Imagine someone at a street corner, muttering under their breath, moving as if to cross one street, then stopping and moving to cross the other street.  They never cross.  Instead, they are bound to this choice point.  How would an objective person label this behavior?  Confusion mixed with disgust at their confusion?  Or, does the agitation indicate that they are demented?

I am an American living in Canada.  Of course, expatriates typically pick slightly more romantic destinations such as Paris, or Rome, or Madrid, or Lisbon.  That is, if they are going for the traditional expatriate look.  The nouveau expatriate, on the other hand, might choose something more exotic such as Prague, or Bangkok, or Yerevan, or Lima, or Doha.  In my perpetual attempt to express my rugged individualism, I came to Canada.

Canada isn’t just a good destination choice for American murderers or those avoiding U.S. military service.  It’s a very big place with vast stretches of uninhabited forests and glaciers.  But there are only about 32 million people, roughly equivalent to the population of California, to fill that area.  If you want to escape the bustling crowds to clear your head and think, there is plenty of space to get lost or disappear.

Culturally, there isn’t much difference.  Granted, hockey is much bigger here than in the U.S. and, apparently. Canadians are born with ice skates on their feet.  Nonetheless, Canadians love baseball, basketball and football.  Furthermore, those great symbols of American culture, Wal-Mart, Starbucks, McDonald’s and numerous other corporate giants, are here in full force.  I remember how when I first arrived, my chest swelled with pride at the knowledge that Canadians worshiped at the same cultural icons that my fellow Americans did. If you can get past the language barrier and stop laughing at those funny hats i.e. the tuque, that all Canadians love to wear, it isn’t much different than living in the States.

Well, that’s not entirely true.  For example, living in igloos does push the boundaries of cultural tolerance.  And then there is the small matter of their head of state, Queen Elizabeth. It was her ancestor who behaved like a complete tyrant to my ancestors.  I am highly suspicious of her.

Before coming to Canada, I lived approximately 100 miles north of San Francisco on the coastline.  To get there, one takes Route 128, leaving behind the pollution, noise and urban sprawl of the Bay Area. Route 128 is a winding two-lane highway that wraps itself around and through the hills of the coastal range.  The drive takes you through wine and olive country.  Eventually, you enter an ancient forest of redwood trees.  After passing sometime in the cool, dark silence created by a canopy that seems to stretch miles into the sky, you exit the forest.  The panorama of the Pacific Ocean stretching out before you kicks you in the guts, taking away your breath. It is Paradise regained.

True, it’s a rural area.  Given the lack of night-life, no self-respecting citified person would settle there.  And it rains a lot.  I mean barrels full. Paradise doesn’t come cheap and those giant redwood trees are thirsty creatures.  On the other hand, the area is inhabited by people who value education, art, music, social activism and environmental activism; the very things that separate us from the beasts and make us fine, upstanding citizens.

I now live in central Ontario.  The area is historically referred to as ‘The Queen’s Bush.’  The queen in question was Victoria who, being the great-great grandmother of the current queen, was also a descendent of the Tyrant.  The official storyline is that this area was so-named because it was at one time an immense forest that supplied the lumber for the navy that once ruled the ocean waves. Another storyline is that Victoria had a particular fondness for Scotsmen and Germans.  She invited those two peoples to come settle in her bush and they jumped at the opportunity, like fleas to a tick hound.  That’s why almost everyone in the area is of Scottish or German descent.  For those who like stereotypes, it is a land of kilts and kraut.

My new home is also rural.  The folk aren’t quite so big on education and there are only whisperings of music and art.  Plenty of social and environmental activism, though. Then again, social activism and environmental activism appear to be a fundamental part of the Canadian psyche.  Even the conservatives are socially and environmentally active.  A major difference to the California north coast with its crisp sea air is that my new home is a haven for traditional farming.  In the spring and fall, the air fills with the delicate aromatic bouquet of manure.  It makes me mindful of Nebraska.  Another difference is that it snows.  We are talking about rather large amounts of snow.  The banner photo is that of a mild winter.

Personally, I like snow.  It could be worse, however.  Just a short 35 minute drive northward, the folk have to use earth movers to clear the snow from their roads.  Imagine needing earth movers!  It boggles my mind.  Down where I live, we just use big trucks.

This region has one of the largest reserves of fresh water in the world, all thanks to these yearly glaciations.  When the Water Wars come in the year 2057, I’ll be set.  As for my American friends who find all sorts of reasons not to visit?  They’ll be singing a different tune then.  They’ll be begging to visit me so that they can escape their American desert wasteland.  Then we’ll see who was nuts.

Alas, the future has yet to come bless us.  At present, the day we wake up to each morning gives my friends, be they in the States, in Toronto, or down the street from my house, another opportunity to question my sanity. They ask, “You left Paradise for this?  But why?  Are you mad?”

I always blame it on my wife.  I mean, what’s the point of being married if you can’t blame your spouse for your questionable actions. I just tell everyone, that against my better advice, she moved here and I had no choice but to follow.

My wife, on the other hand, just smiles.  She foolishly thinks my claims are a tribute to her.  My accusations, she reasons, are further evidence of her feminine ability to befuddle the masculine mind.  Little is she aware that I am slowly convincing the world that she is a dangerous cultural insurgent, filling innocent minds with dangerous ideas.

Unfortunately, it’s a little more difficult for me to blame her for my opening a coffee shop, specializing in Southern-style cooking and Middle Eastern food, in a village filled with the descendents of German farmers.  And, no, the insanity doesn’t end there. I gave the business a Polish name.  I don’t know whether it was some residual German hostility towards Poland or that a latte is far too exotic for people who think that potato pancakes and beer are the true ambrosia and nectar of the gods.  Either way, the store never did attract too many locals.

So, given where I started and where I ended, what exactly, then, is my mental state?  Am I demented?  Or am I confused.  The problem with ‘being demented’ is that it can imply a goal-directed motivational state that has some sort of association with the horrible and evil.  A demented individual is someone you want to avoid.

A confused state may have a goal, but what that goal is, isn’t clear.  And if it is clear, it is only vaguely so.  A confused individual can be seen as being a pawn hit on all sides by the forces of Fate; God’s tool, used to demonstrate some lesson to everyone else.  Their defect is in the reception of information, unlike the demented person who receives the information but processes it in some twisted manner.  A demented person is someone who is clever, someone to fear.  The confused individual is someone to pity, laugh at or, for those Earth Mother types, take under wing and protect.

Whether right or wrong, I have decided that “confused” is the best descriptor of my mental state.