I Love America Too!

I love Canada.

Whenever I make something into a theme song , I make damn sure it’s true.



But I love America, too.

No matter how much I love a new home, it will never replace home home.

My parents just came up to visit for the week. (Stay tuned to Sunday’s podcast for an earful of those two!) It seemed like they were here for a microsecond. And they almost didn’t make it.


Two days before they were supposed to leave my brother checked into the hospital. He tore his esophagus after choking violently on his lunch. Jokes aside, this was obviously a serious injury. But, George Clooney be praised, he’s O.K., and as long as he sticks to a liquid diet for a while he’ll be back to normal in a few weeks. (Hm, think poutine’s mushy enough, Ei?)

“Back to normal.” My life has a very fortunate default setting. With family safe, everyone at home again, I can keep watch on them from up north.


Well, I have a confession. I’m not my gung-ho-Toronto, eh-hoser-loving self today. Maybe I’m just under a little cloud. Maybe I’m a little homesick.Is that the bane of being a foreigner? One of the aspects of Toronto I’ve come to love is being part of a multicultural community. Various cultures integrate and collide all over West Bloorcourt. I wonder if all immigrants feel far away from their roots at times. Do they struggle with assimilating too little - or too much? Or is Canada’s progressive culture enough to put most immigrants completely at ease?


Ei just got to see her family, too. Her brief but beautiful tour of home, took her there and back, smoothly 'cross the border. Behind the wheel of her rental car – coffee in hand – pedal to the metal – married to the road and her itinerary – she conquered the trip like a marathon runner who doesn’t sleep. Old friends. New friends. Family. Milkshakes….And back again. (You blasted Sweet Potato Banana on the open road, didn’t you, Ei?)



It’s bittersweet to see loved ones – to have a reunion with an expiration date. And let’s scale “homesickness” down from immigration and national borders. Even moving a few hours away from someone is long distance. In today’s techno-crazy blogosphere, it’s “easy” to stay connected. The world is globalized and best friends chat from across oceans. This accessibility lets us get lazy. When we’re a click away from each other at all times, do we really connect meaningfully? Some people are diligent, thoughtful, thorough emailers. But what if I don’t have time – or need twenty pages to actually explain my life?

I realize my whiny contradictions. I chastise blogs – in a blog. I complain about technology… on the internet. I appreciate the world-wide-web, and take full-advantage of its net. But no form of contact replaces seeing, hearing, hugging, or smelling (Ei, remind me to talk to you about your new deodorant…) someone in person. When I get homesick I miss America - her people - her Fahrenheit - her mountains - her miles - her freedoms - her jokes - her traffic - her honkers - her Chipotle - her obesity - her obscenity - her trash bins. Nothing will replace being there. What’s an American in Canada to do?

Two Americans Land In Canada, A Strange Journey Begins

“It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.” -Lewis Carrol, Through the Looking Glass

Carl Jung spoke of coincidence – of synchronicity – as unrelated events that happen together in an unlikely context, which carry meaning for their observer. Oracles, psychics, and your neighborhood palm readers find value in coincidence, too, likely believing they signify you’re on the right path.

But what if you’re not on a path? What if you’ve somehow stumbled into a new city, looking for direction, and are suddenly bombarded – one after another after another – with undeniable, kick-you-in-the-crotch coincidences? What then? Are you crazy? Is it a full moon?

Ei and I are two creative documentarian-types – a documentary filmmaker and an anthropologist writer – of a rather lost generation, who found each other in Toronto, Canada – lost, but happy too. Independently, we both landed in Canada at random, and met amidst equally strange storms of coincidence.

To be honest, 90% of our friendship is spent reassuring each other we’re not crazy – both of us place meaning in coincidence, and neither of us has had the ability to sculpt what the universe has dumped on us.

And on top of being unable to interpret all our bizarrely linked events, we’re navigating through a bit of a fog.

You see, as an American I feel Canada is more than my neighbor. He’s my brother. I feel at home – at peace – in Toronto, inexplicably more than perhaps any other city. And yet our countries are not the same. Canadians are not Americans. Americans are not Canadians.

"You have no rights here."
-A friendly Canadian immigration officer (a story for another time...)

The thing is, since we’re so close, the differences sneak up. What makes us American? What makes them Canadian? Those differences, they’re crafty. Most of the time they’re invisible. Actually, it’s quite possible they don’t exist. This uncertainty is where the insanity-factor comes back in.

Is flipping the bird in public a Canadian thing – or is that guy crazy – or am I crazy – EILEEEN!

I can’t speak for Ei, but I sure am glad she’s here. (Aw, wait – Hey, Ei! Aren’t you glad I’m here? Yeah? Ok, thanks.)

What’s different? What’s the same? And why are all these damn coincidences happening?

We’re starting this ethnographic record to make sense of our lives in Canada before it makes us insane. What kind of brothers are our Canadian friends – are they ten times smarter, kinder and more resourceful than us? Or are they seconds from unmasking themselves as mice-torturing American haters?


We hope documentation helps our adventure. But either way it’s an adventure we want to share. Sometimes we’re homesick. Sometimes we’re embarrassed of home. Most of the time we’re a little confused. But I’ll promise you this, we’re always up for a good crispy samosa.