Texans in Canada, Part 2

The Medusa stare of the black squirrel. Canadian parks are littered with extremely realistic human statues.
Image via Wikipedia

Much of the appeal in moving to another country was the idea of making a fresh start. We'd get a new home, a new car, new jobs, and most importantly new credit. Essentially our lives would begin anew. What I didn't realize was that starting over would be less like a clean slate and more like reverting to a state of infancy.

I don't know where I am most times. I can't tell you what street I last came from, but I'm mostly certain it ends in Crescent and/or starts with Rue. Remembering my own address and phone number is like disassembling complex algorithms in my head. I feel like that special kid at school in the 50s who showed up to class with his vital information pinned to his vest, like dog tags. Someone asks me my name and I look down at the little scrap of paper on my chest to make sure it's right.

Going around town I'm unsure where to stop for my needs. Luckily Canadians recognize when to keep things simple, like with naming stores that carry vital household necessities. If you need beer, you go to The Beer Store. If you need shoes, go to the Shoe Company. Need stuff for the kids, there's the Children's Place.

At Canadian Tire you can purchase far more than expected, except groceries, but they introduce a new issue by circulating their own currency like some independent monetary authority. Just when I thought I understood the Loonie versus the Toonie I'm handed some alternate Monopoly money by the Canadian Tire cashier that claims to be a nickel's worth of tire. Only in Canada can I carry around a two dollar coin and a five cent bill.

Amongst other confusions sloshing around in my newborn mind, I can't tell you what the temperature is because I'm slow to convert to celsius. I can't express how far it is to anywhere because nothing is measured in miles. Driving at 100 is really not that fast anymore but it feels like I should be a feature news story, on the run with 60 cop cars behind me. Maybe I have a hostage but the helicopter reporter is unsure as of now.

Hopefully I'll be fast to mature and these problems will fade, perhaps only to be replaced with new ones. Canadian acne? Some barriers will be harder to break through than others, like this terrible habit I have of spelling things correctly. Imagine being raised by an unethical scientist and on your 13th birthday you're told that not only do you have a twin, and you were each raised in separate identical homes only a block apart but one of you was taught everything to be opposite of what it truly was, like black is white and Fords are really good cars. Now the experiment is over but you have to relearn the world. (I am the falsely educated one in this scenario.) This is how hard it will be for me to "correct" my spelling, especially while I find that vowels playing musical chairs is still so humorous, ...humourous? My favorite sign about town so far is "Centrepointe Theatre." Tee hee.

I'm sure I'll become accustomed to most of the Canadian quirkiness, but I don't forsee any level of comfort being made with one bizarre fact: The squirrels here are black. Not just dark, but BLACK. I've never heard of such a thing and I'm concerned with how at ease everyone is with the situation. Supposedly they're harmless but I don't trust them and at this point will assume they are the devil's work. Of course, if any black squirrels are reading this I was just kidding. We're cool right?