My Third Canadian Autumn Begins

I’ve always found it remarkable how many people say that autumn is their favorite season. You would think that people would prefer the lazy doldrums of summer. Yet, ask any North American to name their favorite season, and you will invariably get a response indicating either fall or both summer and fall.

I think the explanation for this is that fall is a time of year when people often start something new—ironically, a season of death represents new beginnings for so many. Either it’s off to school, sending kids to school, the start of a new sports season, or even getting new clothes that provide a bit more protection from the elements than the summer tank tops and shorts. One of my friends and I were recently discussing how powerful seasons and holidays are in prompting memories and emotions—it’s the temperatures in the air, the thickness of the atmosphere, the decorations, the colors of the fields, the richness (or lack of) in the hues in the sky, and most of all the smells that cause us to get lost in reverie, depression, or excitement. Fall, in particular, is a bit drastic in these changes. While autumn slips in some flurries here and there just to get everyone mentally ready for the upcoming cold, winter moves to spring in a blustery and muddy but gradual way, and spring eases into summer with two-degrees forward/one-degree backwards type intervals, the fall of fall always seems to be more sudden. There is always a day each year when I walk out my back door and say, usually to no one in particular, “Well, fall is here.” I can’t recall ever having that same epiphany for other seasons.

While autumn has always been my favorite season, the changing from summer to fall has increased significance for me now as I remember that one of the biggest changes in my life happened in the late summer/early fall of 2008. That was when I moved away from the US. The 30^th of August recently came and went, and the magnitude of the date did not escape me—it was my two year anniversary of moving to Canada.

I had some chance to contemplate how much my life had changed in two years, and in what ways the changes were so much different than I could have imagined. The following weekend was cold, rainy, and blustery, and I remember mentioning to no one in particular, “Well, fall is here.” Our friends Tony and Rick came from Michigan to visit us for the holiday weekend. This was their third annual Labor Day weekend visit. Their first visit to Canada on Labor Day weekend was when I moved to Canada. They arrived in Cambridge on the Friday night and stayed with Sarah so that they were there and able to help us unload the U-Haul when I arrived from Michigan the next day. In the mean time I was sleeping in a nearly empty house in Michigan with a U-Haul parked in the driveway. I got up the next morning and finished loading the final few items. My friend and neighbor Beth came over to say a tearful goodbye and to give me a bunch of Canadian coins that my soccer teammates had collected as a going away present.

As I needed to bring not only the U-Haul to Canada, but also my car, my friends Clare and Jason came over to make the trip with me. We had a nice little three-vehicle convoy—I was driving the giant U-Haul truck. Clare drove my car, and Jason drove his car so that he and Clare would have a way to get back to Michigan.

I’ll never forget those few split seconds when I pulled out of the driveway for what I knew would be the last time. I was full of fear and sadness. Sarah had made the same journey just six weeks earlier, and she said that the further she got from Grand Rapids, the more the fear and sadness started to transition into excitement and anticipation. Like her, I was driving all alone with only my iPod and my “moving to Canada” playlist to keep me company. More on that in a future post.

The U-Haul could only go so fast, and we had to stop for gas and food now and then. When we reached Detroit, we had to stop to export my car. Most encounters with United States federal government employees are a real treat, and this was no different. It took about an hour to complete something that should have taken ten minutes. Finally the car was exported, and we headed over the Ambassador Bridge. We didn’t get too far as the line to get into Canada extended almost the length of the bridge. I will never forget thinking about how during that whole time on the bridge, my car was a car without a country—exported from the US but not yet imported into Canada. I was kind of the same.

The import proceedings at the Canadian border took an additional hour, but were a much more pleasant experience, as the customs officers were very chatty and helpful. Then we were on our way again, driving the horrendous two hours of highway 401 nothingness between Windsor and London. Once we hit London, I knew we were only an hour away from my new home, and as Sarah predicted, my fear and sadness has changed to excitement—here I was in a new country, MY new country.

