More from my book, 180° Around The Antipodes:
(subliminal message: yes, lots of cool things you've written Bran, yes I will buy a book Bran;)
A group of guys – hatted, sunburnt with sunken eyes and tired postures – sat with their elbows on a sunlit patio table covered in half-full pitchers and glasses of golden liquid. Words like shit, fuck and piss were casually being worked to death as they smoked and flicked ashes at their feet. The way they leaned towards their drinks imparted a feeding likeness to their purpose; like hummingbirds gathered around nectarous flowers. A few of them looked over at me, the brims of their hats pulled down tightly over their eyes.
“Why do all you Canadians have flags stitched to your backpacks?” came the pointed question, the slanted looks further cluing me into the mood at the table.
“It helps at times.”
“You guys are just the world’s dahlins, awncha?” replied the same guy, taking off his shades revealing a white-around-the-eyes sunglass pinkness.
One of his buddies lit a cigarette while another topped up his beer. This sort of passive-aggressive banter seemed an easy call: a table of Americans probably hitting a rough patch on their little two-week jaunt through NZ on their way to Australia. Getting this sort of vibe from fellow travelers had an air of cannibalism to it; as though their frustrations were now being projected towards those of a similar breed in perhaps similar circumstance – a tactic that maybe now restored some of the mojo that had seeped away since they’d left home. Here and now, the lone cycle traveler – smiling and confident, somehow privy to the secrets that now eluded them – needed to be taken down a notch.
“I’m proud to be Canadian. Where are your flags?” I asked, motioning with a flick of my chin towards the bevy of packs clustered beside the table.
This was met with guffaws and more low-decibel swearing.
“Easy bud,” said the ringleader giving me the stink eye, his agro demeanor perhaps kicked-up by the pack mentality. At this crossroads town, these guys were likely just killing time waiting for their next bus to the next stop on the backpacker circuit and needed a little drama. A waitress flitted by, dropping change off on the table. I took a swig of water.
“See you guys around, eh?” I said, walking out, climbing on the bike and began riding off. In my rear view I could see a few single fingered gestures and contorted red faces. The encounter illustrated this sort of ennobling mechanism, a courage builder that some travelers needed to fall back on from time to time.
(No disrespect intended to my American friends)
So yeah, it was always a point of huge patriotic pride to rock the Canadian flag while I traveled by bike or bus. Recalling my experiences abroad, I can honestly say that very few, if any, countries enjoy such a well-respected and endearing reputation around the world.
When you're thousands of miles from home and someone asks you where you're from, it gives you an even stronger sense of appreciation being able to say, "I'm Canadian."
Happy Canada Day
