That's not to say anything against Canada or Canadians. I expected more animosity toward my Americanness and wondered if I'd be perceived as taking a good job away from a hard-working Canadian. Something that you might hear someone (usually an idiot politician and his or her know-nothing followers) say back home. But so far, so very good. People are generally friendly here, even in a big city like Toronto, although I wouldn't say uniformly polite, as the stereotype goes. All bets are off on the daily commute, which can be fierce. I don't know that I've made any friends outside of home, but I feel like I could if I wanted to. I just have to find the time and get myself more organized to do so.
And there has been a lot to organize and take care of since I arrived here on Canada Day, July 1, 2015. The commute. The job. Home life with my boyfriend/partner/significant other/whatever the term may be when you read this in five years' time. Paperwork and lots of it: The work permit (golden ticket número un), my SIN (social insurance number), pension forms, a Presto card, chequing (yes, chequing) and savings accounts, credit cards, a cellphone plan, a Magic Jack plan just in case anyone from the States ever wants to call me; an Ontario driver's license, car insurance, car inspections and registration (something I'm still not done with), passport renewal, and golden ticket número deux, the coveted Ontario Health Insurance Plan (OHIP) identification card, aka free health care.
All while spending 11 to 12 hours a day going to, at, or coming from work, in a country that despite the big spaces and great distances, still operates small: Most business happens 9 to 5, Monday through Friday. Things like insurance agencies are closed in the evenings and on weekends, although banks to their credit do a great job of being open almost all day on Saturdays. And, goodness, they take holidays seriously and give most everyone, even salespeople the day off. Many stores and some malls were closed on Labour (yes, Labour) Day, for instance.
I've managed most of it, except for car inspection and registration, which I hope to accomplish this month. Then I get to do a sort of system reboot in the new year, when I apply for permanent residency, which will ultimately mean different paperwork to complete. But first things first: I have to pass an English-language competency test in order to apply for permanent residency. And it will only cost me the bargain price of $265 CAD to do so.
Obviously the credentials from two American universities, the same that I had to present in order to get my work permit, mean next to nothing in terms of my functionaly literacy in my mother tongue.
The Catch 22 of Canadian bureaucracy aside, there are minor struggles. Spelling and language usage continue to confuse me, so maybe an English test is in order after all. Canadian English is like listening to an old familiar tune that suddenly strikes a . . . let's say "different" rather than "wrong" or "sour" note. It's bi-ling-ew-ul" and "proh-cess" and "proh-ject" and "ah-gainst" and "ree-zource," sometimes all in the same sentence. I'm gradually losing the sense of not so much what constitutes an American spelling but what is a Canadian versus a British versus an American spelling. At the moment I consider myself very much an American living in Canada, not a wannabe Canadian, as I might have desired 10 years ago. But I try to get along, so I'm gradually inserting some extra u's and -re's into every other word, whether they require it or not.
I'm having trouble with my tongue in more ways than one: Continuing to represent challenges are shopping and eating, two of my favorite pastimes.
In a previous post, I discussed the disconnect of shopping in Canada: How Wal-Mart is more like Target and thus not such a shameful experience as it is in the U.S. A couple of months later, and I find myself still confused. Holt Renfrew and Ogilvy are still too high-end for me, and in Toronto, Nordstrom and Saks are about to enter the market, making me outclassed in two countries and cultures. Simon is still planning to move into the TO market from Montreal, which would have been welcome six years ago when I could fit into their men's wear.
Speaking of shamefulness, I kinda miss Marshall's/Ross/T.J. Maxx, and I definitely miss DSW Shoe Warehouse, which I could use right about now, as fall sets in, and I long for a pair of half-boots to protect my tootsies from the rain. I've yet to bring myself to enter a Winners. That's just so wrong.
It's not just the stores and the schedules, though; the products are different, too. Let's start with the most important meal of the day, coffee: Peet's Coffee, my go-to brand in the States is so far, nonexistent. Ditto for Chobani Yogurt. The cereal aisle at the local supermarket is decidedly smaller, although I've managed to find overpriced Bran Buds and reasonably priced Quaker Oat Squares, along with a lot of the Kashi cereals. But then there are cereals like Vector by Kellogg's that sounds like something that would cause bodily harm if poured into the bowl the wrong way.
Despite the prevalence of a highly diverse population, even (or especially) in the suburbs, I have tried three supermarkets and come up anchovy-less--although if you need multi-flavored sardines, conger eel, or octopus in a can, I'm your man. Perhaps I'm misremembering this, but anchovies seemed pretty much a supermarket staple in the States. I'm not saying everybody or anybody much eats them, but you can find them at least. The Caesar salad situation in this nation is at crisis level, as you might imagine.
Southern food, Texas foods, and Mexican foods are also in very short supply, and even when you find them, you often end up with a brand you've never heard of or not exactly the product you're used to.
Grits, white corn? Check, finally found some at the local Loblaws, one variety by a firm named Ferma, a purveyor of Portuguese fine foods based in Montreal, tucked away in an odd amalgam of Asian, Indian, and Latin American foods. Hominy, golden? No, sorry, how about white corn hominy instead? Yes, that will do for pozole, which I'm making for dinner tonight (although experimenting by using chicken instead of pork, given the boyfriend's background). I could only find Goya brand, which I'm familiar with from my days in Texas, but none by any of the more Southern food purveyors that form my cultural strong suit.
Chipotle peppers in adobo sauce? Yes, but barely, intermingled with the red and green chile sauces, courtesy of La Costeña brand, another one I'm less certain of. Hatch green chiles from New Mexico? Well, yes, but only because I stocked up on them via Amazon before I left home. They've come in handy more than once, including for some impromptu Canada Votes election night nachos this past October 19.
None of this is bad, mind you, nor a deal-breaker nor any real hardship, of course. I'm starting to appreciate the prevalence of Lavazza coffee, both ground and whole bean, in the supermarket, and I'm starting to think the whole Chobani thing is one big, $1.50 per container scam. We have a brand of Greek yogurt in Canada, Skotidakis, that actually tastes and mouth-feels (if I must) like Greek yogurt--tart, thick, substantive--to which you can add honey or jam à la Fage. And if you don't like Greek active, then how about French passive in the form of Quebec's own Liberté brand? It's quite and quietly excellent.
Truth be told, I was troubled by the lack of access to grits, however, as well as hominy. Not that I ate either every day back home, but I knew I could get them when I wanted them, even in Pittsburgh. And then suddenly I could not.
Forget gold, oil, and diamonds--clearly grit manufacturing should be the driver of Canada's economic engine. Golden hominy and hominy-related products are indeed just that--pure gold.
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