Here’s the head of the Toronto librarians’ union outlining some of the reasons for the current city-wide strike. She raises some very good points. But discussing a librarian’s job security (important though this is) will not bring the man or woman in the street on side. After all, many of them have lost their jobs or been downgraded; why should they care if the same thing happens to others, particularly those in the public sector? Instead, the union should highlight the decay in service that will stem from job losses and, more importantly, emphasise how the public’s hard-earned tax dollars are being wasted on middle and upper management faster than an Enron executive can gamble in a backstreet Las Vegas casino. So come on librarians – a little more chutzpah please!
To BCE or not to BCE?
Like most of humanity, I look forward to weekends. For me, it’s a time when I can visit downtown Toronto with Maria, have fun and investigate my new home further. A notable advantage of living in this city is its ability to play host to some of world’s best touring shows, particularly in art and history. One visiting exhibition I’ve been itching to see since my arrival is Secrets of the Maya, which is on show at the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM). Since my first visit to the Yucatan region of Mexico, I’ve been fascinated by the Maya and their history. Reading Charles Mann’s books and, before my kindle decided to go haywire, other works on Latin America has also helped me appreciate how much I have to learn about this culture and its people both then and now. After all, the Maya still reside in the Yucatan, except most people – those looking from the outside in – would probably define them first as Mexicans. But how would they define themselves? As Mayan or as Mexican? What about Mexican-Mayan or Mayan-Mexican?
This problem of naming and of categorising haunts the minds of historians, curators and academics alike, and much ink has been spent on this. Logically, a society, people or nation has a right to define itself – it’s an obvious matter of cultural self-determination. This makes sense on so many levels that it has become a norm for us and pains are rightly taken to ensure sensibility. But what about issues related to time and date? Now ‘here be dragons’, as they once said on maps of old. Today most people widely use calendars and dating systems that have their roots in Western Christian culture. But wait a minute, this system of BC (Before Christ) and AD (Anno Domini) – surely its use is a grievous insult to those who are not Christian? And isn’t it a patronising, ghastly structure that reflects a zealous/imperialist expansionist mind-set from down the centuries? A feat of contortion has been used to overcome this grave slight: we now increasingly use BCE (Before Common Era) and CE (Common Era). A Stalinist purge of BC and AD has begun, wiping away the sins of our fathers. Most importantly, academics, curators, politicians and countless others can now fall asleep at night, feeling all warm and fuzzy.
What they should be feeling is rather stupid. To use the label of Common Era is ridiculous. The commonality it refers to taps only into our experience of a globalised world that is, in historical terms, an almost entirely new phenomenon. Indeed, ‘Common Era’ for historic purposes is nothing more than a paradox wrapped in a blanket of absurdity. To change the nomenclature of our dating system is more expressive of our early 21st century sturm und drang rather than anything to do with practicalities or sensibilities. I’ll admit our calendar is a strange inheritance, particularly when discussing a culture or people – the Classical Mayans, for example – that had nothing whatsoever to do with Christianity. But frankly there is no alternative and to just change the names is as academically and socially sensible as Xerxes ordering the sea to be whipped (actually he probably didn’t order this; it’s more likely to have been Ancient Greek propaganda. But it’s a good analogy for this example).
Charles Mann sums it up best: ‘In truth it is a little odd to be talking about “years before Christ” in reference to people whose cultural traditions have nothing to do with Christianity. But no plausible substitutes are available […] the Common Era calendar is just a renamed Christian calendar that still places past events in reference to Christianity, the main objection. One could switch to a neutral calendar, like the Julian calendar used by astronomers […] This doesn’t seem useful; to discharge their informational content, readers will have to translate Julian dates back into what they know, the familiar AD and BC. It only seems kind to save them the bother.’ (Mann, Charles, 1491: The Americas before Columbus, (Granta Books, 2006), p.343.
To my mind, the use of BCE and CE is also outrageously patronising; it assumes people of other faiths and beliefs are either unwilling or unable to stand the very sight of BC or AD – that they’d either turn into the Incredible Hulk, towering and salivating in rage, or would run away screaming. In fact, most right-thinking people couldn’t give two hoots. How many millions of humans get by in life using two or possibly three calendar systems with ease and without any form of angst?
