A Cold Canadiano

And other attempts at subterfuge

As I wander new neighborhoods in Vancouver, BC, I find myself squinting at a lot of cafe menus. Often I search for something warm to balance out the December deluge outside. The folks behind me do a polite, Canadian shuffle, and wait for me to finish ordering as patiently as they would any befuddled tourist.

Only I’m not a tourist. I’m now an immigrant (again).

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

My recent Substack silence has encompassed some deep sorrow, scattered wins, and the gut-gnawing transition to life somewhere other than California. Other than the houseboats.

I point to the cafe menu.

“Sorry, what’s a Canadiano?'” I ask the barista.

“It’s just an Americano,” she says, automatic, blank-faced.

“So, like a fake Canadian?” I try.

“Sure.”

Somehow this feels too on-the-nose, and I leave the counter with a regular coffee. Outside I balance the cup in one hand, an umbrella in the other, and try to catch glimpses of the grey-green, glass-concrete towers around me between bursts of the downpour.

The analogy stays with me. Am I Canadian? Certainly not (yet).

Am I a Canadiano? Maybe. On most days my American-ness feels like a double shot of espresso running sluggish in my veins.

And at the same time, after two weeks of walking around Vancouver, all my other identities feel increasingly distant. Like memories of a high school production where you once played an all-consuming role, the details gone gauzy with age. The past feels out of focus, and timelines jumble.

Was I ever a Californian, digging succulents into the soil?

Was I ever a houseboater, leaning over the rail towards a neighbor?

Was I ever an American, watching abductions on TV?

Was I ever a singer, swaying on a stage?

Was I ever a child, seeing snow on a JFK runway?

Was I ever a writer, typing the last line of a novel?

Photo by Max Bvp on Unsplash

This liminal state will pass, I think. I sense clarity on the horizon like a distant train, and find myself hoping to delay its arrival.

Let me wander uncertain in new neighborhoods a little longer. Let me confuse old addresses, reach for the names of beloved friends, hum melodies in the wrong key, and wear the wrong shoes for the weather. Let me mispronounce words and give myself away. Draw odd glances from kind Canadians, and feel the imposter. Haven’t I always been suspicious of those who feel complete certainty about their decisions, without an iota of crucial self-doubt?

Let me wonder a little longer if this was all a mistake.

Back in my new apartment, no chairs or bed frames or trashcans mar the floors. Instead, the wooden planks stretch to wide windows. I sip my coffee and watch Granville Island glow in the distance. Along its storm-swept edges, houseboats bob and pull at their moorings.

I don’t mind the cold much after all.