A journey that would typically take under six hours ended up taking ten hours. Our little convoy arrived at the house in Cambridge where we were joyfully greeted by Sarah, Tony, Rick, and our dogs Cody and Brit. The reunion with Sarah and the dogs was emotional enough, and the realization that four of my friends made the incredible journey with us just to help us out and help ease our anxiety was overwhelming. It was already getting dark when we arrived, so we opted to wait until the morning to unload the truck. Besides, Sarah, Tony, and Rick had made a trip to the Beer Store and stocked the fridge with over 72 bottles of new and exciting Canadian beers.

I woke up the next morning and opened my eyes and thought, “Wow, I’m in Canada. I’m in a different country!” (This internal morning ritual was repeated every morning for almost the next five months.) The rest of the weekend was filled with shopping, drinking, and unpacking. On Labor Day, all of our friends headed back to Michigan, and so we were left all alone in a new country where we didn’t know anyone. I had negotiated to start my job the following week, so I had one week all to myself to explore my surroundings. Sarah was working, so during the day, I rode my bike and walked around town, took drives through the countryside, and sat on the deck taking it all in. Autumn came early in 2008, and by the first week of September, the feeling was already in the air. The day before I started my new job, I was hanging out on the deck with the dogs. The sky was cool gray, the wind encouraged a few red-tinged maple leaves to surrender to gravity, and I buttoned my overcoat with a shiver. I mumbled to no one in particular, “Well, fall is here.”

Hockey--For Weddings and a Funeral

I had only been in Canada about a year when I first had occasion to go to a funeral. Two of the first close friendships I made after moving here were with one of my hockey teammates and her husband. In many ways, they have been like surrogate parents to Sarah and me. They invite us to their family functions, go with us to watch football and hockey games, come over for dinner, etc. Unfortunately, my friend’s brother was very sick in the hospital and he ended up dying at a relatively young age. I found out about this untimely death a couple of days after it happened, and as I was at work when I found out, I did some online research to find out about the funeral and visitation.

Sure enough, as I looked online, I discovered that the visitation was that very morning. I was thankful that I was dressed in business attire (not casual) that day, and I got permission from my boss to leave work for an hour to go to the visitation.

I parked my car outside the funeral home and saw that there were many cars there and people going in and out. Yet, something didn’t seem right. I was too focused on my own social anxiety at going into a place full of people where I would likely only know three or four people, so I just looked at the ground as I made my way through the parking lot and in the door.

The funeral home employee in his formal business suit greeted me and directed me to the appropriate room. As I entered the room, I had the fleeting thought again that something wasn’t right, but this time, after only a split second, I figured it out. Everyone at the visitation was wearing a hockey jersey. I couldn’t have felt more out of place dressed in my suit.

Almost all of the hockey jerseys were Buffalo Sabres jerseys, so I visually sifted through the sea of people dressed in dark blue or white to try to find my friend. Finally I spotted her in a jersey that was about four sizes too big. I immediately hugged her and then also saw her husband, one of the few other people dressed in a suit. I spoke with them briefly and expressed my condolences. As I was speaking with them, I noticed that my friend’s husband had a Buffalo Sabres sticker on his lapel. Scanning the room, I saw that almost all of those not in a jersey at least had stickers on their clothes.

My friend explained to me that her brother was an avid Sabres fan, and that he would have been just thrilled to know that people came to his visitation and funeral in their Sabres jerseys.
There was no body in the room—only several photo boards. But, I am sure if the body would have been there, my friend’s brother would have been in a Buffalo hockey jersey.

Feeling out of place due to the way I was dressed and because I knew almost no one, I left and hurried back to work and reflected on what a surreal experience that had been. It seemed so bizarre to me that I wondered if there was even any point telling my friends back home about the hockey-themed funeral. I was planning to include this story on my next installment of my "favorite Canadian moments," but then I decided that it probably was an anomaly and would be unfairly stereotyping.

Then, this past weekend, I attended my first wedding in Canada. Well, I guess I can’t really say it was my "first" wedding in Canada, as Sarah and I were married in Windsor in 2006, but it was definitely my first wedding as an attendee since moving here.

