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It wasn’t apparent I was having culture shock in Canada until after I returned.

Looking back though, the signs were there. Being the only person who didn’t laugh at something a child said, because I was the only person in the house that didn’t speak French. Not having eaten a tajine before. Desperately looking for a vendor at Granville Island who looked like a native English speaker so I wouldn’t have to worry about not being able to understand their accent, or wonder if they were fully understanding what I was trying to tell them. Having an uncomfortable time talking with a friendly Spanish traveler also because of his heavily-accented English. Just being awfully quiet in general, for fear of looking like the stupid American.

Since my return home, I have noticed the following:

• Canadian drivers are much more polite than even Portland drivers.
  I could ride my bike on Commercial Drive, which is a lot like Hawthorne, and not only were there no aggros, but plenty of car drivers were looking out for my safety! Whoa! I did get honked at once though, on Victoria Drive…by what else? A guy in a ca. 1975 Chevy pickup! The honk was a lot shorter and more polite than when I’ve been honked at in Gresham, for sure.
• There are way more old trees in Portland than in Vancouver.
  On Wednesday I was sitting in the waiting room of my chiropractor’s office watching the falling rain when I realized that from my limited sightline, I could see at least three trees that were clearly over 50 years old. Vancouver has a lot less of this because the city is so much more dense. The trees they do have are deciduous and not conifer, which is more native to the Pacific Northwest. This is a drawback, as the safety is palpable when you are ensconced in the northwest’s mighty firs.
• Dang, I eat a lot of processed food.
  Perhaps it’s because I was staying with people who were clearly slow foodists, but I expected to have stomach issues that never happened…until about a day after I got back. The meals I had in Vancouver included homemade awesomeness by my host’s husband, who made things I had never even heard of before, using whatever happened to be lying around the house. Since my return, I’ve noticed just how much of what I put in my mouth comes from a box or a bag. Yeesh!

As soon as I crossed the border back into Washington, the weight was lifted. I knew that although the highway sign said 70, it was okay and even expected to go 75. I could pay attention to the big numbers (miles) instead of squinting to see the little numbers (kilometers). At the border, I had a conversation with the US guard about Voodoo Doughnuts. Like taking a few days to break in a new pair of boots and then putting the old ones back on, I was relieved, and totally comfortable again.

Less than 24 hours after my bike fall at Granville Island (my neck still hurts, incidentally), I had another ill-fated encounter that has led me to the conclusion that Granville Island hates me.

Last night I decided to visit the Granville Island Public Market for breakfast on the way out of town. After bading goodbye to my hosts, I got in my car and made my way down to the waterfront for what should have been about a five minute stop. I even parked in a one hour zone on the pier.

After grabbing a egg and cheese bagel from one vendor and a chocolate glazed doughnut from another, I started patting my pockets while walking toward my car. Something was missing.

Where were my keys?

Oh crap. Of course something like this would happen in a foreign country! And with my darling iPhone inside too, rendering me nearly disabled in the situation!

Now, if you know me well at all, you probably know how common it is for me to lock myself out of my car. That’s why I have a hidden spare! Except I was skeptical about the safety of the neighborhood I was staying in, and thus put my hidden spare inside the car, so it wouldn’t get stolen during my stay. D’oh.

I tried to find either a pay phone or an English speaker that I could understand. When I thought I finally had the latter, turns out I was dead wrong, but at least the Frenchman selling cheese was big-hearted, and helped me find a member of the Granville Island security team.

The Granville Island security guys called a towing company for me, and one particularly nice fellow even stayed outside with me and kept me company while I waited.

We talked about the similarities between Vancouver and Portland. The 2010 Olympics. The self-involved nature of Americans versus the more global awareness of Canadians. The weather. I told him how embarrassed I was about this happening, particularly during what was supposed to be a very short stop before heading back home for the day. My security guard friend even used the word “d’oh!,” despite Canadians being more formal in their speech.

During the long wait, I mentioned how fortunate we were that the weather was once again clear and sunny after some serious early morning showers. Fierce winds were forecasted for the afternoon though, and as we stood talking the winds were already picking up. And imagine, me without my jacket!

When the tow truck guy finally found us on the island, it only took him about five minutes before my door was unlocked and only a few more before I was on my way. The security guard and I wished each other well, and I started the long journey home, over an hour late, with a neck so stiff I could barely look behind me to change lanes on the freeway.

