Category: Uncategorized

The Coffee Klatch: Why Canadians Compare Themselves to Americans

November 16, 2024

When I sat down for coffee, my friend asked, “Will your children return to Canada?” I understood he was talking about Trump’s presidential victory in the US and its impact on people. Trump’s win caused widespread consternation among my friends.

I said no. Why would my children return when they have good jobs, own their houses, and are growing families in the USA? I said that I do not talk with them much about politics; we talk about their families. Besides, a new government would not make any difference to them, at least in the short term.

His question upset me because it steered our conversation immediately toward US politics. Why are we Canadians so preoccupied with US matters? Yes, the US is our largest trading partner; most of us visit and travel to the US. But don’t we have our own political issues to talk about?

I find scant news about Canada despite watching Canadian TV channels. Two recent provincial elections were hardly covered on the national TV channels. Ontario’s big news recently was that the Premier ordered municipalities to remove bicycle lanes on major roads to ease traffic jams. I agree with him; on some major roads in Ottawa, the bike lanes take up space, making for dangerous driving while watching for cyclists right next to you. And, of course, one cannot park along the curb to visit stores because of the bike lanes. Beyond the bike lanes issue, what comes to my mind is the Premier’s promise to give every Ontarian $200, anticipating an election next spring. These news items produce no excitement in me.

Although local news has had sparse coverage, US news of the election was shown in detail on Canadian national TV channels every night. Canadians have a love-hate relationship with Americans. They like to winter and shop in Florida and Arizona. However, they often express critical views of life there, mentioning rampant crime and an expensive healthcare system compared to Canada.

You’ll be surprised how often you read a thread on Quora (a social network) about universal Canadian healthcare and its superiority to American healthcare. It is also cheaper, according to the threads. Perhaps. However, the subject is more complex; only eight percent of Americans are without health insurance today, and we should also compare the quality of healthcare in the two countries before drawing simplistic conclusions. Two-thirds of Americans with private insurance have better healthcare quality than in Canada; for example, access to a family doctor is much faster than in Canada, and waiting times for hip replacements are shorter.

Also, in Quora threads, many Canadians think Americans are ignorant; I remember the popularity of Rick Mercer’s TV show (This Hour Has 22 Minutes) when he presented fake situations and asked people to respond, for example, when he said the Canadian parliament building is made of ice. Is that Canadian humor? It was a silly statement and demeaning to the people he interviewed. In one episode, he interviewed Mike Huckabee when he was governor of Arkansas, embarrassing him: Huckabee congratulated Canada on having a “National Igloo” in response to Mercer’s prompt. I think American comedians could come to Canada and emulate Mercer’s performance in the US, showing how ignorant Canadians are.

I went to graduate school, worked in the US in the 1960s, and have fond memories of my life there. That was after I lived in Vancouver, Canada, where people, particularly the British people, wanted to learn about your pedigree before befriending you. I found them class-conscious, and the Brits still considered themselves living in the colonies. In contrast, the Americans asked what I could do and what my skills were, not dwelling on my background.

In my experience, Americans work harder and longer hours than Canadians, which may also lead to higher stress levels. I remember when my brother, who traveled a lot, told me that it was always calming to fly into Canada; the atmosphere was just more relaxed at Canadian airports compared to US ones.

The conversation with my friend over coffee made me think of why Canadians spend so much time comparing themselves to the US, and always in a favorable light. I do not have an answer, but I cannot help wondering whether this results from an inferiority complex, justified or not.

The Evolving Ethnic Character

November 5, 2024

During the late 1950s, I worked alongside Steve as a draftsman at the Buildings and Grounds Department of the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. Although we were recent Hungarian immigrants, we differed in our behavior in the office; he used to bring his breakfast to work unlike me, I ate at home. He spread some grease paper on his drafting table and ate his breakfast of smelly, garlicky sausage with a thick slice of brown bread. The powerful smell permeating the room bothered the rest of us working there, but nobody wanted to tell him to eat his breakfast at home and save us from the unpleasant smells. Eating a smelly breakfast at work was not Canadian, and still is not. I am not sure if that behavior was Hungarian. However, I heard Steve became a successful architect and integrated into Canadian society in a few years.

In contrast to Steve, some individuals never assimilate into the local culture and instead choose to return home. A Hungarian friend’s mother embraced women’s freedom in Canada and entered the workforce. Her husband was not as successful, and he felt he had lost his masculine dominance in the household, so he returned to Hungary, but the wife stayed in Canada with the children.

I do not know how others in Vancouver perceived my ethnicity when I arrived in Canada in the late 1950s, except that they noticed my English language skills and accent. I improved in record time and assimilated into local culture in many other ways.

One strategy I used was always to try to fit in and go with the flow; for example, I acquired a taste for beer when I drank with my classmates while finishing architectural projects at all-night sessions at the UBC School of Architecture.  I was not too fond of beer then, but drinking with my classmates led me to develop a taste for it.