Ironically, it was also the first time I had ever attended a same-sex wedding (again, other than my own two weddings with Sarah, where I was a participant). I didn’t know what to expect, and I was eager to experience a same-sex wedding as a mere observer.

Two of my friends who I know from work and from hockey were marrying each other. I was just so thrilled that they invited me, and Sarah and I were looking forward to the experience. We arrived at the wedding, which was outdoors, and immediately saw a small string quartet playing upbeat jazz. Sarah and I took our seats near the back and watched all the other guests arrive. I was bracing myself the entire time in case I overheard any negative comments about same-sex marriage, and I looked carefully for any body language that implied a participant was not quite comfortable with what was about to take place. I didn’t hear or see either.

Soon, there was a slight stir in the crowd and someone announced the pending entrance of the two participants. I was caught off guard when, expecting to hear a traditional wedding march or other wedding song, I instead heard another slightly jazzy and upbeat tune coming from the string quarted behind me. Everyone in the crowd began laughing, including Sarah. I saw my two friends enter the area together, smiling broadly. The tune was vaguely familiar, and I eventually determined it was from television, but I couldn’t quite place it. Everyone around me was still laughing, so I was embarrassed to ask because I didn’t know exactly why it was funny. Finally I whispered to Sarah, "What song IS this? It sounds familiar."

She looked at me a bit surprised and then responded, "It’s the theme song from Hockey Night in Canada."

Oh, yes, why hadn’t I realized that? After all, nothing says love and commitment like Hockey Night in Canada!

After this song finished, the ceremony turned much more formal and was, in fact, quite touching and beautiful. After all the vows were said, rings exchanged, kisses kissed, and papers signed (for my US readers--in Canadian weddings, all the paperwork is signed during the actual ceremony), the best man was called up to the front. As the wedding reception did not involve a formal dinner, the best man was called up front to make a speech. Sure enough, he was dressed in a new Dion Phaneuf Toronto Maple Leafs jersey over his suit and tie. (Both brides are passionate Maple Leafs fans.) He was an odd contrast to all of the other wedding party members who were in nice dresses or pantsuits.

Later in the evening during the reception, I was still pondering the significance of attending my first Canadian and same-sex wedding when both of the brides came over to chat. They wanted to show us something really neat, they said. One of the brides rolled up the leg of her pantsuit to reveal a garter. But this wasn’t just any garter. This was a Toronto Maple Leafs garter!
The brides wandered off and I looked at Sarah and said, "You know, there is NO OTHER PLACE IN THE WORLD where we would have experienced what we did today--a legal same-sex wedding with a hockey theme and attendees who are all truly happy for the brides and at the wedding because they genuinely care about the couple, not because it’s like a sideshow of deviant behavior."

It took me about two days to get the theme tune to Hockey Night in Canada out of my head! I also began to wonder what song was played at my friend’s brother’s actual funeral service, and I guessed that chances were good that it might have been from HNIC.

The World Cup through Canadian Eyes

Around this time four years ago, I was in Europe, which isn’t so remarkable in itself except that I was in Europe while the FIFA World Cup was taking place in Germany. Sarah and I were even fortunate enough to attend a first-round game in Germany—Germany vs. Poland. We got off the train in Dortmund a stop too early, and so we had to walk all the way across town to get to the stadium. I will never forget that walk through the downtown and the atmosphere all around. The German fans were partying through the streets, drinking, singing, and chanting. There were also some Poland fans about, getting pumped up for the game in their own way. We only witnessed some good-natured joking between the groups of fans. It was remarkable to see people so passionate about their countries mixing without much incident despite somewhat recent history of conflict between the two nations. The atmosphere in the stadium was so loud, and so energizing, and I was surprised to see Polish fans sitting amongst the German fans, and again, a lot of good-natured ribbing going on during the game which Germany eventually won.

