In the few days since my arrival in Canada I have noticed, with varying degrees of embarrassment and sometimes surprise, that the assumptions I make about the world around me, and my manner of interacting with it, have been influenced by my time away.
The first incident actually occurred at 5:00am in Mexico City after two consecutive nights of very little sleep. Speaking Spanish in such a state is a hopeless affair, so when I approached the Information Guy in the Mexicana Airlines check-in area my sluggish brain defaulted to English. Sort of. "Sir, already I have the boarding pass, I just want to drop off my suitcase. Do I have to make that long line over there?"
This being the literal translation from Spanish to English, I figured the Mexican guy would get it and anyway I couldn't be bothered to correct myself. He didn't bat an eyelash as he directed me to a shorter line. (I am still not certain though if he was helping me or punishing me for my impatience, since he sent me to the 'Special Circumstances' line which was so slow that the man in front of me eventually turned around and kindly suggested that I might try taking some deep breaths and counting to ten...)
Several hours later Mel collected me at the Vancouver airport (see above) and we commenced our journey northward. Driving down a skinny little street, Mel asked me if she had room on my side of the car. "Yeah, you could fit two motorcycles in there!" was my helpful reply. (Though upon further observation, motorcycles here are BIG. You could probably only have fit one Canada-sized motorcycle in that gap.) Mel just looked at me funny and pulled through the tight spot, pushing the barrier of the invisible space-bubble that all vehicles here seem to travel in.
Mel and I drove on, and in the afternoon we saw signs for the approaching Hell's Gate tourist trap. My sensible sister suggested that we shouldn't ride the little cable car across the river because we didn't want to arrive late for our dinner with her friends in Merritt. I added that I didn't want to miss the scenery by traveling at night. It was 4:00p.m.
Yesterday my sister and I, with our grandparents, went on a little tour of the Penticton-Naramata area. It was hot-hot-hot so we decided to stop at a beach to dip our feet. I agreed immediately to this plan thinking we could get some cold drinks from one of the many vendors who would inevitably be at the beach on such a nice day. I imagined little carts full of juices and ice-creams...that would make sense, right? In Colombia you can't get away from these guys. In Canada, it would seem, they are not so easy to find. (I was also shocked by the lack of other beach-goers. Our only company at the first beach was a stray peacock who was admiring his reflection in a parked vehicle...)
We ended up visiting two beaches in the area and no such vendors were present. The second beach, however, did have a permanent kiosk where a friendly teenager sold me a JUMBO Mr. Freeze which hit the spot. While I ate it, I mulled over what had become obvious to me: it was time to turn my brain ON and remember where I was, because I suspect that mildly culturally disoriented will quickly take on the appearance of just plain ridiculous.
But at least I'm not speaking with an English accent anymore, right?
The first incident actually occurred at 5:00am in Mexico City after two consecutive nights of very little sleep. Speaking Spanish in such a state is a hopeless affair, so when I approached the Information Guy in the Mexicana Airlines check-in area my sluggish brain defaulted to English. Sort of. "Sir, already I have the boarding pass, I just want to drop off my suitcase. Do I have to make that long line over there?"
This being the literal translation from Spanish to English, I figured the Mexican guy would get it and anyway I couldn't be bothered to correct myself. He didn't bat an eyelash as he directed me to a shorter line. (I am still not certain though if he was helping me or punishing me for my impatience, since he sent me to the 'Special Circumstances' line which was so slow that the man in front of me eventually turned around and kindly suggested that I might try taking some deep breaths and counting to ten...)
Several hours later Mel collected me at the Vancouver airport (see above) and we commenced our journey northward. Driving down a skinny little street, Mel asked me if she had room on my side of the car. "Yeah, you could fit two motorcycles in there!" was my helpful reply. (Though upon further observation, motorcycles here are BIG. You could probably only have fit one Canada-sized motorcycle in that gap.) Mel just looked at me funny and pulled through the tight spot, pushing the barrier of the invisible space-bubble that all vehicles here seem to travel in.Mel and I drove on, and in the afternoon we saw signs for the approaching Hell's Gate tourist trap. My sensible sister suggested that we shouldn't ride the little cable car across the river because we didn't want to arrive late for our dinner with her friends in Merritt. I added that I didn't want to miss the scenery by traveling at night. It was 4:00p.m.
Yesterday my sister and I, with our grandparents, went on a little tour of the Penticton-Naramata area. It was hot-hot-hot so we decided to stop at a beach to dip our feet. I agreed immediately to this plan thinking we could get some cold drinks from one of the many vendors who would inevitably be at the beach on such a nice day. I imagined little carts full of juices and ice-creams...that would make sense, right? In Colombia you can't get away from these guys. In Canada, it would seem, they are not so easy to find. (I was also shocked by the lack of other beach-goers. Our only company at the first beach was a stray peacock who was admiring his reflection in a parked vehicle...)
We ended up visiting two beaches in the area and no such vendors were present. The second beach, however, did have a permanent kiosk where a friendly teenager sold me a JUMBO Mr. Freeze which hit the spot. While I ate it, I mulled over what had become obvious to me: it was time to turn my brain ON and remember where I was, because I suspect that mildly culturally disoriented will quickly take on the appearance of just plain ridiculous.
But at least I'm not speaking with an English accent anymore, right?
News from around the world. I know how you feel,I get the same culture shocks when I travel back to Jamaica each summer. Then comes the retraining of the brain when u jump back on that plane to Colombia. Still got the bling (teeth in last pic)
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