While in California, I spent time in the town of Gilroy.

Gilroy is the garlic capital of the world.

While there I met an older, single woman - she was the mother of a friend of mine.

Her house was shocking. Everything in it was glossy. The majority of the surfaces in her house were black or white. There were chrome highlights and the occasional ‘shock’ of something very, very red.

Her hair was ‘perfect’. Her lips matched her fingernails which matched her shoes which matched the ‘shocking’ red candles on the glass topped, chrome legged coffee table in her black and white living room.

I was the only Canadian in the room.

It’s an odd thing being the only Canadian in the room.

They all think that you’re an american.

That is until you speak.

If they’re americans it will slowly dawn on them that you are not one of them.

If they’re not americans, nor Canadian, it may take a bit longer.

(yes the capitalization / lack of is on purpose. yes disrespect is intended - get over yourseslves you imperial wankers)

Eventually, this mom realized that I neither knew my states nor my state capitals. I didn’t know the presidents.

Apparently it was wrong to call the people at the alamo “a bunch of losers”. I’m not certain why. They all died. They were attacked and killed by the Mexican Army. They lost the battle. I still find it weird that americans love to celebrate a bunch of losers that way…

Anyway…

Once it was discovered that I was somehow different, all eyes fell upon me.

I looked like an american.

I even sounded a lot like an american - not a Californian, but from american somewhere. They just couldn’t place the accent.

I was treated like some sort of oddity, some exotic curiosity. These people - especially this mom - knew nothing about Canada.

Power.

I had so much power. I knew things. They did not.

There was no Google.

I could tell them whatever I wanted about myself and Canada and they had no way of checking.

Waves of mischievous joy filled my heart.

By the end of the evening I had convinced everyone in the room that I paid my way through university by cleaning bear shit from remote summer homes that I would get to via my pontoon boat.

Not only would I earn my living cleaning out the bear shit, but it was the preferred medium for growing the national mushroom.

She was incredibly polite and believed every word. She almost cracked her glossy countenance when I affirmed: “There’s good money in bear shit”.

But she remained polished and polite. Its funny, americans tend to be quite polite at times like these. As a Canadian, I could be more kind to my american neighbours.

But how much fun would that be?

So, this summer, if you have a chance to travel, or if you meet any tourists, play two truths and a lie without telling them. That is to say: tell them two things that are true and one that’s a lie. See how outrageous you can be without being caught. Delight in the joy that comes from being naughty.

It’s like the old saying goes.

In Canada, we put underpants on our dogs to prevent their dangly bits from getting frostbite.