Go down to North Beach. Look north and then, cast your gaze slightly leftward, to about 11 o’clock, and there it is.
It’s Canada, and it’s the great neighbor about which most people here know way too little.
When I first moved to PT, I assumed that in a town with so many educated and well-travelled people, the locals here would know a lot more about the fine people right next door than most Americans do. Nope.
I soon joined Rotary here, and since PT’s clubs are in the same Rotary district with British Columbia, I assumed that these folks of all PT people — these are mostly college-educated business people — would know quite a bit about Canada. Wrong again.
Curious, I decided to give my fellow Rotarians a quiz about Canada at one meeting. Most, not all, knew who Canada’s Prime Minister was (then, Stephen Harper), and most also knew what Canada’s capital was — although some incorrectly guessed Toronto. OK, good start. So, how many provinces are there in Canada? Fageddaboudit. In what province is Winnipeg? Crickets. Could they name even four of the 10 provinces? Puh-leese.
I often ask people in PT how much they’ve travelled to our neighboring country just a few miles north of here.
Typical answer: “I’ve been to Victoria a few times.” Um, OK. And how about Vancouver, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, a world-class tourist destination? Typical answer: “We were up there a few years ago.” It’s only about three hours travel time, ferry included, to get there.
I wrote a humour (Canuck spelling) book about Canada, one whose title I can’t use here because it contains a now-unacceptable word for the developmentally disabled.
I was a snarky 25-year-old Montreal sportswriter. I certainly did not appreciate Canada then as I do now. Sample joke: Q. How do you spot a Canadian? A. When he enters a room, it’s like someone just left.
Or this: Q. When it’s noon in New York, what time is it in Toronto? A. 1955.
Har de har har.
My son was born in Montreal and now lives in Vancouver. I doubt he’ll ever return here and I don’t blame him. Imagine not having to hear the cringeworthy name “Trump” countless times a day. Imagine living amongst polite people — with national health insurance. Rampant socialism!
I spend quite a bit of time up north, and I appreciate that the first question you’re usually asked by Canadian customs agents at the border is: “Do you have any firearms?”
Imagine. A place that doesn’t enshrine guns.
I was one of the few Americans in Montreal in the ‘70s who wasn’t there to evade the draft. I emigrated because I fell in love with that great European-like city, and I speak pretty good French. (Although I now speak it with a Québécois accent that makes most Parisians cringe. Déclassé!).
The winters were brutal in Montreal, though. In most of Canada in winter, it’s so cold people jump INTO burning buildings. (Another gag from my book, which you can still find on Amazon).
My first day at work at the morning daily in Montreal was bizarre. There were federal troops surrounding the Anglo newspaper. Prime Minister Pierre (père) Trudeau had just declared martial law for the first time in Canadian history after a French-Canadian terrorist cell kidnapped the British trade ambassador and killed a Quebec minister.
It was called “La Crise d’Octobre,” the October Crisis. My new Montreal Gazette newsroom colleagues, stunned, repeatedly apologized, explaining “This kind of thing has never happened before here.”
But another problem loomed: I had to learn about hockey. Fast. This was the city where the game was invented, after all. And Montrealers, like most Canadians, were and are, hockey fanatics. But a few months later, I experienced a Canadian dream. I got to ride in the Stanley Cup victory parade! In the same car with two Montreal Canadiens players from what’s considered the greatest NHL team ever.
I was covering the parade, and it went down the main avenue, Ste. Catherine’s Street.
There were 400,000 people along our route. We were showered with confetti and cheers from jubilant Canadiens fans.
But not once did anyone swear at us. And there was no gunplay. There were no punches or beer bottles thrown our way from that huge crowd.
I knew I wasn’t in the U.S. any more!
(He shoots...he scores...Molson’s Ale! PT’s Bill Mann still closely follows Canadian news and wrote the Canada column for MarketWatch.com)