Back at the ROM, I wasn’t surprised to see a sign at the exhibition entrance informing visitors that BC and AD had been dropped, with BCE and CE used instead. The ROM reasoned that this decision reflected the diversity of the community. What they’d probably managed to do by taking this decision was make the said diverse community feel patronised and somewhat bemused. Somewhat ironically, the ROM’s do-good sensibilities appear to have been jettisoned at the gift shop. Items for sale included: ponchos; cheaply-made but eye-wateringly expensive plastic statues; books (including one on margaritas and other Mexican cocktails); and gaudy piñatas. If only there had been sombreros and huge false moustaches for sale – then the stereotyping would have been complete. On this occasion the almighty dollar took precedence over the wholesome, old-fashioned, sweet-as-momma’s-apple-pie condescension that so many institutions seem to excel at these days.
Meanwhile, here are some shots I managed to take in the exhibition, which was very good, albeit a little crowded. I think there are only a few days left. So if you’ve been planning to go, hurry up!
Love your librarians
Yesterday was interesting; I went on strike. Well actually I went on strike for about an hour. It was too hot to be standing in the sun for such a long period shouting slogans. Besides, there was a cool beer with my name on it at the Polish institute I frequent. So I left my comrades to struggle on alone, although I should add that my presence wasn’t really required. Let me explain; I was visiting a friend who has been helping to man a picket line in front of the Toronto Reference Library. She works for the Toronto Library system and, if you don’t already know, the city’s librarians downed tools this week (or should we say downed those scanner devices they use when the self-checkout machines fail?)
For all its flaws and the grumbles people have about it, I can safely say that Toronto’s public library system is streets ahead of what you would normally find in the UK. I was amazed to discover that Toronto Library even offers its readers downloads, ebooks to borrow online and a good selection of ye olde books. The library also allows you to borrow from any of its locations – either by physically visiting or by making an online request for a book to be sent to your nearest branch. In London, inter-library loans are possible but there is a fee. Also, you are unable to visit and borrow from a library that lies outside the borough in which you live. In short, Torontonians have a pretty good system in place.
But lurking beneath the success are major problems that sound all too familiar to me. The Toronto library system came into being in the mid-1990s when the metropolitan city was established. But with such a large organisation has come interference, or should I say management interference. Like a rule of physics, large public bodies always attract civil service managers who start hiring more managers, who in turn hire more managers. Secondly, in the drive to create a dynamic career ladder, lower-level management is often advanced to middle management when there is no need. Rather like the old Soviet Union, success starts to be measured in the movement of people transitioning from one job title to another – never mind their function or productivity. The net result is a surge in wage levels that managers then seek to control – not by firing their own but by looking for savings elsewhere. An additional carrot comes in the form of bonuses for making cuts. Libraries cost money and so city government rewards those who can cut deepest the fastest. So where best to claw back these extra monies? Why not make regular librarians redundant and then hire them back as temporary workers? Why not stop spending money on new books? What about charging for computer courses? Did someone say membership fees? What about closing those branches in the poorer parts of town; those guys can’t even read right? The list is endless and the results could be catastrophic: the demise of the system as we know it.
Aside from instigating a race to the bottom, increased civil service management also creates two other fundamental problems. Firstly there is atrophy in decision making as the structure of authority becomes increasingly Byzantine. In turn, this means securing of resources for Joe Public becomes even more sluggish and expensive. Secondly, higher management levels inevitably leads to an obsession with micro control. Every decision and every job becomes constantly monitored and, in doing so, the initiative and dynamism of junior staff members/librarians is quashed, despite the fact that it’s these people who often have the best grasp of what readers/visitors want.
But before I get accused of being a left-leaning pinko hippy, I do believe that fat should be trimmed when needed. For example, I’m often surprised at the staffing level of our local library. Frequently there is one person putting books back on the shelves in the children’s section and one person putting books back in the adult section. Then there are two people manning the desk and, finally, there are two people sitting in the back office. Six people needed to run one small/medium-sized library? No doubt two of these people will be management and on high wages. This compares with the time that I performed work experience at Andover library in the UK (when I was still a tadpole). It served a population of 60,000+ people with about five staff members, only one of whom was management.