I was also privileged enough to be in England during the 2002 World Cup, and I was in Italy just before the 1998 World Cup. If you can’t go to the actual games, the second best option is to travel to a country that is passionate about their team participating in the tournament. Even in 2002, I was at a packed out pub in England at 10 am buzzing from strong beer and watching on the big screen as the English team was playing their game in the Far East.

Unfortunately, at some point during each of these trips (which did not last the duration of the tournament), I had to head back to West Michigan where I lived at the time. Unless you’re in a really big city like New York or Los Angeles, the US is probably one of the worst places in the world to try to follow the world’s biggest sporting event. Even finding the games on TV can be difficult. While the games in the later stages of the tournament may make it to ESPN or other standard cable channels, for many of the first round games, I would have to make friends whose cable packages included Spanish-language channels.

When games were being played during my workday (due to time zone differences), I would find live score updates online and follow as closely as I could while working. I would see the score change and an upset in the making, and listen from my cubicle for gasps or comments from anyone else—certainly there had to be other people watching the scoreline. But, I never heard a sound that was soccer related, nor did I know of anyone in the vicinity who would care if I shared the news.

When games in the later stages were televised live on weekends, Sarah and I craved the fan atmosphere we had experienced in Europe. We wanted to find a sports bar where the game was being shown. We learned from several past disappointing experiences that we should call around first before just showing up somewhere. We’d start calling the biggest sports bars in Grand Rapids (a metropolitan area of about half a million people). We would ask if they were showing the soccer game. “What soccer game?” was often the reply. Eventually we’d work our way to calling the bars popular with the Italians or Mexicans, and we would make our way there. We’d try to round up as many of our friends as possible and try to get them excited. We’d all show up to half-empty sports bars with eight big screens, and they might have the World Cup game on one of those screens. Other screens would be showing golf, NASCAR, baseball highlights, or the NHL draft. If we were lucky, the sound feed would be from the soccer game—IF we were lucky.

Well, here I am in 2010, another World Cup year, but this time in Canada. I didn’t think that the World Cup experience in Canada would be any different from that in the US. Now less than a week away from the final, I know that there is no where in the world I’d rather be (other than the actual games at the stadiums) during this event.

I had my first clue that something was amiss back in mid-May when the car flags of various nations were everywhere on vehicles all around town. I soon deduced that the car flags coincidentally were the same as countries in the final 32 of the World Cup. At the mall, almost every store was selling soccer jerseys, country flags, scarves, or hats—even stores that don’t normally sell sporting goods. At the farmers’ market, stalls were set up selling similar types of soccer fan merchandise. On a main street corner in downtown Kitchener, a vendor had set up a tent in an empty parking lot and had flags, jerseys, banners, scarves, and balls of every team.

This year, I opted to cheer for the Ivory Coast, as one of my favorite players, Didier Drogba, is on that team. Obtaining an Ivorian car flag through any channel other than online shopping would normally be impossible. But, here in Canada, it was no problem.

About a week before the tournament started, there was no question as to where we could go to watch the games. All the bars and restaurants were advertising that they would be showing the games. As far back as January, CBC, the main television broadcaster in Canada, was advertising for the World Cup—they’d be showing every game.

At work, everyone talks about the World Cup all the time. Everyone knows what teams are playing, and everyone has a favorite. In the US, I would have had numerous tiresome debates by now with people who are certain that there is no value in watching soccer because it is so “boring” compared to other spectator sports. Not so in Canada—there is a genuine appreciation of the game, and a stark absence of any comparisons to football or hockey.

Part of the reason that Canada is such a great place to be during the World Cup is because of the diversity of the population. I could take the most obscure country in the tournament, probably Ivory Coast, and still find fans of this team who are have Ivorian heritage, right in downtown Toronto. Then when you consider some of the more dominant teams in the sport such as Germany or England, the supporters are everywhere. Canadians are generally accepting of individual displays of national pride, and since there are so many Canadians who are immigrants or first generation Canadians, these displays are varied and widespread. No one seems offended by anyone’s car flags or jerseys. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Canada is not in the World Cup itself, so no one feels any pressure or obligation to cheer for Canada. They are free to cheer for any country they choose, and usually these choices center around individuals’ heritages.

