What is Canadian?

“What are Canadians like typically,” asked my friend on the eve of my departure home.  “You are the only one I have ever met.”

Other than the fact that I am not the ideal person from whom to adopt a general view of ‘what is Canadian’, I found myself pondering what in fact is truly Canadian?  For instance, right or wrong we throw around stereo types such as the French are romantic, Russian women are beautiful, Swiss are organized, Germans are aggressive – but what the heck could be a generalization of Canadian?

I was stumped.  Until yesterday that is, when I found myself out running errands with thousands of other last minute shoppers.  Make that Canadian shoppers. 

Anyway, I did what I always do.  Strike up conversations and make jokes with complete strangers because the timing seemed right to do so.  But there was one moment yesterday that was particularly cool.  As I left the grocery store laden with bags of groceries I watched the man in front of me stop in front of an old woman who looked both exhausted and overwhelmed with the throngs of people milling about.  The man stopped and asked the woman how she was, and the woman replied so quietly I could not hear.  “Are you alone for Christmas?” he asked.  The old woman nodded and then the man left his buggy full of food and embraced the old woman in a big, long hug.  I saw her face light up and I couldn’t help but smile as I walked on by. 

As I drove home I thought of my day.  The sarcastic banter I had with the clerk at the drug store, the slow cooker tip exchange with woman at grocery till, or the career plans of the waiter I had at lunch.  Then I thought back to Europe and the comments people say to me.  I have heard my boss tell colleagues not to worry about me because I talk to everyone.  Or the fact that I have gotten myself into trouble talking to people and making my non-Canadian date jealous and uncomfortable. It was then that I decided on what is truly Canadian.  We are a sarcastic and talkative bunch.  We will talk to anyone, anywhere.  We like to make jokes with complete strangers and anyone alone is fair game for attention.  We simply like people.

Perhaps it is because we come from a country that is so vast and spread out that in the early days we were just so excited to stumble across another human being that we talked to them regardless of any commonality.   Or maybe it because the long cold winters kept us secluded for months and starved for stimulating conversation.  Who knows?  But what I do know is that the whole sarcasm and chatty thing is not unique to me.  It is in my roots and a fundamental part of who I am.  

But, even though the ease of conversation is natural to a Canadian, so is walking away.  Just because we talk to you – it doesn’t mean anything.  We won't ask your name, or where you are from, we do not really want to know.  The whole thing is about sharing a moment, or a smile or two and getting on with our day. 

Yesterday I watched a man say to a woman that she looked great, “not many women can wear red,” he said.  The man walked away and the woman carried on with a smile.  That’s kind of a normal Canadian thing - we talk, we laugh, and then walk away…

Our Canadian chart topper Carly is featured in this current hit - and the video to me captures a bit of what I am trying to say :)

And - here is a commercial that kind of captures some Canadian winter/police humour.  

Cougar Defined - It is a Canadian thang

Most people know what a "cougar" is - and I am not talking about the four legged one.  It is a term that is widely rumoured to have originated in Canada and refers to women who have an affinity for younger men.  And not just an affinity for them, but literally go on the prowl for them.  

Personally I think the term cougar was coined at the Hotel Eldorado in Kelowna, BC on Friday evening.  But don't just take my word for it - you can be like the many others who have hopped on a plane to go and check out the now rather infamous cougar venue. (Here is a link for you for more information http://www.hoteleldoradokelowna.com/kelowna-lakeside-restaurant/bar/.) And because I can hear those  back home protesting, yes I too have enjoyed an evening or two at the El.  (Photo even entered as evidence - note the blonde theme.  However, an important foot note, just because someone happens to at the El, does not mean that they are a "cougar":) 

For the guys and gals now thinking of packing their bags for a weekend away in say Kelowna - the Hotel Eldorado is located right on the lake, in fact you can take a seat on the dock, sip your crantini (they are famous there) and watch the action unfold within the bar while also taking in the hot people getting on and off their boats. (double entendre intended there in case you missed it.)

Ah...and now that I have you all thoroughly distracted, lets move onto the technical requirements for a cougar classification. 

1. She must be over 30

2. She knows how to rock a pair of tight jeans

3. She is probably (but not always) blonde, with longish hair

4. She knows what Botox is

5. Her body can put most 20 years olds to shame

6. She thinks the younger the better when it comes to men

7. She must be a she :)

And now keeping with the Canuck theme - the Canadian band Hedley with their take on the whole cougar thang...

Ciao for now...

Will That Be Two or Three Kisses?

I have a thing for personal space. You’d be amazed at how much I can create in even the most crowded elevators. Born and raised in southern Ontario, I learned that any type of warmth or affection was reserved for those people with whom you would consider very close relationship wise.