I also think the union’s demand that librarians who have worked 15+ years should have total job security a throwback to the worst kind of 1970s-style protectionism. Those who fail at their jobs, no matter how long their service, shouldn’t be allowed to claim sanctuary in this manner. In the UK this form of protection often speeds up the Peter Principle (or Dilbert Principle?) For example, I remember my father telling me of truly awful civil servants being promoted because it was the only way his unit could get rid of them! So the Sword of Damocles that is being asked to pack up and leave should hang over everyone from mail boy to manager, in both the public and private sectors. Incidentally, it also ensures that the civil servant middle and higher management types can be restructured out when someone with more intelligence and understanding of the situation than Rob ‘Ziggy Piggy’ Ford is elected mayor.
But overall, I back the union in this matter and that’s why I went down to offer some support. If you care about libraries and live in Toronto then email the civic authorities and the library board. Make a fuss. Even if you don’t use the library, I’m almost 99% certain you spent much of your time learning to read using borrowed books. So don’t be an ingrate: send an email off in support of those who work there (but not the civil service management!)
Wheezy boy
On Sunday, Maria and I went for a walk with the in-laws through some of the ravines that criss-cross Toronto and make up some of its amazing parkland. We started by walking through Glendon forest, which is close to Sunnybrook hospital. The weather was amazing: it must have been touching 24°. Actually, it was probably too hot. We passed by a small tributary that events runs into Lake Ontario and we walked through a wetlands area. The trees have just started to bud and it almost feels like spring is here to stay.
Every so often the ravine walk widens out into a park area that is accessible by car. Here Torontonians were out in full force, riding mountain bikes, on roller blades, walking their dogs etc. There were some points in the walk where we had to walk up some fairly steep slopes and – much to my despair – I ended up gulping in the air like one of the wheezy boys relegated to the match touchlines. We walked through another ravine park area (I forget the name), which was striking because of its well-constructed wooden walkways set into the side of a hill. To cut a small story shorter, we eventually arrived home, legs aching and mouths parched. Despite this, we hope to go on more walks and maybe, just maybe, get a little bit fitter!
Gird loins, throw coins
During my time in Canada I’ve had several difficulties with the coinage. The 10 cents coin is tiny and hard even to pinch between two fingers. Going against the grain, the 5 cents is much larger – almost the same size as the 25 cents. I should add all three coin types are made from the same nickel-plated material, making quick identification even more cumbersome. But I’ve recently been finding some strange 25 cent coins that have coloured enamel inserts. They depict a buffalo, a hawk and a whale (wildlife lovers are probably cringing at my inept taxonomy, but I won’t tell if you don’t). Anyway, what do these coins mean? Why are they in circulation? Do they form a secret code? Is this part of the wider fourth-dimensional conspiracy instigated by the lizard people? Putting foil hat firmly to head, I delved into YouTube and found the answer. The Canadian mint is celebrating the country’s wildlife and national parks. The adverts they’ve created are very sleek and striking, so someone there at least knows how to advertise. Now if only they could get the coin sizes right…
Weekend wanderings
Saturday was a chance to see some more classic Toronto sights. We started by heading to St Lawrence Market, which is fairly close to Union Station in the downtown area. The weather forecasts said it would reach a high of about 15°, but the foggy conditions meant the temperature failed to get over 7° or 8°. Our journey also coincided with St Patrick’s Day celebrations, which were at full throttle by 12pm. Revellers wore bright green t-shirts, socks, leprechaun hats and green plastic medallions or necklaces. It was a city-wide party and much more enthusiastic than the St. Patrick’s days I’ve seen in London. Almost every pub or bar were bedecked with green balloons, while some had even hired fiddlers to stand outside to play jaunty, if somewhat disjointed tunes. Celebrating St Patrick can only be seen as a good thing: he was Welsh after all (although some claim he came from Cumbria; we’ll discount these disingenuous claims).
St Lawrence Market is a warehouse-like building that hosts large shop stalls that sell a variety of goods: from cookies and cakes, to crabs and clams. Indeed, almost every major ethnic foodgroup is catered for in one way or another. There are also several, smaller independent stalls that sell jewellery or items of clothing. One was selling clothes made from alpaca wool, which reminded me again of the herd that grazes in a field close to my family home in the UK. There was also a big poster with an outrageously cute and cuddly alpaca, which helped pull in the punters. The ground floor of the St Lawrence market has the larger and more premium brand stalls, and Maria couldn’t resist buying some fresh pasta and sauce, even though my jaw dropped a little at the price. However, we made some of our money back moments later when we spotted a wine shop that sells Ontario-only vintages (and is allowed under the province’s anachronistic laws dictating the sale of alcohol). But is vintage the right word? Some of the vino these chaps flog leans towards Moldovian rouge avec le freeze du anti. However, their premium brands were reasonable, so we sampled these.
