So once upon a time, I used to visit Oregon about two or three times a year. I had some temporary connections to a particular community and stayed with friends for three to five weeks at a time. I lived as one of the nationals, not as a tourist and, I have to admit, I enjoyed the lifestyle, perhaps because it was so different from what I had known in eastern Canada for most of my life. It was like I would drop into this microcosm and time stood still for awhile.
During those visits, I came to be amazed at how insular Americans really are. I felt like I imagined Rick Mercer must feel when he went out with crew and camera, south of the border, to interview our southern cousins on all things Canadian. It was surreal at times.
The first time I ate in an Oregon restaurant, the waitress sidled over, pen and pad in hand. Her name tag said, "Jennie Lou" or something equally redneck and when I looked up into her eyes, I am pretty sure she must have used a whole tube of mascara first thing that morning. Not to mention her eye shadow. I mean, isn't there a rule against using that particular shade of light blue on the eyelids? Frankly, it looked more like a small child had used a crayon. My mind quickly made excuses for her appearance, saying, well, maybe she needed glasses and could not afford them or had some kind of colour blindness.
Then she spoke. She called me "Hon" and it was then I realized I had the real thing.
Shortly after, a local told me that this town had been the western headquarters for the KKK for a long time until someone had the good sense to give them the boot. It all made sense.
The next day, we took a visit to the nearest Burger King and half way through the meal, I had to go to the little girls room. And I forgot, temporarily, that I was now in conservative, small town America. And, after all, it WAS Burger King. So when I asked the cashier at the counter to direct me to the "washroom", she got the most peculiar look on her face. I panicked, regrouped and then changed my wording to "restroom". She resumed breathing and, still not taking her eyes off me, pointed to the back of the restaurant. All I could think about was thank goodness for American television programming all those years.
Once, during those years of visits, after I had established a few good neighbourhood relationships, I had been invited for a meal over the back fence. They served barbecue and it was wonderful! After our main course we were sipping a glass of wine and the host, an outdoorsy kind of guy who did landscaping for a living and who would not hurt a fly, mentioned a trip he had taken to British Columbia a few years earlier, where he had had a run in with the Canadian Customs agent.
"He wouldn't let me take my rifle over the border," he said, holding his glass of wine like it was a brandy snifter, swirling the contents inside.
So I asked him why not. Big mistake.
He went on to say he wanted it for protection against bears or other wild animals while he was camping in the wilderness of B.C. A legitimate claim, but not something a Canadian Customs agent wanted to hear and you got it right, the guy smiled at my friend and told him he was giving him another chance to tell him why he needed the rifle, saying he wouldn't let him take it in unless he told him what he wanted to hear. See, what my friend did not know was, in Canada, unless you have a special licence, you can't own a rifle for any other reason than to hunt or do target practice at a skeet club or rifle range. But, of course, in America, one has the right to "bear arms". Hence, the confusion. And, as I was to soon learn, this guy wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.
So my friend ranted for ten minutes on how he had to lie to take his gun in. All pretty predictable grievances and I sympathized with him.
Then he said something that made me look more closely at how much wine he had consumed. Because it made no sense at all, at least, from the standpoint of a Canadian.
And this was what he said.
"I don't see why I couldn't use a gun to protect myself in Canada. If I can do it in America, I should be able to do it in another country."
I bit my tongue and resisted the gross temptation to give him a lecture about honouring the laws and customs of other nations. Especially when we travel to them.
And I offered him another glass of wine. I think it was made in Canada.
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