Where Did You Say You Was From?

It's a queer feeling to spend some time in your native country and find that it has become foreign.

I walked down to the local grocery store yesterday to grab a few necessities and as I perused the aisles, I had a hard time picking out a single brand that was familiar to me any longer. Then, I stumbled upon the sweets aisle and in a blink, I was transported back to my childhood when cookies were the only reason for choking down overcooked spinach (eyes watering, gagging).

Dare cookies.

They are a little slice of nirvana. I can remember climbing up the formal dining room chairs to get the bags of cookies that were hidden on top of the china hutch. And yes, you can assume that there was an issue when parental units are forced to hide the sweets. And because I am nothing if not patriotic, I bought a bag of Dare Maple cookies to take back home.

Old Dutch Potato Chips.

You have not lived until you have burned off the inside of your mouth with their salt and vinegar offering. It's hard to find that flavour in the US. Dill pickle is another Canadian favourite. Of course, I haven't had a chip since 1987 and can't imagine being friendly with my bathroom scale in the foreseeable future so marching down nostalgia lane is an exercise in junk food frustration.

Did I mention the drugs? According to the current American administration, Canadian pharmaceuticals are of inferior quality because negotiating the cost with the manufacturer is madness, I tell you. Certifiable. Besides, who has time to bicker over price gouging when there are more important things to do like topple "rogue regimes". But I digress.....the drugs. Yes. In Canada, there are magic pills called two twenty twos (222's).



They are basically Tylenol 3's and they are available over the counter. Apparently, Canuks are responsible enough to handle a little caffeine and codeine without too much trouble. Since most Canadians have engaged in at least one of the national past times (the consumption of beer, contact hockey), 222's are as vital in the medicine cabinet as toothpaste.

I took my purchases up to the register and noticed that the cashier had a fairly thick Canadian accent. As I paid and exchanged pleasantries with her, she asked me how I was enjoying my visit.

"How did you know I was visiting?"

"Oh because of your accent," she answered.

This took me by surprise but I guess after fifteen years in another country, assimilation will take place. My knee jerk reaction was mild panic at the thought of losing the Canadian in me but after giving my head a shake, I realized that I get the best of both countries and who really gives a flip if I can no longer be identified by the way I talk.

I was once caught speeding in northern Michigan and the first thing the police officer said to me after I opened my mouth was, "You ain't from around here, are ya'?" Today, I'd have to ask him to define, "here" because for me, home has really become less concrete and more about where my hat is hanging.