Category: Sliders

August, 2019

Thoughts and ruminations about nothing in particular:

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As of this writing (8/12/19), we have been in Quebec for almost two weeks and, although I've enjoyed it enormously, I'm ready to be back in a land of English speakers. 

As Bernadette and I walk the campground, every conversation we hear is in French.  No mistake, it's a beautiful language.  Someone — I don't recall who (but a better writer than I) — once said that the sound of French being spoken "falls gently on the ear."  As opposed to, say, German, which sounds like suspenders caught in a garbage DisposAll.  Still, hearing the words and having no idea what people are saying gets old after a while.

And not just conversation.  Several times a day the campground manager broadcasts announcements over a PA system and I have yet to understand any of them.  For all I know, she could be warning of an impending flood of biblical proportion and telling everyone to leave the island on which the campground sits or abandon all hope.  The river that surrounds us would have to rise about 20 feet so I don't think that's what it's about, but what do I know?

It's fun to be immersed in a different language, but after a time it creates a feeling of isolation and I'm getting close to that point.  Fortunately, we leave on Thursday for Ottawa.  That's in Ontario, and that means more English (although they do that curious thing of ending their sentences with "eh?").   Departure is about three days off and by that time I may be counting the minutes.

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It's interesting to note that Canadians don't seem to share our love affair with trucks and SUVs.  Our campground, for obvious reason, is a haven for big trucks, but most vehicles plying the roads are small to very small.  Also seen are lots of motorcycles, scooters and many more bikes than I'm used to.  I think I know why.

In a previous post I mentioned being pleased to find that gas was only $1.24 in Canada.  That is, until reality took hold and I realized that it was priced per liter.  Thinking about that again today, I did a little math.  I probably shouldn't have, but I did it anyway.

There are roughly 4½ liters in a gallon.  That means $1.24 per liter is a whopping $5.58 a gallon. 

Now, I don't know if that number brought on a "holy crap!" moment for you, but it sure did for me.  Once I got over it though, I remembered that the amount in question was in Canadian dollars, which is like the Centigrade of currency.  A handy conversion calculator brought the price down to $4.19 a gallon USD;  a little less eye-popping, but not much.  Thinking about it for few moments, my self-pity changed to sympathy for Canadians.  They don't get the converted rate.

Small cars indeed.

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Canadian men, at least Quebecers who camp (I don't want to over-generalize) seem to go for the bare-chested look.   More than anyplace I've seen yet, guys at our campground in Sherbrooke spend their days, dawn to dark, in nothing but shorts and sandals.  I don't know if it's a cultural thing or if the long hard winters give them a need to dive into warm weather with greater gusto. 

Campers might not be an accurate sampling but generally people here do seem to revel in summer, certainly more than the typical Tennessean.  Of course in the South we swelter through the summer months all the while dreaming of winter, then we pine for summer's warmth when it turns cold.  Go figure.

Imagining the hardships of a Quebec winter, I can't blame these guys for enjoying themselves in minimal clothing, even though they're not exactly Chippendale material.  The look doesn't work well for most of them and someone really should say something.

Don't look at me.  I don't speak French.

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Another thing I find odd about folks around here is their attitude toward dogs, specifically mine.  Bernadette is the fourth greyhound in my life and the most affectionate of the bunch.  A sweeter dog has never been born.  She wants to meet everyone and she just knows they want to meet her. 

Also, greyhounds are very attractive.  They're thin and they have long legs, long necks and big eyes.  In other words, they possess all the physical attributes that our society prizes.  They are the fashion models of the dog world.  And with far fewer dog tracks in Canada than in the U.S., many people hereabouts have never seen a greyhound.  You might think they'd be interested, especially given that unusual beauty and grace. 

Yet, despite all that, here in the campground people walk right by her as if she doesn't exist (me too for that matter, but I'm no one's idea of a model).  As a dog person, I want to greet and meet every one I see, large and small, young and old.  I love 'em all and the attitude of anyone who doesn't is to me, well... foreign.

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August, 2019

Are you bored with your life?  Is your day to day routine too stultifying for words (even though stultifying is a pretty good word)?  Do you yearn for some color in your black-and-white world?  Then here's what you do: go spend some time in a country where they don't speak English.  You don't even have to cross an ocean to find one, just head to Quebec.  No, it's not a country, but it's pretty darned close.

We tend not to think of Canada as a foreign land.  Sure, they use the metric system, their national sport is hockey (pronounced, "hawh′-kee"), and they eat odd foods like Poutine (which is actually no stranger than the things Waffle House does to hash browns).  But in our endearingly myopic way, we still consider it more American than other countries, largely because, like us, they speak English.  But wait...

Canada has something you don't often find in a country.  Wedged in amongst three ordinary American-ish provinces is Quebec, which is not just Canadian, but also French.  Proudly French.

The first time someone greets you with "Bon jour!", it's tempting to think they're kidding.  But French has been the official language of the province since the British granted the Quebec Act way back in 1774.  Many Quebecers do speak English, often with a heavy Gallic accent, but many don't.  Not a word.

When a local says something in their native tongue and you reply "I'm sorry, but I don't speak French," you may get a look of confusion in return because they don't even understand that phrase.  We American's are just not used to that.

Indeed, there may be no better example of our self-focused perspective than the way we so often refer to ourselves as "Americans".  In doing so, we eliminate all Canadians from our world view, even though they too live in North America, to say nothing of disrespecting an entire continent to our south.  But I digress.

Another reminder that you're not in Kansas, or even Calgary, anymore is that signs are in French.  Not some signs, but street signs, traffic signs, business signs... all signs, all French.  It's like, well... a foreign country.

The RV park where we're currently docked packs vehicles in pretty tightly and, as the nature of RV-ing is living outdoors, conversations among neighboring campers are easily heard.  In a full week of residing here, I have yet to hear one word of English spoken.  Each time I step outside my door I'm reminded that I am a foreigner here. 

So I try to approach everyone in the park and on city streets with a smile because that's a universal language.  I appreciate it when a grocery store clerk or barista quickly switches to English for me.  I practice patience with others and thank them for theirs, often with a "merci". Only an "ugly American" expects everyone to speak our language and I sure don't want to be seen that way.

 
If this website has a theme, it's that change is good.  If you're observant, and one of the two or three people who actually read these posts, you'll see it on almost every page.  Some folks choose to stay safe in their cocoons, but it's refreshing to step outside our sheltered lives once in a while.  It's a wake-up, a splash of cold water in the face.  That's what this time in Quebec has been for me.

Of course, it's also left me starved for conversation.  So in the name of everything that is holy, will someone please CALL AND TALK TO ME!

And when I answer the phone, don't say "Bon jour!".

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