Other opportunities for cultural assimilation arose when I attended concerts with Elvis Presley at the PNE and Dave Brubeck at the old Georgia Auditorium in Vancouver. Later on, I acquired a taste for rock music. My father could not understand why I listened to The Grateful Dead, The Bachman Turner Overdrive, Credence Clearwater Revival, and their ilk; he thought music was only classical.  

I further embraced local culture when we started camping and canoeing after marriage. Later, we traveled widely in a tent trailer across Canada with our children and a dog. After getting tired of hauling a tent trailer, we bought a cottage. And cottaging is a Canadian thing; only a couple of immigrants own cottages out of a hundred neighbors where our cottage is (I realize immigrants may not have the money for a cottage).

While I have been in North America since 1957 and consider myself part of North American culture, I am always intrigued when I hear Hungarian being spoken. My language abilities in Hungarian are equivalent to that of a sixteen-year-old, the age I was when I departed the country. While traveling in France last summer, I heard a group talking in Hungarian in Arles. I introduced myself to them, and we spoke about Hungary today compared to the one I left. I had to search for some words since my fluency in Hungarian was spotty, but it was a satisfying conversation.

A recent event drew me back to my ethnic background. Kathy met a Hungarian woman at a grocery store who recommended that we join the Hungarian Community Center in Ottawa.  I followed up and decided to attend a social event celebrating the anniversary of the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. I hoped to listen to conversations in Hungarian and perhaps meet some people from Sopron from where we fled, so I looked forward to the event. I was somewhat fearful of how I would react to my countrymen and whether I could intelligently converse with them, limited by my sparse vocabulary and lack of practice speaking the language.

Upon entering the building, nobody welcomed us. We found our way to take a couple of seats and looked around. All age groups were there, from children to grey hairs, and they all seemed to know each other. And I heard only Hungarian spoken. There was a celebratory feeling in the air; some people were informally dressed, while others wore pin-striped suits. Nobody showed interest in us.

The MC asked the Hungarian Ambassador to Canada to speak. She spoke in Hungarian, and I whispered to Kathy and explained what was happening.

Although we were in Canada, curiously, there was absolutely no French or English spoken, and there was no acknowledgment of land rights by the Indigenous people of Canada, a custom in all public events now. That made me think that the Hungarians have a thousand-year history occupying the land of Hungary. The Ottomans took over the land at one time and the Germans at another time, but there had never been an acknowledgment of previous land ownership and compensation for taking the land. To my knowledge, the concept of compensation to earlier landowners has no currency in Hungarian thought. That made me think of how people interpret history in different parts of the world.

After the Ambassador’s speech, we enjoyed some poetry and dancing by third-generation Candaian-Hungarians, indicating that some families kept their culture intact. When the Ambassador asked people who came to Canada after the 1956 Revolution to stand up, I counted half a dozen out of fifty, including myself. So, most of these people were second—and third-generation Hungarians who maintained their native culture.

One of the celebration’s highlights was serving “langos,” a Hungarian breakfast food similar to doughnuts, fried dough covered with cheese, cinnamon, and/or garlic. I lined up to get a couple of langos and limited by my language skills, I ended up with two plain ones. There is not much taste to plain ones, so I returned for another one with cheese and garlic to enhance its flavor. I put on too much garlic that burned our mouths, and we took it home, not wanting to throw it away in front of the Hungarian crowd, showing our dislike of it.

Frankly, the event disappointed me because nobody welcomed or showed interest in us while we sat in the audience. Of course, we could have approached people, but they all seemed either to know and talk with each other or to be occupied with moving chairs around and other official matters.

The people were not unfriendly; they seemed to accept and ignore us. For some reason, I felt quite at home, understanding the language, although Kathy felt ignored. I felt as if I was on an island with my old countrymen. When I lined up for our langos at the kitchen, I heard the women working there talking to each other; one kneading the dough and cutting portions to fry, another frying, and the third putting the cheese and/or cinnamon on and serving it. The entire atmosphere felt homey. Based on our strange experience with this celebration, we decided to try again and attend a party next week with dinner, a concert, and dancing. I hope we won’t. be disappointed.

A Men’s Book Club Discusses Alice Munro

October 22, 2024

The title suggests that men and women have differing perspectives on Alice Munro’s work. Can that be verified? I do not know. But our book club had a lively discussion about Munro’s book entitled Dear Life, a short story collection published in 2012.

Surprisingly, our members read some stories, but not all of them. They found the stories dark and stopped reading to avoid being depressed. One found the lack of “redemption” in the stories disappointing. But does life always have a happy ending? Many people have challenging lives and fail to reach a satisfying old age. There could be health, financial, and family issues that are never resolved. The shock value of missing an ending to the stories made me think of what could have been should the author have completed it. And that I found exciting, and I dreamt up options for finishing the stories.

Although most of us considered the subjects dark, we all agreed that the writing was extremely smooth, and the characters in the story came to life. Descriptions of small towns, the location of many of the stories, also came to life with such force that one of us thought she described the city where he grew up. I admired the ease with which Munro described her characters in a few pages in such detail that I thought I thoroughly understood the person and her motivation in life.