In the downstairs section can be found more fast food/street food stalls and we decided to buy some pierogi at a Ukrainian stall. We also bought a Kartoffelpuffer – a potato pancake (I can’t remember what the Ukrainians call it). Space was restricted, so we shared a table in the food court area with two ladies, one of whom was ranting about the same stall we’d just been to.
‘I wanted the vegetarian cabbage,’ she said. ‘But the woman gave me the meat and cabbage version, which is so rude. I’m a vegetarian. It’s just not acceptable; I had to get her to change it.’
She carried on in this vain for a couple of minutes and then started to equate meat eaters with smokers in terms of social pariahs. Fortunately, I was preoccupied with eating my lovely veal pierogi to notice until Maria told me afterwards. To be blunt, if you’re a vegetarian don’t go to a Ukrainian or East European stall for food. It’s just common sense. Besides, there was a vegan shop just across from it so she had little to complain about really.
We finished up at the market and headed west to visit historic Fort York, close to the site of early Toronto (originally called York). On the way, our streetcar was held up by a civic protest, which is exactly what happened last time. The protesters were rallying against the Chinese communist party and all appeared to be part of the Chinese community. Many wore yellow shell-suits and were banging bongo-like drums. Thankfully, the protest was small and we were moving again after 10 minutes. Still, I wish people would stop executing their hard-won democratic rights so much, particularly when I’m trying to get from A to B.
Fort York was an oasis of calm in the centre of the city – despite the hum of traffic from a nearby expressway. Several families were present, even though it was quite late in the day. At the officer’s quarters, we managed to see the results of the cooking demonstration – an orange cake – and eat some of it. Maria and I then chatted to the re-enactor, who really knew his stuff. He discussed how some of the utensils were used and showed us some of the raw ingredients, including sugar cones, which I’d not seen before. We also had a long chat with the guide dressed as a soldier, or Redcoat if you come from south of the border. He explained many of the differences between the tactics and strategies used in the War of 1812 compared with the much larger and often less fluid battles in Europe. He was happy to answer a variety of questions and even recommended a couple of books. My historian friend and I will hopefully be coming back to the site and explore possible avenues for a filming project. On this point, by pure chance, I bumped into a historian taking photos of one of the blockhouses. My jaw dropped when he told us of his plans – it was nearly identical to the one I’ve been bandying about with my friend! There’s nothing new under the sun. Still, I’d like to think the War of 1812 and little Fort York is big enough for the both of us.
Leaving the fort, we spotted the Amsterdam Brewing Company brewery. It was an opportunity too good to miss and we decided to see if any tours were on offer. We soon discovered the brewery had organised a large St Patrick’s Day party on the upper floor and that the tours weren’t running. The entrance fee for the party was $10, which would have meant forking out $20 without even tasting a drop of booze. Heading outside we discussed our options and bemoaned our luck. A chap having a cigarette close by told us to head into the tasting area, which was just ahead.
‘You should go in and enjoy the samples; there’s a great atmosphere in there,’ he said.
We took his advice, which proved excellent. Some of the samples were smooth and I’d recommend the 416 urban beer and the Big Bicycle brew. However, I wasn’t too sure about their India Pale Ale, which was somewhat overpowering. The chap at the brewery’s bar was under pressure because a large tasting party (25 people or so) was whooping it up, enjoying St Patrick’s Day and taking little notice of what he was saying – other than when he handed over more beer pitchers. Maria and I seemed to be an unwelcome distraction for him. Handing me a sample, the fourth one I think it was, he asked me if I knew about the brewery tours.
‘You should go one one,’ he said.
His tone wasn’t particularly friendly and I took it as a hint that we should probably leave. However, Maria was adamant that they should serve us regardless, as though it was a bylaw of Toronto or some such! I must say the welcome at the Millhouse brewery shop was warmer, although, as I’ve said, the chap at the Amsterdam Brewery bar was under greater pressure.
