Everyone has gone out. Jason has taken the children swimming, and I am all alone waiting for mother in law and contact lenses in that order. It is wonderfully quiet. Just me and the clicking of the keyboard. Bliss.
I shall, of course, seize the moment to blog. I am in full spate at the moment. As you may have noticed.
I have noticed that Canadians are incredibly patriotic. They are all unbelievably proud to be Canadian. Many people here drive around with Canadian flags attached to some part of their vehicles, and outside schools are big billboards that say things like ‘Go Canada! Go!’ Olympic fever is now waning, but it is still a hot topic of conversation and a great source of national pride. We are receiving a bit of a kicking because of the U.K. press’s negative reporting during the first week of the proceedings. I find this very entertaining. People archly say to me things like: ‘Hmm! Let’s see how the U.K. does in 2012.’ And then wait for me to rabidly leap to the defence of my country. They are slightly non plussed when I announce: ‘Yes. We will undoubtedly make a gigantic balls up of the whole thing. We are generally crap at this sort of thing. I am looking forward to seeing how badly we make a hash of it.’
I am not a fervent patriot, and other people’s fervent patriotism is somewhat baffling to me. How can you get so worked up about something which is entirely to do with an accident of birth?
Now, don’t get me wrong. Canada is a beautiful country, and as Mrs. Jones commented in an earlier post, Vancouver is consistently voted one of the best places to live on earth (voted for by most earthlings). There is a lot to be proud of. It’s the in your face fervour that I don’t really understand.
I’ve seen it visiting other countries too. The Irish are fanatically proud to be Irish. Mostly I’ve found, it’s most virulent in Irish people who live elsewhere and simply go home for holidays. It may explain the proliferation of naff Irish theme pubs across the globe in the dark days of the late ninteen nineties. They wear their patriotism like a badge that says: ‘I belong, and I’m proud to belong.’
I have to say that as an Englishwoman I am not particularly patriotic. I do like being English in a terribly English and apathetic type way. I like the fact that we have contributed two very important things to the globe, 1) swearing properly (nobody does it better, or in more colourful ways) and 2) a finely honed sense of sarcasm. Cheddar cheese is up there too, I think. Otherwise I cannot get enthused about the Englishness of England. Yes, we have Shakespeare, but we also have the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe. Yes we have glorious architecture, but we also have Swindon. Swings and roundabouts, see. I would never dream of sending someone something quintessentially English as a gift, unless they requested it, of course.
In Canada though, it is very different. I have had family over here for about fifteen years now. For a long time on every Christmas, birthday or seasonal celebration which required the giving and receiving of gifts, I would receive something emphatically Canadian through the post. Although I had to draw the line when they tried to send Celine Dion airmail. The customs charges were excessive, and then I had to send her right on back again. Bastards. Every country has something they have to be ashamed of and they should just learn to lump it like the rest of us. I have no excuses for Engelbert Humperdinck. Only apologies.
Yes, so we would receive these packages of joy and they would invariably contain things like mukluks made of maple bark and deer droppings, bizarre native art, cd’s of ‘very popular’ Canadian artists who are huge in the Canadian hit parade these days doncha know, maple syrup (which is good. we like this), and the ubiquitous salmon. For a long time our school fetes were full of handwoven Canadiana. I thought about trying to send back things which were quintessentially from the Midlands. I came up with Red Leicester cheese (which is unpleasantly mild and virulently orange) and the anti-nausea device, Sea Bands which were invented in the town where I lived for a long while. I felt that was suitable revenge for Celine, but after that I was fairly stumped.
Salmon is everywhere here, everywhere. You cannot set two feet inside a store without some form of salmon product looming at you from somewhere. And until you arrive on these shores, you have no idea what you can do with salmon. None. You can have it pickled, boiled, grilled, slowly roasted on different types of wood chips (I kid you not), poached, smoked in four thousand ways or wall mounted for your viewing pleasure. I am lucky in that I like salmon. I prefer to eat it than look at it, but I do like it. Unfortunately, apart from Tallulah who has a highly developed palate for smoked salmon, none of the rest of the clan approve.
This can turn out to be quite tricky if you are going round to someone’s house for dinner. Their highly developed sense of being Canadian means that it is practically de riguer for them to serve you salmon in one or more forms during the meal, which is much like me inviting you round to my house for a steady diet of boiled beef and carrots. It’s not too bad if a) you like the taste of salmon, and b) you are not doing a whistlestop tour of all your friends and relations over the duration of your holiday. But if you are not keen in the first place and have forty three people to visit in the space of a fortnight it can be somewhat overwhelming.
The difficult thing is that the people are lovely, and very welcoming. Their hospitality is superb and when you get invited round to someone’s house they do everything in their power to make sure you are comfortable and happy. And they buy the salmon to please you, and to show you how wonderful Canada is. Saying that you don’t like it is a bit like kicking the Andrex puppy in the face. It’s just not done.
So my advice would be, if you are visiting, and you don’t like salmon, get your doctor to write you a note to say that you are allergic before you come out. Then have it photocopied and send it to all the people you plan on visiting so that they can be prepared and find other ways of welcoming you with true Canadian hospitality. Like with a surfeit of pancakes with maple syrup for example.
As a post script. When we were in Seattle at the Pike Place market, there were some very fine fish stalls. The children are fascinated by these, because of all the live lobsters and crabs, and like to get up close and stare into the poor creatures eye stalks, just to cheer them up before they are brutally boiled alive. One one stall they had an incredibly ugly looking fish laid out on the ice. It looked like a kind of skate with huge fangs and googly eyes. A hand written sign announced: ‘I am a monkfish’. Oscar went up closer to have a look at it and it reared up at him like it was going to bite him. Understandably he burst into tears, and we all cruelly burst out laughing. The man whose stall it was, had threaded the monkfish tail through the ice to where he could reach it and yank on it every time someone went up close to view it. Anarchist fishmongers. Who knew.