One thing that I can positively say defines me is the fact that I cannot bear the sight of an international boundary so close to where I am, and NOT cross it. The latter is simply unthinkable. Every border ought to be crossed 
.
Since my weekend is actually in the middle of the week, and coincides with my father's, I kept coaxing my parents to go to Port Huron (MI) until they agreed to do just that. They needed a change and a little trip, and they knew it.
What they didn't know was just how close Port Huron really was to London.
The map shows the distances relative to Detroit, which should be familiar to most non-North American readers. Route 22 in Canada (which runs parallel to Highway 402) actually passes one block away from my place, which is at the upper-left corner of the city of London. Basically, if I turn left then right and keep going straight ahead, I'll be in America in a very short time. The wonders of grid-roads! We chose the 22 because it is a quite country road, as opposed to the standard 402 which is one of the main arteries in Ontario. Being a train person, I find the whole concept of highways rather scary. There is little that gets my alarms ringing than going up that round ramp, pedal-to-the-metal and hoping you won't collide with a truck!
I didn't really clock it, but I would say it is no more than an hour's drive (as opposed to 2 - 2.5h drive to Detroit). The border guards were shockingly nice to us.
Allow me to stop here for a moment to note that this is actually my first instance dealing with Northern Americans, as all of my previous stays in the 'states were down in what used to be called The Confederacy. There, I met Americans that I liked. They were warm, friendly, and fun, and their boys definitely yummy.
I definitely felt a subtle yet distinct difference in the collective "vibe" that this culture gave off as opposed to either the southern states or Canada.
Of course, if there is one thing that unites all of America, that thing would be one word: B I G !
Crossing that gigantic steel bridge (amazing architectural feat, no doubt), one is very quick to notice being dwarfed by the hoards of GMC and Dodge and Ford trucks, vans, and SUVs zooming from all four or five or six lanes around you (You'd be hard-pressed not to believe that every single American is either a builder, lumberjack, or a boater, or all at once, judging from their bold and bulging cars). Suddenly, everything is a bit bigger than back home. The plazas are bigger because, I assume, Americans don't walk - they use their cars to go from shop to shop in the same plaza. I've seen this before in other places in America. Of course, I kid, but you get my point.
"WE BUY GUNS HERE!", a sign greeted me. Oh yes.
We found a cute textile-and-hobby shop and decided to peep in for a look. It was chock-full of interesting products that I have not seen anywhere in Canada. I bought some beautiful textile designs on paper which I plan on using to create birthday cards.
We continued on, barely evading an accident or two, until we reached a Mall. Apparently one is not enough - there was a mirror image of the same mall on the other side of the many-laned road! Much as I was hoping to dine at one of these family restaurants ubiquitous in small North American towns, my parents felt tired and wanted to just grab some chinese food from the mall's food court. I noticed that young men all around were eyeing me down. Suddenly, I got a nasty flashback from Uzice (in Serbia). I took off my cap, which definitely made me stand out along with my very British dress-shirt. That helped, as well as the fact that I have perfected the art of not only avoiding, but diverting unwanted eye-contact.
Anyway, I never liked malls (and this one was about as big as all of London's malls together!). But it seems Americans have perfected the art of Merchant Magic. I somehow was lured and quickly slipped into the Perfume section of their Macy's, hoping to find my favourite, Bulgari (plain original), which is conspicuously absent from London's shops. The lady not only convinced me to buy the larger bottle, but also somehow managed to get me to sign up for a Credit Card that would get paid off at-the-spot, or something to that effect which I was too overwhelmed to understand. All I wanted was a bottle of perfume... Luckily, the Credit Card trick didn't work, as perhaps I have too low an income. But I still got the perfume... and she gave me a discount still. I remain very confused.
As we walked through the mall, we passed by a booth that sold watches. The guy in there is really a cartoon of your typical watch-seller - unbelievably sleezy, and almost desperate to sell something, hopefully with that crooked smile. He wanted to sell me a watch that cost only $500. He was in his 30s, I'd say, with a rather unfitting blond goatee that matched the somewhat sleezy ring on his finger, studded with diamonds. Of course "he loves us guys [Canadians]," and in fact he has a cousin "who makes granite counters in London". Cute.
Out of this manic-shopping centre, with map in hand, I directed my parents to a park located on the L. Huron beach. It was a surprisingly pretty sight:
(Note the Coast-guard, the helicopter, and the fact that the bridge is a secure border checkpoint. These guys are serious!)
