And that’s it

Just under six months and 16 countries later (minus one if you don’t count a simple train-ride through Switzerland and add one if you count the Vatican City) plus 10 hours of flying and 10 hours of waiting around airports and wa-BAM, we’re back in the land of maple syrup and insightful news features that inform us that “more and more people are buying ready-made food from grocery stores these days.” (Sometimes it’s better when you don’t understand what they’re saying.) Lately, we’ve been trying to undo six months of museums, art galleries and partially butchered languages with satellite-TV and every episode of this season’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel and the Gilmour Girls.

I was hoping for a home-grown culture-shock brought on by looking at the homeland with eyes that have seen so many others. I was hoping it would hit me like a bag of Yukon gold potatoes swung by the mighty poutin-fueled biceps of Big Joe Mufferaw. And, so, not much luck on that front. The post-trip comedown has been as exciting as Canadian national news. I was struck by the hugeness of the grocery store and size of the yoghurt containers. But, I am in Whitby and re-acculturation can only happen in a place with culture.

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