If I was in England right now, the fervor over the World Cup would be over because England is now out of the tournament. But here in Canada, when one country exits, the fans from the remaining countries become even more evident. My friends of Dutch heritage who don’t even like soccer are now following the tournament, and better yet, even wanting to talk about soccer with me! A few weeks ago, the Spanish team flags and jerseys were lost in the sea of Portuguese red and green. Now, I can see that there are fans of the Spanish team in my midst, as much as they are still outnumbered by the German fans in this heavily German area. And, once Ivory Coast was out and I switched my allegiance to Paraguay, no one cared or saw me as a traitor. The fan bases here are like rolling snowballs that increase in size as other teams are eliminated from the tournament.

Two weeks ago, Portugal and Brazil played each other in the first round. Several hours after the game, which ended in a 0-0 tie, I was driving through town and couldn’t believe how many Portuguese fans were on the streets shouting and waving large flags. The 0-0 tie was fairly unremarkable, but that was the game that had given Portugal enough points to go on to the second round. It was like being in Portugal without being in Portugal.

This Sunday, the Netherlands will be playing in the final game. This is a huge deal for the Dutch people, who have always fielded a strong team but never actually won the World Cup. The people in the Netherlands are going crazy. The whole country will most likely literally shut down for the day of the game, and probably the day before. The Dutch or Dutch descendents I know here in Kitchener-Waterloo are beside themselves with excitement.

Back in West Michigan, where Dutch and Dutch descendents are the largest ethnic group in many counties, there’s only a limited amount of attention being paid to the upcoming game. I would imagine that if Sarah and I were still living there, despite the Dutch influence in Grand Rapids, and despite the significance of this game, we would still be working hard to convince our friends to go out and watch the game with us, and we may or may not get any takers. Then again, we would likely have trouble even finding a bar willing to show the game!

More Random Thoughts on the US Immigration Policies

The immigration debate has really been heating up in the US lately, with Arizona passing all kinds of creative legislation, and the controversy even penetrating the inner sanctum of the Miss USA pageant. I'm quite happy to be observing all of this from north of the border, no longer living a life subject to the prejudiced and uninformed opinions and whims of straight, white male US congressmen and senators.

If you don't know or if you've never read the inscription on the Statue of Liberty, check it out and see if you can understand why I'm beginning to think that the US should give up the statue and perhaps give it to some other country (such as Canada).

Here is a poem that sums up my feelings:


Two Banners

Look through the stars to see the bars,
Horizon-spanning grate of red,
Exclusion in a welcome’s stead.
Send not the homeless tempest-tossed--
Her lamp is doused, her seekers find,
With blood from knuckles, knock, knock, knocked--
Exalted golden door now locked.

The maple leaf extends his arms,
Inviting those who dare to dream—
To challenge for such lives redeemed.
Arrivals, shapes and hues motley,
Slot in mosaic spaces held.
For this the leaf only demands
On guard for all of us we stand.

--MJB 04/2010

Happy Anniversary, Eh?

On April 29, 2010, Sarah and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. On that same day ten years before, we were married in a ceremony that was part of the Millennium March in Washington, D.C. We exchanged vows and rings on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Our friends Todd and Chris were there, as were a few hundred others. Even though this wedding had no legal standing anywhere in the world, it was a marriage to us.

Ten years is a long time, and when I think back through those ten years, I realize what an achievement it has been for us. The time seems to have flown by so quickly, but that may have a lot to do with the segmentation of our lives as we went from visa to visa. For our first nine years living together, we could only plan as far ahead as the expiration date of the current visa. Some visas were for 18 months. Some were for three years. Some were renewable, others weren't. Not being able to plan ahead for more than three years ever at one time meant we were in a constant temporary state. We had an excuse not to buy new furniture--we might have to move to England. We had an excuse not to go back to school--that schooling might be interrupted and we might not be able to complete it. Sarah had an excuse not to look for a new and better job--she couldn't as her visa was tied to her job. I had an excuse not to look for a new job--why do that when we might have to move out of the country? There are so many things we really wanted to do but didn't because we were aware of the imminent threat of having to move out of the US. If Sarah was fired from her job, quit her job, or if her visa expired, she would have ten days to leave the US.