Lets warp back more years than I care to quantify and the Toronto girl moves off to west coast Canada. The land of casual of hugging. I have always taken an element of pride of trying to appear not at all rattled – even when I am. But the hugging thing really sent me for a loop. At first when I saw arms thrust out towards me I would stand ridged like a 2 x 4 and let myself be hugged. The event was an absolute disaster for a lifetime spent cultivating personal space. But that was at first, and it wasn’t long before I became a hugger, and not just the huggee.

When some friends from Europe arrived for a Kelowna visit, I watched as they greeted everyone with cheek kisses. Not to be out done I decided to forgo the hug and greet in the same fashion. I could tell instantly that I had committed a kissing faux pas when I actually kissed the cheek of one of the men. He looked scared and mortified. I can assure you that this is not the type of reaction I was going for and as a result I looked and felt even even more scared and mortified.

A couple of years back when I first started working a lot over in Europe, I developed a light friendship with one of the women who worked at the hotel I often stayed at. It was nice to have someone to chat to about benign subjects like the weather and traffic. After a particularly long stint I went up to say my good byes to everyone. This time I reached out and hugged my friend. And that is about when she slipped into a fit of hysteria laced with panic. I don’t know if she thought I was hitting on her or not.

Note to all; In Austria and Switzerland kissing is considered casual and hugging is intimate.

So, I kiss now too. Air kisses of course. Not the real kind as I strive not to provoke any more panic attacks. But what really messes me up with the whole kissing thing is the number of kisses. In Switzerland they kiss three times, landing on the first cheek kissed. Austria is a mix of three and two. Germany two. I think. France two. I think. Belgium three. Italy is a hug or multiple kisses. To offset this I ask “will this be two or three kisses?” I am not kidding either.

But when I am really happy I have to hug. My good friends here have dubbed it “the Canadian hug.”

My obsession with personal space has been unequivocally challenged. And for the most part I handle it without a moments thought. Except when on a crowded, microscopic sized Euro elevator. For the love of all things good in this world, please do not try and greet me on one. But then, that is another blog…

The Kelowna Factor

I have dubbed it the “Kelowna factor”. No matter where I am in the world, if I attend an event I will run into at least one person who has visited Kelowna. I find it absolutely mind-boggling. These people fill me in on tales of visiting Summerhill Estate Winery, fishing, the Kettle Valley Railway, skiing Big White and enjoying Okanagan Lake. For a place that is not so large in size, it has sure made an impression on countless people throughout the world.

Last night was again, no exception. At a Zurich Expat group event I was asked from where I originated. And of course I was once again enlightened on Kelowna travel experiences. What makes this particularly unique is that in my travels I rarely meet other Canadians, only people who have visited Kelowna.

On another note, a fellow and I were speaking last night. As we were introduced to others our host mixed up where we were from. I was introduced as an American and the other gentleman as a Canadian. We were immediate and emphatic about clearing up that misunderstanding. Canadians are known for being a bit goofy, and American’s – well for being American and both nationalities do not wish to be mistaken for the other J

Sound of Canada

Now all I need is a poutine and I will be having a real Canadian moment. Hedley started up in Abbotsford, British Columbia and although a little top 40, I find in many ways that they kinda capture the essence of being Canadian. It is not so much the sound but rather the words. We tend to be hopeless romantics while at the same time not taking ourselves too seriously - which you will understand more when you listen to the tunes I included. The link following the posted video will take you to one about "cougars" - a term that is known throughout the world, but for some reason started in Canada. (Perhaps inspired after an evening at the Hotel Eldorado in Kelowna ;)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=93LhP1CgQ6w

Experiences that Make up a Life

Last night I had debate with an Austrian friend of mine. He felt that because I had many different experiences in my life I would never be easily satisfied.

We ended up energetically discussing this possibility for a good portion of the evening. His argument was that the more people were exposed to in the world, the less happy a person would be with an average life. My argument was that people simply want what they want.

I don’t have the magic recipe for a perfect, nor would I ever assume that what is right for me is right for another, but I do know the importance of living an authentic life.

My father once told me that parenting was the only “job” in the world that you could judge your success by how little you were needed. I had a terrible time letting go of my son as he grew up. I still do. Even an ocean away I struggle with the act of letting go – on many levels. Sometimes I wonder who has learned more – my son from me, or I from him.

Through parenting I discovered that each person has his or her own unique spirit – or if you prefer individuality. As much as I tried to mold my son, I learned early on that I could not. Or perhaps I should instead say that I would not. It was easy to see the light in my son’s eyes as he discovered a new passion or enjoyed a moment. As a parent it became clear to me that my job was to expose my son to experiences, set boundaries and and let him discover what made him happy.

You can tell when a person is happy. The eyes have a particular light to them, their energy is easy – and well you can just tell. They are living the way they want to live.

My life may defy convention, and it has been at time extraordinarily tough, but it is authentic. What may seem to some is that I am not easily satisfied, but in essence it is far from that. I am easily contented. I do not look back on my life to moments that I remember as happier. I do not long to relive the good ‘ol days. I live for today and I am happy in it.

