Americana

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It took me a while to think of a title for this post, because there really isn't a unifying theme; it's just a bunch of observations and occurrences from my last hours in Colombia and first day in an English-speaking country in almost a year. But at some point the above title came to me, and it fits well, especially because it refers to both parts of my journey. Something I've noticed in Colombia is that Americans, upon being asked where they're from, should not answer "America", because South Americans think of themselves as "Americans" as well. Thus, even though there isn't a connecting narrative between parts of this entry, the title is that unifier.

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The day started auspiciously.

Actually, it didn't start auspiciously at all, I just think saying it does gives this whole post an awesome sense of expectation that will keep you reading beyond the first paragraph. And you're still reading! Ha, it worked.

Anyway, the day started slowly with me finishing up the packing I hadn't finished the previous night, but it really picked up with my cabbie's music selection on the way to the airport. After 10 minutes of standard Colombian radio (salsa, merengue, etc.), the guy got out a CD, meaning he had very specifically decided on this particular music. Very soon I discovered that "this music" referred to a terrible pan-flute version of "My Heart Will Go On" that sounded a lot like this awesome recorder version. This fantastic piece was followed by similar pan-flute covers of Let it Be, Unchained Melody and (!!!) Africa (by Toto). Incredible.

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When I arrived at the Barranquilla airport, I half-expected to run into students from my school, since seemingly every one of my students has relatives in Miami, or regularly goes to Miami for vacation, or has a huge Miami fetish, I dunno. And my students are all fairly well-off, or they wouldn't go to a private school. Well, I was right - there were two girls from grade nine going to Miami to meet a tour group. They weren't my students, but I had substituted in their class a few times. By a twist of fate, we ended up sitting beside each other on the plane, and they were endlessly amused by my Spanish interactions with the stewardesses, especially my use of the colloquial "porfa" (short for por favor).

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A week or two ago, Elizabeth asked me if I thought I'd get culture shock upon returning to Canada (or the USA, as the case has turned out to be). I said I didn't really think so; I mean, I've lived in Canada my whole life apart from the last 10 months. Obviously there are things I'll need to re-adjust to, but will anything legitimately shock me? I found that hard to believe. But today, within my first hours back on the continent, I was proven wrong.

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When I arrived at the Fort Lauderdale airport, I decided to try taking the cheap way to my hotel, since a cab would run me something like 30 bucks. Even though this would involve lugging three heavy bags around, since I'm basically in the process of moving, and taking at least two different buses, I still went for it. I like taking public transit - it's my favourite way to learn a new place, partly because I often get lost and see parts of the city I would never see otherwise. Not that I was hoping to get lost with three huge suitcases.

After asking a few different airport officials, I found myself at a bus stop outside the airport, where an extremely friendly lady in a wheelchair helped me figure out exactly what bus to take. It was only after she got on to the first bus that came and confirmed my instructions with the driver that I realized she didn't need the wheelchair, and it was only after coming to that realization that I noticed the presumably complimentary wheelchair at EVERY bus stop in the airport. Haha, classic Florida.

When my bus eventually came, I asked the driver to let me know when we reached the place where I would eventually have to transfer to another bus in order to get to my hostel. He enthusiastically assured me that he would, and I sat down, re-assured that I would get to the hostel fairly quickly and hassle-free, possibly even in time to get to the Florida Marlins game I was hoping to attend.

The bus gradually filled up as we got further from the airport and further into the city of Fort Lauderdale. One of the passengers who was forced to stand near me because of the fullness of the bus was a middle-aged Spanish-looking guy, and I just didn't get a good feeling about him. He looked angry. Well, I was right. Shortly after getting on the bus, the driver was forced to makhttp://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=3139234229404821775&postID=8152879144482325713e a slightly jolty maneuver for one reason or another. It was barely anything, really. But the dude instantly said "f***ing bus drivers, man", fairly loudly, possibly loudly enough for the driver to hear. Dude, relax!

Eventually we started going past streets I recognized from my previous research, and I started getting worried, but I decided not to say anything because 1) I was sitting right in the front and the driver could see me every time he turned around, so I thought there was no way he could forget and 2) in Colombia, I asked this favour of drivers on many occasions, and it never failed. But when we got to the end of the line and I asked him if this was where I transferred to the other bus and he got all frustrated and yelled at me, I knew that he had forgotten.

Which, okay fine, I was a little exasperated, and I no longer expected to make the baseball game, but I was resolute and determined to make it to the hotel the cheap way, so I asked him what I should do. But before giving me the next set of instructions, he chewed me out for being an idiot and not getting off where I was supposed to and "that's why we have a talking bus!" Dude, I don't even know what the stop was called, how was that supposed to help me? And you SAID you would tell me when to get off. All I wanted was for him to apologize and for me to be on my way, but he had to act like I had personally offended him. Lame. Dude, relax!