Now that we are in Canada, I still don't think I'm used to being able to plan far into the future. I spent so long in visa purgatory that sometimes the reality of my current situation seems just a nice dream.

When we were living visa to visa, the amount of stress on each of us was, at times, unbearable, and the rest of the time, crushing. When Sarah would apply for a visa and we would wait and wait and wait for word on it, there was this horrible feeling in our stomachs when we wondered what would happen if the visa was denied? One time, her visa application was denied (due to shoddy legal work)--I can't even begin to explain the heartache we both felt when we were informed of the denial. We had no idea what we would do, where we would go, how we would stay together, and we had no money--at the time of the denial, Sarah had been working at her US company without pay because she didn't have a visa and it would have been illegal for her company to pay her. But how else was she supposed to keep her job with the company? If she didn't do the work, they would have hired someone else. And any money we did have from my income went to paying for what turned out to be inept legal services. We had absolutely nothing but each other and our dog, and we didn't even know how the three of us could stay together. We both cried and cried for days.

Eventually after nine months back in England and a new application, she did get a three-year visa, but this only prolonged the misery of living visa to visa, and really only postponed the inevitable--a move out of the US.

It seems that whole periods of my life were consumed with stress about visas. I wonder how many of the rough times in our relationship were due at least partly to this constant stress. When the final application for a visa was abandoned, as much as I was dreading the work involved in moving and the unknowns of living in Canada, I felt a certain sense of relief that I was soon going to be living a life of permanence; we would be able to plan for our future in more than three-year increments.

Our relationship has survived so many obstacles--the stigma of being a same-sex couple, the financial hardships, Sarah's homesickness, lack of legal protections available to us as a couple, and in the end, the move to Canada. In our ten years of marriage, I think we've endured more strain than most couples endure in twenty years, and likely more strain than most relationships could handle.

The day after our anniversary, I was on the phone with my mother who is back in Michigan. I explained that we had just celebrated our ten year. Her response was, "Oh, I didn't realize. You will have to remind me again of your anniversary date. I never remember." I do tell her at least every year and any time she asks.

That night, we headed to a soccer teammate's house for an end-of-season barbeque. Our teammates and their husbands and kids were there. We were all having a wonderful time. Suddenly, the hostess brought out a large sheet cake. I got a bit choked up when I saw the writing on it--"Happy Ten Year Anniversary Mary and Sarah." I certainly didn't expect that. I thought about how something like this would have never happened in West Michigan, and therefore was able to identify two clear examples of just how our lives had changed for the better. Not only did we have a whole group of (straight) people recognizing our anniversary with no one experiencing any apparent discomfort, but a bakery in the area had actually agreed to write such a message on a cake!

Venting Some Frustration. . . .

Browsing the Internet today, I stumbled upon the following article from the New York Times:

Suspect Was Citizen for Just a Year
May 4, 2010

The Pakistan-born man arrested in the failed Times Square car bombing had lived legally in the United States for most of the last 11 years and was naturalized as an American citizen in Bridgeport, Conn., last April, officials said on Tuesday.

Okay, how nice. So I read on a bit further and learned that

In January 2002, the authorities said, Mr. Shahzad got an H1-B visa for skilled workers. Mr. Shahzad married an American citizen named Huma Mian, and was granted a green card in January 2006. He was naturalized in a ceremony in Bridgeport on April 17 of last year . . .

Once again, I feel like I'm on Candid Camera and at any moment someone is going to appear to tell me that the last couple of years of my life have all been part of an elaborate joke.

But, on so many levels, it's not funny at all. I'm debating whether this whole situation with the traitorous Pakistani makes more of a mockery of the immigration rules in the United States or of the sanctity of marriage.

