[Publishing this via email (damn you great firewall of China), so please excuse any weird formatting or messed up hyperlinks.]
The New York Times published a wonderful opinion comlumn on June 30 in honor of Canada day, which falls on the first of July. Several high-profile expat Canadians living in the United States write about what they miss about that beautiful country in the north. Here's the link:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/01/opinion/01canadaday.html?pagewanted=1&em
I'm no Malcolm Gladwell or A. C. Newman, but here is my own:
Every year when the calendar read October and summer breezes turned refreshingly nippy, my parents would plop me in our used white Mazada and set off across the Ottawa River towards Gatineau Park in Quebec. Gatineau, crowded with elegant maple forests and miles (or should I say kilometers?) of earthy hills, was the best place to watch the leaves change colors (or should I say colours?) in the autumn. After hiking for hours, stepping over clear creeks and freezing in front of startled deer, we would finally arrive at the peak of a mountain and stay there for hours, looking out over endless rows of red, orange, and gold.
I've always associated a loss of innocence with my move to the United States. I suppose it's not Texas's fault that I landed there just shy of twleve years old, unleashing unwarranted teenage angst and crushes on scrawny high school boys. Still, when I think of Canada, one scene always plays in my mind: against a blue sky so bright it hurts your eyes, my mother is bending over to collect fallen crimson leaves. Her hair is still long. She glances up for a second, just long enough to grin into my dad's waiting camera lens, before she gets back to adding colors to the generous bunch clutched in her hand. I watch from a nearby picnic bench, giggling and swinging my legs in the air as Canadian geese soar by overhead.
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