Letter 12: On Americans

Photo by Dino Reichmuth on Unsplash

We Canadians, from our perch here above the 49th parallel, with this watery culture of ours that we grasp at but can never fully capture, often revert to the laziness of defining ourselves by what we are not, which is to say, Americans. An unhealthy amount of Canadian self-perception finds itself in that psychologically tenuous place between inferiority and superiority complexes. We garner pride from our universal healthcare system, a reputation for peacekeeping, and general air of politeness (another gold star please, teacher!) but this pride can swiftly devolve into an attitude of condescension, a coping mechanism for what we lack – cultural power, unbridled technological innovation, and the possibility of encountering ten thousand different flavours of Oreos in the grocery store cookie aisle.

And so, I thought I’d take a moment to balance the scales and, in honour of Valentine’s Day, write a bit of a love letter to our neighbours to the south.  

Americans have hospitality and friendliness down pat, and even in places that have a reputation for brusqueness (ahem, New York) I have had innumerable encounters of warmth, openness, and generosity. The most memorable of these interactions involved passing by an unkempt gentleman who looked like life had gotten the better of him, but, when he overheard my sister and I wondering aloud where a certain subway station was located, his demeanour became friendly and animated and he proceeded to give us thorough, clear directions and wished us well as we departed.

But nothing has made me appreciate American culture more than travelling to continental Europe for the first time in 2018, which put the porous nature of North American social relations in stark contrast with the more guarded European reserve.

In Paris, I would finish a meal and sing its praises to the waiter only to encounter a look of amusement, as if I were a child they should pat on the head and tell to run along now. In Amsterdam, I found myself waiting on multiple occasions at a service counter at a museum or train station, feeling like I’d walked into a party I wasn’t invited to as the attendants talked amongst themselves until eventually deciding to wrap up their conversation and turn their attention to the customer.

My trip culminated at Schiphol airport, and as I waited for my flight home, I went to sit at a communal table with electrical outlets in the centre. There was another traveler seated there and she spoke up as I plugged in my phone. “You must be American!” she cried out. I looked up and she pointed to my North American adapter. My interlocuter introduced herself as Jean, she was from Utah, and she spoke with more passion than everyone I had met in the previous two weeks. As I sat, eating a sandwich and waiting for my phone to charge, Jean regaled me with stories from her life and asked me many questions about my own. She spoke of her home in Utah, her children and grandchildren, her work and retirement, American politics, and finally ended the conversation by inviting me to stay with her should my travels ever take me to Utah. A 20-minute conversation with a stranger in an airport and I had garnered free lodgings in that great desert state.

As your typical Shy PersonTM, I normally bristle at the thought of making small talk with strangers, but my goodness, Jean was such a treat. I missed that sense of human connection that had been replaced by an impenetrable formality in the weeks prior.

I will never forget you, Jean from Utah. Happy Valentine’s Day, America.  

Thanks for reading. See you next week.