Hmmm, I think I'll go the immigration route. Let me re-write the above information with details from my own life.

My partner Sarah lived legally in the United States for nine years beginning in 1999. In August 2002, Sarah got an H1-B visa for skilled workers. Sarah was not allowed to marry me, and in fact, our then home state of Michigan passed a law in 2004 banning any recognition of same-sex partnerships ("To secure and preserve the benefits of marriage for our society and for future generations of children, the union of one man and one woman in marriage shall be the only agreement recognized as a marriage or similar union for any purpose.--Michigan Constitution, Article I, Section 25, approved by the electorate on November 2, 2004). Sarah was not able to get her green card as my partner nor through her employer. Her expert legal advice from her company's immigration lawyer was to "find a guy to marry." In 2008, we left the United States and moved to Canada.

I guess I would be remiss if I didn't add one small detail to this story--neither of us have ever had any ties to any terrorist groups nor have we ever plotted to harm anyone.

In summary, the citizen-elected governments of the United States throughout the past eight years preferred to naturalize heterosexually married terrorists over law-abiding and non-threatening homosexuals.

Keeping Score with Canadians

My hockey league's annual end-of-season social was earlier this week. The cash bar was beckoning, and as I was buying a beer for myself, I noticed a teammate in line behind me. I seized the opportunity and told her I was buying her drink. I didn't think any explanation was necessary--after all, she was my hockey buddy! Besides, if I had a loonie for every time in our recently-ended season that she had made a perfectly placed and selfless pass to me that I flubbed up, I could have bought her a whole case of beer. What should have been a simple transaction, a straightforward gesture of appreciation, became an awkward situation where my offer was turned down more than the customary and half-hearted single declination I expected. In fact, in the amount of time we spent debating whether or not it was appropriate for me to buy her a beer, she would have been paid more than the cost of the beer in question had she been at work and getting paid by the hour. Eventually she gave in, but by that point, I felt more like a bully than a buddy.

This whole situation was not surprising to me, as one of my biggest struggles of late has been understanding what appears to me to be a cultural mindset that spurns acts of generosity. More specifically, Canadians seem to be obsessed with what I would call "keeping score." They do not want any favors unless they can repay you promptly and exactly.

I started noticing this trend about the same time I first started making friends in Canada. The first friend I made in Canada is my colleague Justyna. One morning, a few weeks after I had moved to Ontario and started my job, I stopped for coffee. I picked up coffee for her as well and brought it into the office. She immediately tried to pay me for it, but I insisted it wasn't a big deal--it wasn't. The next day, she came in with coffee for me. I wasn't used to having my unconditional gestures of friendship reciprocated so immediately, and I was almost insulted. It seemed to me as if she was indicating, "Yes, that is nice you got me coffee, but I don't want to owe any favors to anyone, so here is my repayment and now we're back to an even score."

Part of the problem may actually be me. I was raised by parents who are generous to a fault, and I've subconsciously adopted some of their behaviors. Yet, I can say with certainty that in my previous life in Michigan, I could go out with my soccer teammates and buy a beer for one of them and encounter, at most, one formality of a protest followed by a simple "thanks." That person then may or may not have bought me a beer at a later time--I don't know; I wasn't keeping score.

When Sarah and I lived in Michigan, we would sometimes go with friends to see plays, concerts, or sporting events. This usually involved one of the people in the group purchasing the tickets and we'd settle up later. If the tickets were $41.50 each, and I was paying a friend for my and Sarah's tickets, my friend would likely ask for $80, just for the sake of being simple. The first time we went to a sporting event with friends in Canada who had purchased all the tickets, we were told that we owed $126.47. There is nothing wrong with expecting to get repaid exactly what is owed, no more and no less, but it did seem to substantiate my belief that Canadians are very particular about making sure they are always even.

