happy B.C. day

so we are at the US-Canadian border in Blaine, Washington, on an Amtrak thruway bus headed to Seattle, stuck in a five-hour backup, and i’m stealing Internet from the US Customs Station. it’s the start of a long weekend flanked by British Columbia day, a provincial holiday i’m told authorities created to buffer the lack of holidays in august, the laziest month of the year, and everyone was headed to the US to celebrate.  i think this is brilliant, and if i ever find myself unfortunately thrust in the throes of state administration, i will declare a California day, or a New Jersey day, or a Pennsylvania day, and everyone will drive to Canada and have picnics.

i am outside. it is a beautiful day, and all the Canadians are going to the duty-free shop and buying alcohol, then opening the bottles on the side of the road to share with total strangers.  a girl comes up and sits next to me and starts talking to me about how unreal this traffic is, but at least it gives her time to work on her tan before she meets her fiancée in Seattle.  i approach our Korean driver who converses with a stout little Canadian man with skinny white legs, a red face and a straw hat.

man from winnipeg: well, i’ve never been a religious man, but… last year, God spoke to me. [awkward pause]. has God ever spoken to you?

me: [slowly backing away] um, if he has, can’t say i’ve ever heard it. i probably wasn’t listening.

winnipegian: well, God spoke to me last year. and you know what he told me?

me: eeeh… no?

mr. winnipeg: well, he told me to buy a Toyota [pronounced "ToYOter"] convertible. so i did. i’m not gonna do a silly thing like not listen to God.

me: [slightly relieved this man is being facetious.] no, you wouldn’t want to piss God off by not getting a convertible if he tells you to.

we are joined by a man named “Bobby” from a Maryland tour bus. he has the thickest Eastern shore accent i have ever heard. fresh off an alaska cruise, he waxes on to us for 15 minutes about everything he learned about raising wild salmon.  i admire his enthusiasm; he is like a schoolboy who just learned about dinosaurs and wants to tell his mom and dad everything a stegosaurus eats and poops during dinner.

we shake hands and he puts out his left hand.  i find this strange and think maybe he was a boy scout.  Bobby, newly retired, is 60 years old, and he just had a stroke that at first debilitated the left half of his body.  he has made a full recovery and now always shakes hands with his left hand, just because he can.

Bobby says everyone on his tour bus, all Marylanders, are bitching and moaning about the wait.  bill from winnipeg says, well, there’s not much you can do.  at least it’s not raining.  Bobby says yeah.  what’re y’all drinking?

i tell Bobby he belongs on the west coast.

D.C. freaks me out.

sitting on the Metro, an old school white man in a seersucker jacket with a tweed Stetson plops himself down, despite an overabundance of vacant seats, next to a young, plump black woman with a fire-coloured dress and a diamond stud in her left nostril. he then begins his unrelenting conversation to this unfortunate recipient of his discourse. i watch from across the aisle.

he: nice day, isn’t it?

she: (smiles and nods)
(plainspeak: leave me the fuck alone).

he: you on your way downtown?

she: smiles and nods, a little less briskly.
(plainspeak: why did you have to sit next to me, again?)

side note: i have always been loath to hear this expression in washington. it is a city built in a circle. while ‘downtown’ implies a particular area to the inhabitants of this city, it also implies the existence of an ‘uptown,’ when in fact there are more like 12 ‘uptowns,’ which is everywhere still in the city of Washington not considered “downtown.” anyway, it continues:

[she puts in her headphones]

he: (undiscernible)

she: what? (visibly agitated as she removes headphones)

he: what is that you’ve got there?

she: mp3 player.

he: empty what, player?

she: mp3 player.

he: oh. what does it do?

she: plays music.

he: ah. (brief pause). what do you listen to?

she: songs.

he: O.K.

at this point in the conversation, i decided to name them Judy and Oliver. don’t ask me why. these names came to me in a moment of pure reflection.

[brief silence. Judy is attempting to contort her face into a perfectly accepltable and easily interpreted 'eat-shit-and-die' expression].

Oliver: so, are you on your way to work?

[it's 12:45 PM. on a Thursday. i'm just saying].

Judy: (no answer)

Oliver: okay. i see.

silence. END

maybe it is the New York in me speaking – although i’ve definitely been an anomaly as far as this goes – but i figure (and maybe i’m knowledgeable enough to chip in on this having ridden public transit as far as you can up the east coast), there’s a tacit agreement among patrons on rapid public transit that if you don’t want to converse, you don’t have to. of course, i would’ve expected a little mid-afternoon flirtation. but not between a red-faced, grey haired Southern patriarch and a trendy, well-dressed black woman probably 30 years his junior.

of course, i got a phone call on the Metro, and it didn’t drop. and i answered it, and talked for about five minutes. i felt like a rude bastard.