oh canada
mostly pointless ramblings of admiration about our neighbor to the north
When you grow up playing hockey in Western New York, you spend a lot of time across the border in Canada. Day trips to Welland, Fort Erie and Niagara Falls. Longer trips to Brantford, Brampton, Burlington (for the Silver Stick tournament after Christmas) and Hamilton. And the annual weekend in Mississauga to battle Cawthra Park.
As I got older, I saw other parts of the country too. Every November, my father and I drove across Ontario on the way to the Little Caesar’s Thanksgiving tournament in Detroit. And later I got to see what so far is my favorite city on earth—Vancouver, BC.
Even as an adult, Canada continued to play a special part in my life, most notably our many trips to The Beer Store. Yes, The Beer Store. An entire store filled with beer. It basically works like this: you walk in and tell a very nice person what you want. That very nice person punches some keys into a machine. You give that very nice person some of your money. And then your beer magically appears on a conveyor belt. What’s not to love about that?
Then there’s Cupolo’s Sporting Goods’ annual tent sale. The beach at Sherkston. Don Cherry’s Grapevine. Niagara on the Lake. Canadian rock bands. I could go on and on. Holy hell I love that country.
Jenni and I had some great memories in Canada, too. I still have the program from our trip to Toronto’s Pantages Theatre, where we went to see Phantom. I don’t remember the year. It was back when the Bills were good. We had set the VCR (that’s video cassette recorder for you millennials) to “tape” their playoff game against Oakland. We tried hard to avoid radios and TVs. Then, during intermission, the helpful staff at the theatre announced the final score—a 51-3 Buffalo win. Today’s Bills need three games to score 51 points.
We also had our own little Japanese restaurant—Iseya—in St. Catherines. If you made reservations you could get your own room with a sliding paper door. You took off your shoes outside the room and sat on the floor. It’s still the best ginger salad dressing I’ve ever had. I’m smiling now, just thinking about it.
But perhaps the most vivid memory I have with Jenni was our lunch on a little rooftop patio restaurant downtown. It was a gorgeous day and she looked stunning. We were just enjoying the city and some conversation. And then something flew up her floor-length skirt. She jumped up from the table and broke into a fantastic “bee dance,” capturing the entire restaurant’s attention. I was worthless—partly because I can’t dance for shit, but mostly because I was laughing so hard. Not so, our waitress. She was filling water glasses, and when she noticed what was going on, she ran over, thrust her hand in the pitcher, pulled out some ice and quickly wrapped it up in a napkin for Jenni. Then she went on filling water glasses as if nothing had happened, using the same pitcher she had just bathed her bare hand in. I didn’t drink any more water during lunch, but I still love that country.
Why all this talk about Canada? Last week I found myself heading to Toronto for work. I decided to fly into Buffalo and drive the rest of the way, so I could hang out with my mom for the weekend. The drive from Buffalo to Toronto was steady and peaceful. I listened to CFNY (102.1, The Edge) the whole way. No offense to WHTS (97.7), but CFNY is just the best radio station anywhere. It’s iconic, much like 97-Rock in Buffalo. And it may be the thing that makes me finally take the plunge into satellite radio.
I couldn’t help noticing how much cleaner Canada is than America. There was almost no litter on the side of the highway, and everything seemed fresh. Niagara Falls is a great example of that glaring difference between our two countries. To be fair, the Canadian side is tacky as shit and lousy with tourists. But it’s always clean and well-kept. Meanwhile, across the border, you have to be careful where you step for fear you might jab a hypodermic needle into your foot.
Cars. Cold. Cost. Those are the three big reasons I can think of to not live in Canada. To be sure, the traffic still sucks; it took me four hours to drive the 102.5 miles to my mother’s house. And they really need to do something about the speed limit. I understand that 100 kilometers per hour makes for easy math. But come on friends. That’s pretty slow, even for a guy who now lives in the south.
I know it can get pretty cold in Canada, but it was perfect while I was there. The sun reflected off the city buildings and the lake, with just enough breeze to remind you where you were. I miss Lake Ontario.
And I was surprised to find it less expensive than I remembered—especially the beer. I bought two 20-ounce (or whatever the metric equivalent is) beers and a bottle opener from Amsterdam Brewery for just under eight Canadian dollars. You can’t do that where I live now.
And then, of course, there are the people. Canadians, in my opinion, are some of the nicest folks you’ll ever know. Folks? Maybe I am getting a little southern. Anyway, it’s a striking contrast to many people here in the States. Canadians don’t care or even notice your skin color. They don’t judge where you came from. They don’t give a shit who you’re married to or sleeping with. They don’t look down on you if you have the wrong answer to “What church do you go to?” And I’d venture to guess that a bathroom is just a bathroom to Canadians. Or a washroom, since that’s what Canadians call them.
The point is that Canadians don’t seem to be affected by the fear of difference that cripples us in America. We seem to have forgotten the sage words of Bill Murray in Stripes. “We’re mutts… Our ancestors were kicked out of every decent country in the world…” Somehow we’ve developed this smug sense of superiority. And we wonder why most of the rest of the world hates us. Message to the rest of the world… We don’t all think that way—just the jackasses we put in front of cameras and microphones.
Cheers!
