2003-11-07 - 6:35 p.m.
I should preface my comments today by emphasizing that I am not a gawping foreigner stumbling around in his sandals with his black socks on, a colossal Canon camera swinging from the strap around my neck as I stare in awe at tall buildings and point like an infant. I'm actually in a relatively small town in Texas, after all, and there isn't all that much here to gawp at -- at least, not much that's high above and calls for a neck-crane.That said, though, some of what goes on around here in Texas makes me suspect vaguely that I did not so much hop a plane to another country as step into some rift in the fabric of the cosmos and step out on a strange and distant planet.
You know how sometimes people have troubled relationships that are redeemed by one glorious quality, one feature of the otherwise bleak landscape that stirs hope for a happy future for us all? Canada has had one of these troubled relationships with America for a long time. Canada is America's kid brother, and it has been pantsed and wedgied more than its share of times. But Canada loves America after all, when Canada looks lovingly on the aisles of cold beer sold in America's Walmarts.
Liquor is everywhere here. The boss took us out for dinner a few nights ago at a wonderful authentic Mexican place which has lost its license to serve mixed drinks. He walked into the restaurant with two bottles of whiskey under his arms. The waitress came around with glasses, ice and mix.
I am quite certain that the typical punishment in Canada for even having a passing thought about bringing one's own liquor into a restaurant is somewhere around 15 years in prison and a fine of not less than $50,000. Actually bring the stuff into a restaurant, and you'd be executed... if Canada had the death penalty, of course.
And beer at Walmart! My American readers are by now convinced I must be some sad hayseed, but I assure you -- even the most cosmopolitan Canadian is wholly unaccustomed to this element of American life. In Canada you can only buy beer from the Prime Minister, and you have to book the meeting six months in advance, pay $300 a bottle, and sign a serious of bewilderingly complex contracts in order to be granted a Beer Drinking License. In America, there is one roof under which you can buy Schlitz, a carton of Salem, rifle ammunition, clothing, groceries, and an oil change for your car. I'm sure you could buy a six-pack from the police while stopped at a red light, as long as you gave them a decent tip.
A few days ago I drove past a store with a huge sign outside that read "FIREARMS!" Amazing. The only thing Americans fear is drugs. I probably could have crossed through customs towing a huge wagon full of hand grenades, but a joint in my pocket would have had me in the hoosegow forever.
All right, enough gawping. America, you can be an ass sometimes (Canada's no picnic either, truth to tell), but all's forgiven because of your Walmart beer. Any place where you can buy a six-pack for just over $5.00 is fine by Canada. After all, in Canada beer is hundreds of dollars a six-pack, and no one can afford it because we're too busy making high-interest payments on the 374% sales tax applied to cars we bought in the 1980s.
Fear not, Canadian readers -- I am not abandoning my icy, tax-happy, maple-syrupy home-and-native-land. I still like Canada... as a friend. Just don't tell her I'm down here making out with America, because it'd break her heart. It's just a fling -- really.