What conclusion would you draw from these two negative incidents happening at the same place, so close together? It seems Granville Island has an evil curse or something. Or, the lesson to be learned once again, is that it is completely wrong to have a car in Vancouver.

Despite the gray skies, heavy drizzle, and cold temperature, yesterday I got on my bike determined to explore Vancouver’s bikeways, with my end result being the Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia, suggested by one of my hosts.

First, I had a fistful of US Dollars, and needed some Canada money. Using my Vancouver bikeways map, I plotted out what looked like an easy ride from the house I am at near Commercial Drive and Broadway, to a money exchange place on W Broadway. Most of this way involved the Tenth Avenue bikeway, aka “Off-Broadway.”

Once I exchanged $50 USD for $59.05 Canadian, I got the map back out again and plotted a course over to Ontario Street, feeding me right onto the seawall, which it looked like I could follow most of the way to UBC.

Ontario Street fed me right to that thing. Turns out that thing is called Science World!

Once on the seawall, the air got colder and the drizzle started making my pants wet. At first the sights kept my spirits up. The bikeway signs directed me clearly, cars actually stopped instantly when I came to a crosswalk, and there were lots of happy dogs with their owners. Yay!

However, at one point the seawall route started becoming a little confusing. I refused to accept that the “seaside” route signage would be taking me away from the sea, so I plodded on past a sign that said “pedestrians only.” After the path narrowed along Kitsilano Beach, I came to a big set of stairs and had to lug my bike back up. Yeesh. There seemed to be a lot of cyclists on Point Grey Road, which was a more major thoroughfare. I decided to still take the signed route–I went up a couple of blocks with an enormous hill, then turned right and went down that same enormous hill, which fed me onto…Point Grey Road! Argh!

Once I got to the Jericho Beach area, the traffic calmed immensely and the surroundings became much more lovely–more sea and trees and beach. And an extended hill which I was not mentally prepared for, between the cold, rain, and my mettle being tested.

On the way up though, I looked out to the sea and saw what looked like distant peninsulas, obscured because of cloud cover, beckoning to me like a Pacific Northwest Bali Hai. There were bald eagles hanging out in a dead tree, and circling above looking for food. Friendly joggers said hello.

Once I got to the museum, I locked my bike very carefully, remembering that my hosts told me that it’s very common for bikes to get stolen. Using my U-lock and a cable lock they lent me, I secured both of my wheels and frame to the bike rack, where it sat alone.

Inside the museum, I slowly dried off while looking at lots of totems, bentwood boxes, and ceremonial dishes, mostly from Haida and Kwakiutl people from the “first nations.” In addition, there was also a traveling photographic exhibit of Samoan tattoo art, and a collection of ceramics. (Not really sure what that had to do with anthropology, but it was fun to see nonetheless.) You can see photos here.

After getting lost on the UBC campus trying to find some food, I started making my way back via another bikeway. The way back seemed to take half the time, probably because there was a lot of downhill, great views, and the sun was starting to shine, although it was still pretty chilly. I took the Eighth Avenue bikeway until I started experiencing more car scariness again, then climbed up Ontario (arrrrgh! it’s steep) to the Tenth Avenue bikeway, and back home for an evening of food and conversation with my hosts.

Given that it’s one of our national symbols in the US, I think it’s very strange that I have always seen more bald eagles in Canada than all my time in the United States.

Almost as soon as I cleared Peace Arch Park crossing the border on Friday, I passed by a tree on the side of the road where a couple of baldies were just hanging out. Right next to I-5.

Yesterday on my bike ride to the Museum of Anthropology at UBC, I was climbing a long hill when I saw another eagle hanging out in a tree overlooking the ocean, and not one, not two, but THREE more circling around looking for some chow! They were chattering to each other and hanging out in a dead tree nonchalantly, like it was Backspace or something.

My only previous bald eagle sighting was when I was in International Falls, Minnesota, in March 2006. There were three or four baldies that were flying over Rainy River on the search for some nice walleye. However–and this is the important part–they seemed to mostly be sticking to the other bank of the river. AKA Canada.

What does this say about us as a nation, that our national symbols are ditching us for our northern neighbors?