Oh, also, the handle on my suitcase completely broke off when I was getting off the bus at the end of the line. This is a bit of foreshadowing - I'm hoping to write a post soon on all the things that are broken in my life.

Later, while watching the NBA finals in the comfort of my hostel common area, a group of people about my age who could accurately be described as white trash came in and got into a dispute with the very friendly and helpful Peruvian manager. These people had some weird story about how one of the girls' grandmas had booked the room with her credit card, so they didn't have a credit card they could use as a deposit to protect against room damages, etc., and her grandma was in the hospital so they couldn't get her credit card (leading one to wonder how and why she made the reservation in the first place). The hotel chick was being very reasonable: all she needed was a credit card that corresponded to one of the people there. Apparently, among the four of them, that was not possible. So they got angry and yelled at her, at one point even spouting "first of all, I don't need your attitude", when she wasn't giving ANY sort of attitude. Dudes, relax!

The reason I've related these anecdotes in succession is because this was my first instance of culture shock. People are assholes here! And now that I think about it, differences in the behaviour and demeanor of people is probably the form that most of my culture shock will take. As I said before, there are a lot of cultural differences that I will need to re-adjust to, but won't come as a shock, like public transportation, available food products, etc. But human interaction is something so deeply ingrained, subtle and less superficially apparent that it sure does take you by surprise when you are completely adjusted to a different culture.

Of course, most of the people I've met are not assholes. And I'm hoping that this forgotten Assholism is less pronounced in Canada than here in the USA. But it will be there, to some extent, and meeting three in the span of a few hours is something that never just happened in ten months in Colombia.

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Back to my bus odyssey. When I finally got to the transfer spot, I had a long wait for the next bus, and during this wait something fun happened - I was asked for help and was able to give it! This is one of the best feelings, always, and especially when you're in a new city that you hardly know. It's happened to me before - one time I successfully gave directions in London, England, after being there for just a few days. But this was the first time that it happened in another language. Yep, that's right, I was asked for help in Spanish, in a city I had arrived in hours earlier for the first time in my life, and was able to successfully answer. Awesome!

Another note on language: while waiting for the second bus, a pair of girls sat down beside me and started talking in what I tentatively identified as German, and later confirmed when I heard "ein, zvi, tri". They got on the same bus as me and helped me get to the hostel when it became apparent to them that I was clueless - they were staying at the same hostel anyway. On the walk to the hostel, they asked me where I was from, and I followed by noting "you're from Germany, right?" They were impressed. Boo yeah.

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I've been amazed by the amount of Canadian flags in Fort Lauderdale. Seemingly every hotel and some restaurants had two or three flags: American, Canadian, and sometimes a third. I also went by a food stand/permanent food truck type thing that sells... yep, you guessed it, poutine. Incredible! My hostel chick later informed me that Fort Lauderdale typically sees a huge winter influx of Canadians, especially French-Canadians. Weird! I wonder why French Canada in particular is attracted to this city - maybe it's just a self-perpetuating community thing, like now that Fort Lauderdale is known as the French-Canada winter spot, more French-Canadians vacation here.

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I had forgotten that it was game seven of the NBA finals, but after dinner I was channel-surfing in the hostel and remembered. When I arrived on the right channel, there came a shout from the neighbouring kitchen: "hey, are you turning it to... oh, yeah, sweet". I was glad to win the approval of my hostel-mate, and after he finished cooking dinner we sat down to watch the game together. Ironically, it was the first NBA game I'd watched in the entire season, having been in Colombia for the whole time.

Unfortunately, the lobby area closes at 11, and this happened to be with about 8 minutes left in the 4th quarter of a very close game. So we were kicked out and had to find a bar on the boardwalk to catch the last few minutes. I lost my watching buddy, since I had to go back to the room for a minute, and I ended up in a bar that could only be described as a hillbilly bar. It was very charming: the southern-accented long-haired dudes and ugly women were busy playing pool and couldn't have given less of a shit about the basketball game, except when one particularly drunk middle-aged woman noticed it and shouted "oh, Boston's playing! Go Boston!" and promptly went back to whatever she was doing (drunking). The bartender was your classic southern belle; tall and beautiful with a thick accent, and while inspecting my ID jokingly shook her head and tsk tsked.

When there were just a couple minutes remaining it became apparent that one of the pool players was interested in the game, and ambled over to the TV to turn the sound up. When this happened, the whole bar (it wasn't that full, about 15 people) tuned in and excitedly watched the last two minutes of the last game of the NBA season. Probably the only two minutes they watched all year. Hey, that's not much less than I watched, I guess. Anyway, it was fun to have company in finishing out the game, even though the team I and the drunk chick were cheering for (Boston) lost.

The game ended, there was a sense of "well, that's that", the hillbillies went back to pool, and I went back to the hotel, my first day back in North America over.

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Wow, this might be the longest entry I've ever written. Can't believe you made it all the way!