On another occasion, we decided to go to a Red Wings game with two of our closest friends in Canada. We bought four tickets and then began planning our trip to Detroit. I asked them what time we should leave, who would drive, etc., and was told that no details would be discussed until I told them what they owed me for the tickets. I responded that the tickets were Christmas presents for them and we were just glad they would be going with us. My friend then told me they absolutely would not be going at all unless we disclosed the exact amount they owed so they could repay us. Once again, I was a little baffled and unsure of how to interpret the situation. I felt as if my genuine and unconditional gesture of friendship was slammed back at me, as if to say, "We don't want to owe you anything, so we do not accept this gift."

My frustration with the "keeping-score" mentality reached its height just before Christmas. Two of my friends went on a trip to the Caribbean because one of them was celebrating a milestone birthday. I offered to pick them up from the airport on their return because I had the time and I knew it would make their lives easier. On the way from the airport to their house, we stopped for dinner--nothing expensive or fancy. At the end of the meal, I paid for dinner, because from my experience, most people are quite broke when returning from vacation. Besides, it was just before Christmas, and I was just grateful to be out with good friends at a time of year which can always feel lonely, but was especially lonely for me because Sarah was in England.

They were truly angry with me, and let me know it. In my mind, I was just being helpful. Unbeknownst to me, they had wanted to buy dinner--in their minds, that was a good way for them to repay me for the ride from the airport.

Two days after this incident, I went to Michigan for Christmas, and feeling lower than a snake's belly after my recent reprimand, had a lot of time to think on the six hour drive. Was I trying too hard in my efforts to make friends? Did I appear desperate? Was I making it too easy for others to take advantage of me? Was this really a MJB problem rather than a cultural difference? The next few days gave me a clear answer to that last question.

My first full day back, I went for burritos and beer with my friend Beth. She paid for lunch. That night, I went to dinner with several friends from my old company. They paid for dinner. The next morning, I went to drop-in soccer. I knew the cost was $5 per person, but when I tried to pay, the organizer told me that I was a guest and need not pay. After soccer, I went out for breakfast with my friend Connie. She paid.

In all cases, I did put up the customary protest and offered to pay, but in the end each time, I graciously accepted their generosity and was quick to thank them for it. Do I feel like I owe them? No. But within that very short time span, I began to reconsider whether the problems I was having in Canada were due to my own character flaws or due to a significant cultural difference.

Maybe Canadians just aren't used to getting something for nothing. The score-keeping mindset could be related to larger cultural conditions, such as the fact that everything is quite expensive in Canada. Not only are the prices on everything just higher in general, but so are the taxes. I've read that Americans donate more to charity, on average, than Canadians, and the speculated reason for this is that Canadians pay so much in taxes with a large portion of that tax revenue going to social programs that they don't feel as inclined to donate additional money to social causes.

The differences I've noticed go beyond pure monetary gestures. If I have an item that I am not using and don't foresee needing, I will happily give it to someone who can use it. Again, while in Michigan at Christmas, I was telling my friend Beth about how I was having trouble keeping the dogs in the back of the Jeep on the trip from Canada, and I was concerned about similar difficulties on the return trip. She immediately took me into her garage and offered me a special dog barrier designed for SUVs. I noticed it had a price tag of $15 from when she was trying to sell it at her garage sale. I offered to pay, but she insisted I just take it.

I remember once when a co-worker in Michigan was telling me that his mattress and box spring were on the floor of his room because he didn't have a bed frame, I gave him a bed frame I had and wasn't using. Why wouldn't I? Recently, a co-worker at my company here in Ontario was lamenting the same thing--mattress and box spring on the floor. I didn't have another spare bed frame to offer. However, someone else in the office did--she would sell it to him for $50.

I am not saying that Canadians are stingy with money any more than I am saying Americans are frivolous. And, to be honest, I'm still not convinced that my struggles aren't due more to an MJB vs. The World than a US vs. Canadian mindset. I do know that I am not one to keep score, and I should be able to buy a friend or a teammate a beer without having to feel like I've committed some social transgression. I also know that tomorrow morning, I'm planning to buy a coffee for Justyna. And, I also know that as sure as the sun will rise the following workday, she'll come in with a coffee for me, just to even the score.