
  still have no idea what you are saying, blame it on the accent! Theirs,
  not
  yours!
  
• All signs have a
  purpose, even if only
  to make you smile or go insane.
  

If Toronto sometimes smells like maples and
most of the time like skunks, in Melbourne the gum trees are in charge
of the fragrance. I loved going for a walk, squashing
a leaf in my hand, and letting the eucalyptus oil fill my nostrils.

The sounds are also a bit different. If in
Toronto there is no day
without hearing the wind blowing, in Melbourne first thing you hear in
the
morning are the parrots squawking. The parrots are the Australian
version of
the rooster with one main difference: while the roosters turn quiet
after
giving you the wake-up call, the parrots are in charge of ensuring you
stay
awake the whole day. They are louder than your wife, your
mother-in-law, and
both of them put together.

Christmas is celebrated on the beach, with your
hopefully topless
girlfriend and her skimpy string bikinis, having a picnic and watching
the
sunset make the sky burst with colors.

If you love the outdoors, then Melbourne is not
a bad place to be.
You can go for a bike ride in the mountains or along the ocean shores,
you can
soak in the mineral outdoor spas, have a glass of wine at the different
wineries surrounding the city or simply watch the cockatoos quarrelling
with a
vocative magpie, a daring kookaburra or a noisy miner. You’ll
find it
easy to understand why Victoria is called the Garden State.

If you were to ask any Melbournians what they
love to do most, the
answer will be one and one only, and no, it is not
lying on
the beach
.
Melbournians love to watch footie, with the only plausible alternative
being to
play footie. In Ozzy land, footie is a mandatory activity leading to
compulsive
disorder when missed. Each game has to be watched, then watched again,
commented, then commented again. It really doesn’t matter with whom.
Could be
your dad, your cousin, your neighbor, the taxi driver, anyone you meet.
The
subject is more popular than the weather.

“We’re going out tonight, gorgeous!
We’ll have a blast!” my Aussie boyfriend
proudly announced to me.

“Shall I put on my new dress?” I asked.

“A pair of running shoes, black jeans, and a
red shirt will be
better. It’s Anzac Day and the Bombers are playing tonight, luv! How
could you
forget?” he went on, while his voice became louder.

“How anyone dares to forget!”

“C’mon! We’ll have fun! It’s the final! Bombers
are playing in the
final! Do you know what that means? Do you know for how long I’ve been
waiting
for this to happen?” he screamed, overly excited.