It is easy to judge what we do not understand. I know many people who are “restless” and not satisfied with the life they are leading. You can watch their special light fade little by little. I sure don’t want that to be me – nor do I want that for my son.

My son’s Facebook status this week was “Life is too short not to be stoked everyday.” I thought that was perfect. Maybe I am wrong, but surely it is not the experiences that make for a life that is dissatisfied, it’s the experiences that make up a life…

A Fasching Failure

Being called a princess is not normally an overly complementary thing to say. It insinuates that you are spoiled and excessively pampered. Although I believe nothing could be further from the truth, the name has stuck amongst a group of particular friends of mine.

Last month I celebrated a birthday here in Austria. During a meeting at work I was surprised with a cake and card. On the envelope it read to the “marketing princess.”

Hmm...

And now in the middle of Fasching season I found myself reluctantly agreeing to participate in a parade and party. Already far out of my comfort zone, I was only mildly surprised when a text soon followed informing me that I was a to dress as a “princess” for the party.

I don’t know about you, but I am sensing a theme here.

So I decided to embrace this whole princess thing. I went out and got the darn princess ensemble – complete with a tiara. It was the least princessy costume of all the princess costumes I could find. But still pretty darn girlie for me. As I look at myself in the mirror I cant help but laugh. My tiara looks so wrong I don’t think I can even wear it. The princes dress makes me look more like - well I have no clue really. Kind of like I should be carrying a bunch of beer steins instead.

Somehow that seems fitting. The one and only time I try to be princess–like, I end up in a velvet Dirndl instead.

Cold and Not Canadian

People have been suggesting that Austria must be as cold as Kelowna now. Nope. It's colder.

Fasching Season

Around this time last year I received a text from a friend asking me to pick him up on my way home from the office and drop him off at his house.

As I waited outside in my car at the agreed upon meeting place my mind wandered. My reverie was quickly interrupted when a man in head-to-toe gold Lamé climbed into the passenger seat. He looked like an adult Aladdin right down to the pointed, curly-toed shoes.

“I must look a bit strange to you,” uttered my friend.

Strange didn’t even begin to capture what was running through my mind. I was still trying to get used to the lederhosen and dirndl and now here I was trying to cope with the fact that I had a human Aladdin in my car. I think I can still hear the awkward laugh that escaped from me in reply.

A few days later a bus painted in wild colours passed by with all sorts of colourfully dressed people within. When I say people, I am referring to adults.

“Carnival season,” said my friend.

This weekend while in the Dornbirn Marktplatz, lets say I was a bit more prepared when I heard the sound of trumpets and whistles blasting and turned to see a parade of adults and children all dressed in orange heading for a snow bank.

As I write this I struggle to find some sort of Canadian or North American equivalent for comparison – but I cannot. It is truly a unique experience, and one that has a rich history. Not just a one-day event, carnival is referred to as more of a “season.” More common in Catholic and, to a lesser extent, Easter Orthodox societies, Carnival Season, or Fasching as it called here in Austria, begins six weeks before Lent – so when it actually begins is connected with when Easter falls of that particular year.

I don’t even know if I fully understand the motivation behind it - but I am intrigued. So this year, I’m in. I don’t know if I am prepared to don the wild attire that so many of the people do here – but as they say “when in Rome…”

An Anniversary of Sorts

Well, it has been one year since I began calling Dornbirn home. And wow what a year.

I have to be honest; it wasn’t easy - in fact at times it as down right brutal. My first few months were filled with unanticipated solitude and disappointment. I quickly discovered that my Austrian BFF was a bust. My search for a flat was as difficult as my hotel room was small. I missed my son, family and friends. The dialect spoken here was a challenge for me. The few belongings I had fit on one luggage trolley.

I was seriously tested. My normally positive outlook was replaced by a series of emotions that lead me on the wildest emotional roller coaster of my life. I can’t imagine that I was much fun to be around.

But I hung in. If you ask me why I made the decision to stay, I would have to say it was only because I didn't want to give up. Or maybe it was my friends and family that encouraged me not to give up. At least that was how it was in the beginning anyway. Because, thankfully, before long things started to change. Acquaintances and even adversaries transformed into trusted friends. I found a flat. My son, mother and friends came to visit me. People started to better understand my fragmented German. I made not one, but a few new Austrian BFF’s. I actually had people I could text and texted me.

So, I am happy to say that one year later my life does not near resemble the one that began last January. And, I do not know if I would change any part of this experience. I was forced to discover things about myself that would have evaded me otherwise...and the people, the places, the countless new experiences - I kind of think that there is some truth to the adage that we should "do what scares us the most." The biggest risks indeed result in the greatest gain.

Plus there is the incredible satisfaction of not wondering "what if?"

Who knows how this journey of mine will twist and turn. Though there is one thing that I do know, no matter what I do or where I happen to be I will continue to be inspired by the remarkable people that make up such an important part of my life - here, there and everywhere...