Common wisdom has it that Canadians are efficient, compliant, and optimistic. As a rule, cultures don’t like to be gathered in and bound by simplifications; but in my experience there’re reasons for generalities. For instance, Austrians are indeed dour. The French are spontaneous and doggedly romantic. Ukrainians have a reputation for being determinedly tough, which they’ve proven to be. And I’ve never met a Jewish person who couldn’t turn a single dollar into five.
Do Canadians show themselves to be true to type? Here’s what I’ve learned:
In Vancouver the reflective windows of the high-rises are crawling with window cleaners. While the employees such as receptionists and other servers bemoan a post pandemic shrunken work force, we are, in fact, impressed by the number of people behind counters, behind steering wheels, and behind brooms. Their dearth of employees isn’t nearly as evident in the portion of Canada we’ve seen as it is in our part of Texas, where some restaurants are still closed and every business in Marble Falls is short-staffed.
As a late afternoon excursion, we’re taken to an indigenous art gallery, led through the history of the native work, given the names and successes of the artists, and told how the land we’re standing on is occupied territory belonging to a tribe whose name I forget as soon as it lands in my ears. Inwardly, I rebel. It’s bad enough that guilt is pressed upon me concerning American aggression and slavery without being fed Canada’s guilt, too. Without resentment, our guides dwell on the indigenous people in an indoctrinated way, as though giving them an overabundance of credit for having once had a culture is enough to make up for destroying it.
As to the matter of compliance, we’ve been asked to keep our masks on when we move through hotel lobbies and when we’re up and about in the train. How do we react to this directive? We grumble because it’s stupid that, when our group is packed in a train car for hours at a time, we’re asked to don masks as, together, we make our way to the dining car. Annoying to dig masks from pockets in order to cross through a lobby where no one else is masked. The Canadians, however, don’t get ruffled about trivialities. They simply comply and get on with things.
However, I’m coming to think this composure is contrived as I watch our tour guide struggle to maintain equanimity when the bus doesn’t arrive to take us to the train station. Outside the broad front glass of the hotel he turns reddish, expends great energy in his pacing, and spits vile words into his phone. Then, terminating his call, he visibly alters his bearing and expression to reflect confidence and tranquility as he comes inside to assure us that there is no problem and that we will make our train on time; though the minutes are passing and we all know that the train never waits. Out he goes again—more pacing, more calls, more furrowed brow; and once more he returns to us, promising that all will be well.
In the end he’s able to come to an agreement with another tour guide, who graciously offers to share his company’s bus. Our guy’s expression morphs from dark helplessness into one of relief; and then into dismissal as he mentally tucks the unpleasantness away, straightens his stance, and demonstrates his Canadian resilience—though I believe in years to come he will remember the perfidy of the bus driver as one of his bleakest professional experiences. As to the other tour guide’s generosity—what a Canadian thing to do.
Half an hour later as we roll from the train station, ten or fifteen railway workers line up along the platform and wave good-bye. Friendly! We move forward at a glacial pace for half an hour or so; then the train comes to a stop and, as slowly as we’d gone in one direction, we begin to go in the opposite, consuming the same amount of time as well. It’s circulated about that there’d been a need to switch tracks, a manipulation that could have been done earlier. We got up at five for a nine o’clock departure. Because of the delay caused by the nonappearance of the bus and the forward and backward route of the train, we lost two hours of sleep. Ah well.
A puzzling yet uplifting thing that happens is that all day, as our train rolls grandly along, people wave to us from their yards, their porches, and their upstairs windows. Also, they get out of their cars as they’re being help up at the crossings, and wave cheerfully as we pass by.
After a ten-hour train ride, when we arrive at the place where we’ll spend the night—what a long day of non-movement and too much eating—I make a beeline for the lobby washroom and, during the forty seconds it takes me to pee, the self-flushing toilet flushes three times below my bare butt, sending wet droplets and a cold breeze upward. Disturbing and wasteful. This happened in the hotel in Vancouver, also, leading me to the undeniable conclusion that this, in Canada, happens more often than it should. It’s an offense I’ll never get used to.
On the upside, we’re now indulging in a free day at the Jasper Park Lodge, where our room is large and we share a rustic common area with four other couples, which I intend to use for my solitary five a.m. writing. And after a delicious breakfast David and I will walk around beautiful glassy lakes while elks wander through and marmots peek from their burrows. And the air is fresh and cool, and snow-topped mountains surround. It is a glorious relief from the hot windy drought in the hills west of Austin.
Chateau Lake Louise. A breathtakingly lovely hotel. If you’re ever in Alberta you should stay here.
Requisite reflective view from Chateau Lake Louise.
On the Athabasca glacier. Our third glacier. They wheeled us around up there on a huge vehicle. Thanks, David, for helping me upload these photos in a foreign land.
