It’s a go! Departure day is set for the great trek to the Canadian West: April 10th 2011.

I’m excited. My daily Paris grind is going to totally change. And the timing is perfect: I need a breath of fresh air.

For a preview of what is in store for me in the American West I treat myself to a stopover in California.

Over there, everybody explains to me that I’m very lucky to be going to Vancouver. According to some “it’s a little bit like San Francisco’s little sister, Canadian style.”

The gentle climate, the laid-back people (I understand relaxed), the beaches etc. And I can’t ignore Vancouver’s little nicknames like “Wet Coast”, “Raincouver.” So upon leaving San Francisco I resignedly swap my sunglasses for a parka.

The Mail Strike 

First, I was surprised at the beginning of June when I learned from the media that a strike was paralyzing the country. A strike? In Canada? Oh no!

I was told that Canadians were not lazy slobs like the French, that they worked like gang-busters and only granted themselves two weeks’ holiday a year. The conflict was serious and would last all of June.

Welcome, then, to Canada: impossible to receive my utilities’ hook-up bills, electricity, Internet, telephone, or my social insurance card.

Finally the House of Commons and the Senate adopted a bill to enforce a return to work.

My cereal box speaks French

The last time I came to Canada, I went to Montreal, Quebec. So to hear, read and speak French, nothing felt more natural in a francophone land. On the other hand, the first time I did some shopping here, at the corner supermarket, I was surprised to read French on a cereal box. You don’t joke around with bilingualism in Canada, even here, in British Columbia.

The joys of the Stanley Cup

Coming from soccer land, I had everything to learn of what stirs the crowds here: hockey. What luck, I was told, I got here just in time for the Stanley Cup finals, with the Vancouver Canucks playing against the Boston Bruins. Awesome! I thought I was back in 1998, during the World Cup. Blue jerseys popped-up everywhere in Vancouver, faces were made up and the girls were dressed… up to their nails (special Canucks’ manicures).

Then it was all over, Vancouver beat Boston 1-0. It was fiesta time. I got back home, grinning from ear to ear, happy to be present at such an historical moment. But then, I was told that it wasn’t the final, but just the first of seven matches. Ah! I’m sorry but since when is a final not a final? France-Brazil in seven matches? Impossible.

So, it was therefore difficult for me to get excited about all the matches.

Riot police gather in Vancouver on June 15, 2011 - Photo by Joanne C, Flickr

The evening of THE final, I decided to go to a pub to watch the match the Canucks lose, but outside the weather was nice, it was spring, so I decided to go to a movie theatre on Seymour for the second half of the evening.

Upon leaving the theatre, the usherette explained that the city was on fire and being ransacked. Fire and mayhem? I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I grew up in the Parisian suburbs, so riots, like strikes, don’t frighten me. Braving the crowd to go home, I came upon a scene of absolute chaos.

While wondering about the events, I retreated shyly towards the theatre, where the usherette welcomed us, never doubting that we would all come back. She offered us a free seat for the next day’s movie. It is, above all else, that gesture that I will remember most, from that evening.

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Translation: Nigel Barbour