The little differences

Bill Bryson, when talking about the British fascination with weather, would counter this with the simple statement “What is there to talk about with the weather, there are no extremes, it’s normally just cloudy, what’s so interesting about that?”. Sociologists would agree to point, the weather is non speculator and hardly worth a mention, it’s just a way of breaking down social barriers within society.

One American remarked “The English, they spend twenty minutes trying to find out what you doing for a living, trying to avoid the direct question, then, just as about you are to go your separate ways, they say, by the way, my name is John, what’s yours? The American on the other hand, will just say, Hi, My name is John, what do you do for a living?”.

The Canadian personality forms a prefect bridge between the two, more engaging and genuine than asking about the weather, yet having the ability to be friendly without any hint of falseness or showmanship. A rapport gained over hours of English awkwardness, can, in most cases, be formed within minutes.

The sense of trust within Canadian society is apparent from the moment you step into the country, step on a train and be prepared to feel self conscious. The transportation needs little policing, barriers are obsolete. There is no mentality of “I wonder if I can get away without a ticket”, quite simply because, in the majority of cases, people just buy a ticket. Of course, just as I was thinking about the wonderful concept, a train inspector got on and inspected the tickets. They must have known the English were on board.

Walk into any shop and you are greeted with “Hi, how are you doing today?”. This is done with such regular occurrence, and without a sense of purpose, that, if one day you are not greeted in such a way, you start to feel as if it was something you had said, or not said. Maybe they were having a bad day, or maybe they were spending too much time with other customers.

“Have you got those in size twelve?” I asked. They looked at me as if I had just asked for some toothpaste in a sweet shop. I had made the mistake before in Australia, the UK size eleven is actually a size twelve over here. Fine, only one size different. It just takes three months to get into the shoes, and, as I was finding after twelve months of squeezing, my poor old diesels were struggling. I made the same mistake as I was always doing. Looking at the price tag, forgetting the tax. Before I knew it I was spending a hundred pounds on a pair of shoes I had no right to invest in. But the girl in the shop was so nice, and, well, I’m a sucker for good manners.

As I walked out, down along Robson Street to Granville, I noticed a pattern I was getting used to. Being asked for spare change or cigarettes was such common place that I was getting good with my firm, but polite, drilled answers. I could tell, from a distance, the potential askers. Those that walked slightly funny, the ones dressed down, the ones sitting down, the ones who were directionless, the ones holding big signs saying ‘Please give me spare change and cigarettes’. Such was my ordered response, I was getting worried that I might actually, by instinct, say “No, sorry” to a lost member of the Ladies Swedish netball team looking for directions. Strange. I don’t think it’s happened, yet.