We finished the day at the Annexe area, a place where students and cool kids hang out. There are lots of cheaper bars and the usual smattering of coffee shops. There’s also a large department store called Honest Ed’s, which is has cult status among Torontonians for is circus-like frontage and bargain-basement prices. I wanted to go in and inspect the interior but it had finished trading for the day and so we crossed the street and went into a coffee shop. Unfortunately there was an infestation of fruit flies, so we drunk up and decided – having first stopped in an excellent used and discount bookshop – to head home.
Winter? What winter?
In this clip we see Canadians doing what Canadians do best: ice fishing and ignoring the temperature!
Great Canadians: No.6 Queen Margaret
Canada’s unofficial Head of State is Margaret Atwood or ‘Atters’ to her friends. She was born in Ottawa but spent much time in the backwoods because of her father’s research into forest entomology. Atwood later attended the University of Toronto and, soon after graduation, privately published a work of poetry that won the E J Pratt Medal.
Atwood went on to Harvard and, afterwards, secured various teaching positions at university colleges in Canada and the USA. She was also busy writing. I’d argue that the book most people recall is The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), which deftly deals with theocracy, chauvinism, reactionary rage and hierarchies within a dystopian vision of the USA. The book won an Arthur C Clarke award and several other gongs.
Other works of note are: The Edible Woman; Life Before Men (1979); Cat’s Eye (1988); The Robber Bride (1993); and The Blind Assassin (2000). I found The Penelopiad (which is damn hard to pronounce) a work of particular note because of my fondness for classical studies. The book reimagines the thoughts and feelings of Penelope, who speaks from the Underworld. She discusses her life, the troubles she faced and her opinions of Odysseus, her husband. Atwood injects interludes into the work by using the maids of Penelope’s household (all executed on Odysseus’ return – you have to read the Odyssey to find out why) as a chorus. The book was later adapted for the theatre and a version of the play recently ran in Toronto.
Atwood’s other canon of work includes poetry, children’s books, TV scripts etc. Politically, she describes herself as a Red Tory: the support for traditional community life/collectivism and the stripping away of welfare state monopolies and market oligopolies. Thus she has consistently opposed much of Steven Harper’s platform, even telling Canadians a few years ago to vote for anyone other than Harper to stop the Conservatives gaining a majority.
Anyway, here she is discussing writing and the techniques she uses to achieve her amazing results.
Rest of the best
The rest of last weekend was also enjoyable; helped by Toronto basking in unseasonably warm weather on Sunday, with the thermometer touching 17.5° at one point. The day was also bright and sunny and I spotted several people on the street wearing t-shirts and shorts. It’s amazing to think that conditions jumped to this level from a low of around minus 5° within less than 24 hours.
The night before, having returned from maple syrup tapping, I went to a pub in the Danforth area to meet a good friend and his pals. Unfortunately I was suffering from a self-inflicted wound to the digestive system; I’d just eaten a pulled-pork sandwich that can only be described as a product of Satan’s canteen (using grease from the collecting trays of Beelzebub’s drive-through chicken shack). However, the conversation proved excellent and this took my mind off things until around 11pm, when my stomach started churning in protest at beer being thrown on top of a culinary crisis. I had to make excuses and leave, which was annoying because we’d just been chatting about some rather funny topics, including one Canadian chap’s impression of Newcastle, UK, and its denizens when they go out for Friday night drinks.
Back at home and feeling gamey, I found it impossible to fall asleep. So I decided to read a book charting Victory in Europe Day, proof if any were needed that Friday nights/Saturday mornings chez moi are hotter than a hot tub shared by the girls of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. It was 4am by the time I turned off my bedside lamp and it was 11.00ish by the time I’d dragged my bloated carcass out of bed on Sunday. I’d also forgotten that the clocks had gone forward, taking us into summer time.
Anyway, not wanting to waste a wonderful day’s worth of weather, Maria and I decided to visit the Little Italy district. This is the area in Toronto where the Italian community originally settled. I’ve been told that far more families of Italian origin now live in the suburbs. I presume they’d moved away from the original area – as countless other communities have done – because of space restrictions, lifestyle choices and increased expenses. First-time buyers would certainly find it hard to purchase in this area, which, while not topping the list in terms of desirability, is now a very sought-after location to live and invest in.
