On speaking English

Interesting to read what a non-Canadian’s perspective is on Canadian English. Outside of the word toque, there are actually other Canadianisms! Whenever I’m travelling and I talk to other Anglophones, they all seem to have colourful slang or words that we never encounter. I was envious of their special code because every English word that came from my own mouth seemed to be understood by them.

I have to admit that I like the feeling when you start to decipher the codes of a certain culture be it South African, Australian or British. But different is always relative. One of my friends I met in South Africa is German and South Africa was the only English-speaking place she’s been in. Other Canadians and I would laugh when we hear a South African word since it was novel to us, but she would use it liberally because it was correct “English” to her.

“Ag, shame,” she says.
To this I would laugh.
“Well,” she retorts defensively. “How would you say it in Canada?”
“We don’t.”

You’d think it’s sometimes a challenge to translate directly from a different language, but the same one from another continent??

Skytrain

I zone out from the moment I leave my house to when I arrive at the office.

It takes almost one hour of walking and public transit to get to work from door to door. I wonder if all passengers are zoned-out; if they revel in this span of dead space of their day or dream it. While on transit, I’m either dozing off as I try to catch up on the previous night’s sleep, reading another chapter of my thick Haruki Murakami novel, or trying to solve the day’s crossword puzzle from the commuter paper.

I love the Skytrain – it’s a real Vancouver trademark. Trains arrive every 1.5 minutes and can transport passengers across three cities within half an hour. During the day, the train flash past neighbourhoods, parks and commercial areas. Looking into the pinkish horizon near the end of the day, your mind can wander from reality.

My favourite place to sit is the seats along the sides of the bus where you’re not facing forwards or backwards and you have full view out of the large windows.

For a while, I was sharing the side seats with a middle-aged grey-haired Asian man in the last train compartment. He always wears navy cotton pants, a dark down vest and has a bowling bag wedged between his feet. I usually sit on the other side so that we end up facing each other and I watch him from the corner of my eyes.

He pumps his legs so that they bounce rapidly up and down on the Lego blue seat. With closed eyes, he moves his head in a semi-circle, swivelling his neck as if conducting an invisible symphony orchestra. I check, but he does not have headphones on. His clasped hands rest comfortably on his convulsing thighs and the light reflects on a thin silver hand on his ring finger. I wonder what his wife is like – a petite woman who enjoys steaming pork dumplings for her husband.

Suddenly, his eyes open and focus on me. I quickly look away.