Most of Munro’s characters are women residing in small Ontario towns during the 1950s and 1960s. These women did not usually attend university, and the smart ones hid their intelligence; it was not fashionable for women to be clever in those days.

Her characterizations reminded me of my parents: my mother stayed home and occupied herself with housekeeping while my father was the breadwinner. My mother was the sole exception among her siblings, who all attended university. One of Munro’s stories is an exact copy of one aspect of my parents’ life: the wife prepares dinners for her husband, a doctor, just like my father, who expects dinner on the table when he returns home from work.

Munro’s description of women’s societal role and status started a conversation about their role today, with the understanding that women now surpass men at university graduation. It’s common for wives to be the breadwinners while their husbands take on household responsibilities. This has been a significant change over the past fifty years. Thinking of this trend, some of us questioned to what extent Munro’s stories would be relevant today. I thought that they would. Confirming my view, the Nobel Committee recognized Munro’s universal writings and awarded her the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2013.

But after her death this year, Munro’s reputation suffered with the widespread publication that her husband sexually abused their daughter. Many followers of Munro expressed moral outrage about Munro being aware of the situation and not doing anything about it. Doubts were raised about her genius, and discussions ensued about the quality of her books after her questionable behavior was uncovered. Interestingly, despite anecdotal evidence of changing opinions about Munro, our book club did not dwell on this subject. Maybe this is one difference between men and women when considering Munro’s work. Three out of eight of us resonated with the book, while one person didn’t find it appealing. Most agreed that the stories were dark and depressing but beautifully written.

Cooking the Turkey for Thanksgiving

October 17, 2024             

It was the Friday before Thanksgiving weekend, and we had no plans or turkey to look forward to. We used to close the cottage this weekend, including a turkey dinner, but the weather forecast was unfavorable this year, so we decided to close the cottage a week earlier. So we were at home with no plans or turkey.

I love turkey and the atmosphere that comes with celebrating Thanksgiving. Preparing meals from leftovers is also a pleasure. To cook a turkey is not new to me; I had cooked a couple of turkeys over the past years, so I told Kathy I’d roast one. Since she has done it many times before with the family and knows the amount of work that comes with it, she said, “Go ahead and do the entire dinner.” I understood her feelings, especially doing it for only two people. My thoughts focused on roasting the turkey, ignoring side dishes then. And that is how the weekend started.

The first challenge was looking for turkey sales. I found the stores sold it not by exact weight as they used to but for a fixed price in a weight range. For example, turkeys were between three to five kilograms, five to seven kilograms, and so on. I did not think much of it, but Kathy thought it was a trick; if you bought one at the upper weight limit, you paid less per kilogram than if you bought it at the lower weight limit. I said no problem and found one at the upper weight limit. I purchased 6.3 kilograms, or close to fourteen pounds, for CAN$ 22 or US$16.

It was a frozen one, cheaper than fresh turkey, that was twice as expensive, and we never buy butterball turkeys. The frozen turkey led me to the next challenge: thaw it in less than two days. According to the cookbooks I read, the rule of thumb was that one needs one day, or twenty-four hours, to thaw four pounds of turkey in the fridge. I did not have three days, so I went to the cold-water method of thawing the frozen turkey, which would take seven hours, according to the cookbooks. I put the turkey in the sink for four hours and then in the fridge for two nights, which did the thawing trick.

On Sunday, I pulled out the neck from inside the bird and looked at cookbooks for the next steps. It was not rocket science; I had to quarter an apple, a lemon, and an onion and put them into the belly of the bird. Then, I brushed the outside with melted butter before placing the dish into the oven.

I felt happy with my progress until I realized some side dishes would also be desirable. Kathy came with me to the store, and we picked up some potatoes, green beans, carrots, and parsnips. She decided she was going to fix the vegetables. But we needed dressing and gravy; both were available at the store in ready-made form. I believe in easy cooking and was going to buy them until Kathy put them back and strongly expressed that those items were way too expensive and she could fix both for a fraction of their cost. And that was that.

With both of us working in the kitchen, we took a moment to reflect that our family lives in the States and cannot join us for dinner when we have six kilograms of meat. But, of course, US Thanksgiving will come soon, at the end of November, and we usually join one of them for the celebration.

Then we considered who of our friends would be in a similar situation and dropped them a short note asking if they were alone for Thanksgiving and that they should consider joining us for dinner. It turned out that they were either traveling or were out of town visiting family; at any rate, it was short notice, and we did not expect positive responses.

In three hours, I took the golden-brown bird out of the oven and opened a bottle of bubbly.

It was a great, chaotic weekend deciding to cook a turkey on the fly. But it felt good to end the summer and start the fall, symbolically, with this dinner; the weather turned cool and windy. With the cottage closed, we will now concentrate on the garden at home: covering the outdoor furniture, clipping back the bushes, raking up the leaves, and cutting the grass again. The fulcrum for this change-over was the Thanksgiving dinner.