Lake Huron (more like a sea, really) is rather pretty. Its water is reasonably clean, unlike the sludge that makes up lakes Erie and Ontario. It's soft waves definitely have a soothing effect. Also unlike Erie and Ontario, both of which give a feminine vibe, Huron is more of a masculine body of water. At the time, the beach was basically all ours. I can see it as being probably very busy in warmer months, as it really very much a sea-shore type of beach (not very apparent in the pic above, which looks toward the river).
We watched as two men set up their fishing rods in cylinders in the sand, and attached cute copper bells to their tips, then left and sat far back. That was a rather neat idea!
After that, we returned (or tried to return) back to Canada. After getting lost trying to figure out the correct Highway exit, a lady in a car with a Texas license plate was extremely helpful, and sure enough, following her direction we found Canada.
Worthy of note was that, on our way back, I spotted a heritage site just off the Route 22. It was a park for RVs and trailers, with a pretty little pond, and a sign that informed that an Irish man came to visit this area in the late 19th century, only to find the Pioneers living there in extreme poverty. Following his faith, he established the first Methodist Church in the area and somehow improved their quality of life. I cannot for the life of me remember his name, but I believe his nickname was "Uncle Joe", and that he died in Isle D'anticosti (Quebec).
Also worthy of note that one of the farms we passed actually had lamas. The last thing I ever imagined seeing in Southwestern Ontario was a lama!
And this was my day. I feel exhilarated by the fact that I traveled today, even if for a tiny trip. I find that crossing borders is something of an initiation. I feel ecstatic noticing all the differences one finds once one is on the other side.
It is very easy to imagine that Americans and Canadians are almost indistinguishable. But if, say, our main national language was French, or if they spoke, say, Portuguese, the differences will suddenly spring out and become rather apparent. One quality that does not defy description is my observation that Americans, North or South, tend to be more dynamic than Canadians in their interactions. They generally speak a bit louder, are more assertive, and definitely have less of a compulsion to apologize for apologizing.
I'd really like to cross someday from Quebec to New England. That will probably make the differences very apparent. But for today's short trip, I was able to discern certain qualities (other than the big-ness), such as subtle body-language cues and accent, which definitely made me feel in a different country. I will not deny that, particularly in Michigan, I felt slightly intimidated by most people. Maybe this was due to the big-ness of all that surrounded me. I do not know. But it was certainly a nice and refreshing experience. I am sure this must be evident to you, since you probably would not expect such a tiny trip to warrant a journal entry.
Next, I plan on dragging my parents to Buffalo (NY) ...
. Since my weekend is actually in the middle of the week, and coincides with my father's, I kept coaxing my parents to go to Port Huron (MI) until they agreed to do just that. They needed a change and a little trip, and they knew it.
What they didn't know was just how close Port Huron really was to London.
NSFW:
The map shows the distances relative to Detroit, which should be familiar to most non-North American readers. Route 22 in Canada (which runs parallel to Highway 402) actually passes one block away from my place, which is at the upper-left corner of the city of London. Basically, if I turn left then right and keep going straight ahead, I'll be in America in a very short time. The wonders of grid-roads! We chose the 22 because it is a quite country road, as opposed to the standard 402 which is one of the main arteries in Ontario. Being a train person, I find the whole concept of highways rather scary. There is little that gets my alarms ringing than going up that round ramp, pedal-to-the-metal and hoping you won't collide with a truck!
I didn't really clock it, but I would say it is no more than an hour's drive (as opposed to 2 - 2.5h drive to Detroit). The border guards were shockingly nice to us.
Allow me to stop here for a moment to note that this is actually my first instance dealing with Northern Americans, as all of my previous stays in the 'states were down in what used to be called The Confederacy. There, I met Americans that I liked. They were warm, friendly, and fun, and their boys definitely yummy.
I definitely felt a subtle yet distinct difference in the collective "vibe" that this culture gave off as opposed to either the southern states or Canada.
Of course, if there is one thing that unites all of America, that thing would be one word: B I G !
Crossing that gigantic steel bridge (amazing architectural feat, no doubt), one is very quick to notice being dwarfed by the hoards of GMC and Dodge and Ford trucks, vans, and SUVs zooming from all four or five or six lanes around you (You'd be hard-pressed not to believe that every single American is either a builder, lumberjack, or a boater, or all at once, judging from their bold and bulging cars). Suddenly, everything is a bit bigger than back home. The plazas are bigger because, I assume, Americans don't walk - they use their cars to go from shop to shop in the same plaza. I've seen this before in other places in America. Of course, I kid, but you get my point.
"WE BUY GUNS HERE!", a sign greeted me. Oh yes.
We found a cute textile-and-hobby shop and decided to peep in for a look. It was chock-full of interesting products that I have not seen anywhere in Canada. I bought some beautiful textile designs on paper which I plan on using to create birthday cards.