The area’s restaurants are still overwhelmingly Italian and still very popular. Several were also quite expensive. Fortunately, Maria knew about a pizzeria on a side street that was cheap and cheerful. We sat outside on a bench in the sun and chatted to a man and wife who were probably in their early 60s. Maria was asking about the area and if they knew much about it. He laughed, saying he had grown up one street away from where we were sitting. He’d left in the 1960s.
‘Back then it was totally different; there were far fewer restaurants and people spoke Italian all the time,’ he said.
‘So lots of changes then,’ Maria asked.
‘Sure. Even the mafia guys lived in the community and organised things here,’ he said.
He then went on to mention the name of some heavy-hitting brothers that appeared to be Toronto’s equivalent of the Kray twins. I also got the impression they were old-style mobsters who would willingly send their enemies on trips to swim with the sharks. By which I mean throw their corpses off a boat in Lake Ontario rather than organising a visit to Toronto zoo on a two-for-one ticket offer.
‘These guys ran the ice cream shop as a front. Whenever they came in, I was ordered out,’ the man on the bench chuckled.
As we said our goodbyes, he told us to look for the street signs a little bit up the road. I was confused by what he meant until I saw them: a sign for Clinton St and a sign for Gore St. Of course they were not put in place to honour the former US president and vice president; it was just coincidence. However, I couldn’t refrain from taking a photo.
Tapping the trees
Yesterday was great fun; Maria, myself and my in-laws decided to visit a maple syrup farm (or is it a plantation?) to see how the sugar resin is tapped and then turned into one of Canada’s favourite accompaniments to breakfast, lunch or dinner. This is the season for tapping, before the weather gets warm and the trees start to bud. By then the resin has soured.
The place we visited was called Bruce Mills, which is located in a much larger conservation area on the far outskirts of Toronto. The weather was bright but crisp – by which I mean damn cold. It must have been minus 5 at least; I spent much of my time blowing warm breath through my gloves in an effort to revive my numbed fingers. The area we marched through is not that large, say a reasonable-sized wood on a UK country estate. However, the site is well developed and even has a canteen that serves pancakes, sausages and other hearty Canadian fare, all of which is doused in maple syrup. The organisers had also set up a small petting zone, which included: sheep, highland cows, lambs, goats and an alpaca and a llama. Seeing the alpaca made me feel nostalgic for my home village in the UK, where a nearby field hosts a small herd of these funny-looking beasts. The space for the animals wasn’t that great and I think the highland cows were getting annoyed with the lambs that kept bouncing between their hooves.
We took an early guided tour in the woods and were shown the accoutrements and skills needed for tapping the sugary resin of a maple tree. Around 40 bucket loads is required to process one bucket of syrup, we were told. The traditional way is to screw in a tap and then let the resin seep into an aluminium container. But this is inefficient and old hat. Today, the resin is more frequently collected by using long plastic tubes that allow – through the use of gravity – the transfer of material from the trees direct to a holding tank in the sugar house (where the syrup is processed). Larger maple syrup farms use a vacuum or pump process to facilitate this process. Incidentally, the tapping does no harm to the tree, which can live past 150 and 200 years. The holes made by the taps all slowly grow over, except those made in the 1960s when some farms used formaldehyde to keep them artificially open. Thank god they don’t still do that!
The maple syrup is then processed in a large purpose-built shed, using industrial technology. The intention is to create maple syrup with a sugar content of 66%. In the olden days – when men dressed in a style not dissimilar to the Eagles circa 1974 – the aim was to make sugar pure and simple. Sugar was a more useful product for the pioneers (who used it, among other things, to preserve meat) and it kept for far longer than maple syrup, which could easily foul in those days when packaging was primarily made of deerskin. They also showed us how the First Nations people first developed the techniques of resin tapping and how they made their sugar. There was also a chap dressed in a pioneer outfit (well not quite; he was wearing bright red Canadian Olympic team mittens). He showed us how the settlers improved on the First Nations methods because of they had access to metal tools and iron pots.
By now the temperature had dropped, although it was still sunny and clear. We finished the day taking a horse and wagon ride through the woods and I was grateful to have bought us all apple cider (sadly non-alcoholic) drinks beforehand. Anyway, it was a great day out – the first time I’ve been able to get into the countryside and see an event that is quintessential to Canadians as, say, strawberry picking is to the British.
