Blame Canada

Whether walking through the souks or riding in a cab, the two pro forma conversations we encounter over and over are about the weather and where we are from. For the merchants in the souks, country of origin borders on an obsession. Among the various expats and seasoned travelers we’ve met, the understanding is that there are strong stereotypical assumptions made about people’s spending habits based on where they come from with Japanese ranking first in the shopkeepers eyes, and the French last.


“Italian?” one shopkeeper shouts. “Bonjour,” says another. “Fish and Chips?” says a third, guessing we’re English. We always find this frustrating and beside the point, whether we’re interested in buying something or passing quietly through the souks. Perhaps, if it felt like sincere curiosity rather than the first line of a script, we’d be more open, but our knee-jerk reaction is to say we live in Marrakech.


Recently, Hamoud took us to the lantern shop of an acquaintance of his. As we need over two dozen lights, we were looking for a good bargain. Only this lantern maker was a bit more political than most and when we told him we were American, he asked why we hadn’t done anything to stop the slaughter in Lebanon. As we left his shop, Hamoud suggested that with some people it might be better to say we’re Canadian, a practice several other Americans we know have adopted.

So that afternoon we give it a shot, beginning in a taxi. “Oh, it’s cold there,” says the taxi driver, and the conversation ends. Cold there? That’s all you have to say about our country? We’re not very pleased. The next taxi driver goes a little farther. “Cold,” he says. “Like Siberia.” “In the winter, sure, but it gets hot in the summer,” we qualify defensively for our adoptive homeland. “120 degrees?” he asks, and we have to shake our heads in shame. We don’t think it gets that hot in Canada. But suddenly he’s grilling us: What’s the capitol? How many people live there? What percentage speaks French? We look at each other, struggling to remember these details out of respect for both 7th grade teachers and Canadian friends alike. Ottawa! 32 Million! 30 percent! As the cab pulls to our stop, we get out pleased that we’ve handled ourselves well as Canadians.



But still, it all feels a bit too safe. Other than commenting on the cold weather, nobody has a bad thing to say about Canada. When we were Canadians, nobody blamed us for the killing of innocent women and children. But then, nobody lit up as they said “New York City! I love rap!” Or “Hollywood. You know Jim Carey?” Or “I have an aunt who lives in Florida, near Disneyworld.” Although our three days spent playing Canadians passed smoothly, we realized that nationality isn’t something you put on like a cap to keep the sun off. Sure we’re ashamed of many of the actions perpetrated by our government; nonetheless, we’re Americans and to deny this seems both silly and disloyal. It may make life easier here pretending to be something we’re not, but we’ve decided to embrace that elevated state of curiosity each time we say we are American, and wonder where the conversation will take us.