We continued on, barely evading an accident or two, until we reached a Mall. Apparently one is not enough - there was a mirror image of the same mall on the other side of the many-laned road! Much as I was hoping to dine at one of these family restaurants ubiquitous in small North American towns, my parents felt tired and wanted to just grab some chinese food from the mall's food court. I noticed that young men all around were eyeing me down. Suddenly, I got a nasty flashback from Uzice (in Serbia). I took off my cap, which definitely made me stand out along with my very British dress-shirt. That helped, as well as the fact that I have perfected the art of not only avoiding, but diverting unwanted eye-contact.
Anyway, I never liked malls (and this one was about as big as all of London's malls together!). But it seems Americans have perfected the art of Merchant Magic. I somehow was lured and quickly slipped into the Perfume section of their Macy's, hoping to find my favourite, Bulgari (plain original), which is conspicuously absent from London's shops. The lady not only convinced me to buy the larger bottle, but also somehow managed to get me to sign up for a Credit Card that would get paid off at-the-spot, or something to that effect which I was too overwhelmed to understand. All I wanted was a bottle of perfume... Luckily, the Credit Card trick didn't work, as perhaps I have too low an income. But I still got the perfume... and she gave me a discount still. I remain very confused.
As we walked through the mall, we passed by a booth that sold watches. The guy in there is really a cartoon of your typical watch-seller - unbelievably sleezy, and almost desperate to sell something, hopefully with that crooked smile. He wanted to sell me a watch that cost only $500. He was in his 30s, I'd say, with a rather unfitting blond goatee that matched the somewhat sleezy ring on his finger, studded with diamonds. Of course "he loves us guys [Canadians]," and in fact he has a cousin "who makes granite counters in London". Cute.
Out of this manic-shopping centre, with map in hand, I directed my parents to a park located on the L. Huron beach. It was a surprisingly pretty sight:
(Note the Coast-guard, the helicopter, and the fact that the bridge is a secure border checkpoint. These guys are serious!)
Lake Huron (more like a sea, really) is rather pretty. Its water is reasonably clean, unlike the sludge that makes up lakes Erie and Ontario. It's soft waves definitely have a soothing effect. Also unlike Erie and Ontario, both of which give a feminine vibe, Huron is more of a masculine body of water. At the time, the beach was basically all ours. I can see it as being probably very busy in warmer months, as it really very much a sea-shore type of beach (not very apparent in the pic above, which looks toward the river).
We watched as two men set up their fishing rods in cylinders in the sand, and attached cute copper bells to their tips, then left and sat far back. That was a rather neat idea!
After that, we returned (or tried to return) back to Canada. After getting lost trying to figure out the correct Highway exit, a lady in a car with a Texas license plate was extremely helpful, and sure enough, following her direction we found Canada.
Worthy of note was that, on our way back, I spotted a heritage site just off the Route 22. It was a park for RVs and trailers, with a pretty little pond, and a sign that informed that an Irish man came to visit this area in the late 19th century, only to find the Pioneers living there in extreme poverty. Following his faith, he established the first Methodist Church in the area and somehow improved their quality of life. I cannot for the life of me remember his name, but I believe his nickname was "Uncle Joe", and that he died in Isle D'anticosti (Quebec).
Also worthy of note that one of the farms we passed actually had lamas. The last thing I ever imagined seeing in Southwestern Ontario was a lama!
And this was my day. I feel exhilarated by the fact that I traveled today, even if for a tiny trip. I find that crossing borders is something of an initiation. I feel ecstatic noticing all the differences one finds once one is on the other side.
It is very easy to imagine that Americans and Canadians are almost indistinguishable. But if, say, our main national language was French, or if they spoke, say, Portuguese, the differences will suddenly spring out and become rather apparent. One quality that does not defy description is my observation that Americans, North or South, tend to be more dynamic than Canadians in their interactions. They generally speak a bit louder, are more assertive, and definitely have less of a compulsion to apologize for apologizing.
I'd really like to cross someday from Quebec to New England. That will probably make the differences very apparent. But for today's short trip, I was able to discern certain qualities (other than the big-ness), such as subtle body-language cues and accent, which definitely made me feel in a different country. I will not deny that, particularly in Michigan, I felt slightly intimidated by most people. Maybe this was due to the big-ness of all that surrounded me. I do not know. But it was certainly a nice and refreshing experience. I am sure this must be evident to you, since you probably would not expect such a tiny trip to warrant a journal entry.
Next, I plan on dragging my parents to Buffalo (NY) ...
