This is a continuation of the last bit, I suppose.
There are two moments that come to mind when I think of how wonderful a place Canada (and Toronto) can be for people from other places.
The first happened as I was walking down the Danforth on a balmy summer afternoon:
There were two men walking in front of me, speaking to each other in a mixture of Cantonese and English.1 As one of them got to the end of what he was saying, he paused for a second and said, with a Chinese accent so thick I could just barely understand him: “That’s how it is, eh?”
The second, at the customs counter in at Pearson International Airport:
I was returning to Toronto on a Sunday, in the early hours of the afternoon. I had spent the weekend in Colorado, having visited for my cousin’s wedding. The reception had lasted till around three in the morning, I had arrived back at my aunt’s house by four and I left for the airport, with just a bit of sleep, by seven.
Unfortunately, because I had booked my ticket at the last moment, I had to travel there and back in a rather circuitous way: first to Arizona, and then to Colorada; when returning, again, first to Arizona, then Toronto.2
All this came together, leaving me tired and just wishing to get home as I got off the plane and made my way through customs.
The customs agent looked me over, and then took a quick look at my passport. He asked me where I had gone and why. I replied. He looked me over again. Then, he closed my passport and said, as he handed it back to me, “Welcome home, son.”
And just like that, I was home.
- 1I guess that would be Caontonenglish then, no?
- 2And before you ask, no, I didn’t see the Grand Canyon. I was asleep. Both ways.
I know, I know, I’m such a loser.