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Found in Translation
My English knowledge was equivalent to that of a country “pumpkin” when I arrived in Vancouver in May of 1979. I was a young bride from Switzerland. With me I had two suitcases full of clothes. And a dictionary.
To be fluent in German and French didn’t help me here. Since I could not communicate, my professional education didn’t count. I had to start from scratch. Within two weeks, I was hired at McDonald’s as a hostess. My responsibilities included wiping tables and picking up the garbage on the parking lot every fifteen minutes. Getting my first job was the easy part.
Not all my language problems could be solved, not all culture gaps bridged, with the dictionary.
My physician raised his eye brows when I requested a “recipe” for my birth control pills. It was not possible to order a “season-ticket” for the Vancouver Sun. A clerk in the grocery store gave me a “what-the-heck-are-you-talking-about” look when I asked for mayonnaise in a tube.
My new husband, also a Swiss Immigrant, and I figured out why the fridge in our rented basement suite was bigger than our shower stall and abandoned our tradition of daily grocery shopping. Instead, we strolled through the aisles at Woodward’s Food Floor every Saturday and made it a point to purchase something unknown every week. Among these culinary discoveries was a can of pumpkin. We spooned some out and tasted it; we added sugar and tried again. We cooked it and sampled it hot. We threw it out.
Our first camping trip brought us to Harrison Lake. We watched a young couple launch their boat. The man smiled at us and said, “Nice day, eh?” A few minutes later, we received an invitation for a boat ride. Unheard of in Switzerland! At their cabin, our new Canadian friends asked if we wanted to stay for a bonfire and some “hot dogs.” Shocked, I looked at my husband who laughed and explained that we were offered “wieners.”
Not only don’t Canadians eat dog meat, we were also told to give up the search for a juicy horse steak. Canadians don’t eat horses, nor is it common for Canadians to cook the tongue, the brain, or the tail from the beef.
Sometimes ignorance was bliss. We nodded and smiled when labeled “D.P.’s,” thinking it might be a compliment, or a joke at worst. Other times, our obliviousness resulted in embarrassing faux-pas.
Once, while reading the menu in a restaurant that offered venison, my husband had the bright idea to inquire for other wild meat. He innocently asked the waitress if she also had beaver and could not figure out, why, in an instant, her friendly smile turned into anger.
I guess it wasn’t as bad as my worst blooper. The first time I went to the hairdresser, I asked for a “cut-and-blow-job.”
In 1981, we moved to the Cariboo, onto our own, raw, ten acre lot. Our new neighbors showed up, with hammers in hand, for a “work-bee.” Volunteering was a new concept to us. In the old country, volunteers are hired and get paid small wages. It is from Canadians that we learned to give time and money.
After the birth of our son, my girlfriends organized a baby shower at our house. I panicked. We didn’t have running water at our rural property. I prepared our baby’s yellow plastic tub and a fresh towel; I filled the canning pot with water and put it on the wood stove. My friends arrived and to my great surprise and joy, they all brought gifts for our baby. We never got to the we-experienced-mothers-show-you-how-to-shower-the-baby part.
With the rural living came the weekly drive to the dump. The first time, we returned with our full load, because the sign read “refuse” and we assumed the landfill was full. Eggs 4 sale means that eggs can be bought and most likely there are more than four. People do not sell garages. Xmas is not x-rated.
Twenty years of living in Canada and some English classes later, we truly feel Canadian. We know “what’s up” when the kids have to “jet.” We are “sick-and-tired” when they keep “passing the buck” on neglected chores. We “eavesdrop” on their conversations to find out what is presently and absolutely “rad,” but get “worried sick” when we hear too much. We laughed when they suffered the first “hangover” and got “sicker than a dog.”
We look forward to the Turkey Dinner at Thanksgiving, mostly because of the pumpkin pie. Santa Claus is positively more jolly than the stern St. Nicklaus. Nevertheless, we first-generation immigrants celebrate Christmas December 24. My husband volunteers - without pay - on countless committees and I am a dog walker at the SPCA.
Still, it will probably take my husband and me our entire life times to master the whole language and culture barrier. Recently, I sold a story and sent a triumphant email to my writing-buddy: “I am flying on cloud seven” followed by an “LOL.” She informed me that here, we fly on cloud nine. I don’t know what gives us Canadians the right to fly higher than people in Europe, but I intend to find out what it feels like when I sell my next story.
First published in The Canadian Immigrant