Anyone who knows me at all (including those who have been kind enough to read my pieces on Open Salon), knows I love and admire Canada.  I visit various parts of the country as often as I can, publish opinions in a variety of Canadian newspapers, count several Canadians among my close friends, and read, view and listen to as much Canadian news, history, politics and culture as I am able.  I even have a real Hudson’s Bay striped wool blanket on my bed.

Even so, I remain a proud American, although more than 20 years of life in Minnesota has Canadian-ized my accent (a bit of an improvement, I think, from the type of Great Lakes twang common among those who grew up in Milwaukee, though I have to give some credit for the voice modification to the elocution lessons I received from high school debate and forensics coaches). 

And on one of my trips to the Great White North, a weekend jaunt to Montréal in February 2007, I learned in no uncertain terms that no matter how knowledgeable one is about Canada, appreciates things Canadian, and speaks decent enough French, one may still have to defend one’s native country and sense of American identity.  Though I was told by several Canadians that my fashion sense (including a mink coat to ward against the biting wind and below zero Fahrenheit temperatures) was trés Montréal and that having such sense was a very good thing.   Some of them even added that such style “is so very unexpected in an American.”  Eh?

So one night, I was by myself in a fairly swish downtown bar in the city’s still quite Anglophone Golden Mile district (known as such because at one time, most of Canada’s millionaires lived in that section), reading the more federalist of the nation’s French-language newspapers.  I figured I was covered on both fronts, English and French.  And I was drinking one of Canada’s most popular cocktails, a Crown Royal Canadian whisky and ginger ale. 

Early enough in the evening, a well dressed couple about my age sat next to me, although they first asked in French if it was okay if they did so.  I replied in French that I would be delighted to have them share the bar with me.  The man looked closely at my newspaper and asked what I thought about one of the prime minister’s latest political moves.  His tone of voice made it clear that I would be wise to support the prime minister’s views.  I thought to myself, oh, that is not so very common, to find a Conservative Party of Canada supporter in Montréal, but I ended up saying something to the effect that I didn’t think the prime minister’s stance was the best one but, being American, I was going to withhold further comment.

Well, I may as well have said I supported the public killing of cats, or giving Britney Spears the Medal of Freedom for great contributions to the arts.  The woman immediately glared at me with one of those looks that might not kill but could probably inflict a fair amount of maiming damage and then asked, in English, how I could possibly live with myself, and in the United States, with THAT war-mongering George W. Bush as president.  The man just sort of eyed me up in a way that indicated, yes, she may be a tad bit harsh, but yeah, what do you have to say for yourself. 

I remember that I looked down at my drink, took a very small sip, thought, well, this puts to the lie the idea that every single Canadian is extraordinarily polite to strangers, and thought for a few moments about how I was going to respond.

“Well,” I started in what I felt might be a measured tone, while also hoping I did not sound too startled, angry or ready to exhibit too much sarcasm.  I went on to say that “I am like a great many Americans who do not support most of the policies of the current president.  I did not vote for the man in either 2000 or 2004, and I am not at all happy with the conduct of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  And as for living in the United States, well, I don’t think it’s a viable or desirable option for every American who disagrees with any president to want to leave the country.”  I paused for a moment and added “because I don’t suppose Canadians want millions of Americans storming the border, demanding asylum as well as national health care and easy access to Tim Horton’s doughnuts.”

Maybe it was the mention of doughnuts or the thought of all sorts of random Americans trying to enter Canada that did it, but the couple then laughed in unison and the woman said “great answer.”  Another couple sitting a few seats away from me on my other side must have heard the exchange because the man then said, in a manner not too far from cross-examination, so, you’re one of THOSE Americans.

Christ, I thought, again to myself, so much for getting really smartened up in a new black velvet dress to have a night out in a highly rated establishment where I thought I might meet some nice and interesting people, some of whom just might be male and eligible.  Good thing I had been a champion in debate and forensics in high school and that I also had been a speechwriter for a U.S. cabinet secretary and some corporate titans because I knew I was going to have to defend the U.S.  While under the influence of a bit of liquor and by myself.  I hoped I was going to be up to the job because at that moment, I not only felt completely and utterly American, but that if I failed in my defense, my fellow citizens might vote me out of the country as they would a bad country singer on “American Idol.”

“Well yes, I am one of those Americans,” I said quietly and in my least defensive way.  “Hope that is okay.  Because I’ve always loved Canada and Canadians and I think it is so unfair that too many people think only of Mounties, hockey or maple syrup when they think of Canada, and not about things like your Charter of Rights and Freedoms or the Group of Seven artists.  Sort of like the idea that not all Americans are ignorant of the world, speak only one language, talk too much and too loudly, and spend too much on fast food, plastic surgery, and teeth bleaching.”

Well, I either did a good job, the people I was talking to were not in a mood to fight, or everyone also was feeling their liquor because both couples, as well as the bartender, laughed in that we’re laughing with you and not at you, fashion. 

I spent the rest of the evening talking and having fun with these people.  Sometimes we criticized American policies.  Sometimes we criticized Canadian policies.  Sometimes we praised the particular ways of both Americans and Canadians.  One of the women wanted to fix me up with one of her colleagues because “he might like you, he went to graduate school in Chicago.”  I didn’t pay for any drinks the rest of the night.

And the woman who asked me the baited question about George W. Bush?  She’s now an e-mail buddy and she and her husband will visit me when they next come to Minneapolis.  She wishes me a happy Independence Day every July 4, as I wish her a good Canada Day on July 1.  They call me their “smart American friend.”  I don’t know about being smart.  But I am indeed American.