How many degrees?

The old joke is that Canadians all know each other. That anywhere you go in the world, you can play six degrees and find some sort of connection. School, work, it all comes together to make us one big happy family. So as my wandering feet took me towards the most Canadian spot in London, it was inevitable that I would meet someone that I knew somehow. It’s the only place that I don’t find myself hiding my accent behind lengthened vowels and misplaced consonants, that I can smile and feel like I know a little better than all of them what the atmosphere is aping. Especially, it’s the only place I can track down a good hockey game and a plate of poutine. But I digress.

She smiled at me knowingly and gestured down the bar. “I’m not sure, but he just asked the same thing.” I wanted to know if the Canuck’s season opener would be played the night of, or if I would have to wait until Friday cleared the Leafs or Habs from the calendar. It’s the problem with enjoying west coast teams, always getting shafted for the east’s share of the Original Six. He didn’t have the answer, not having known to ask which game was playing when (of course, being cursed with an Ontarian’s belief that the Canadian universe revolved around him and the Leafs, he wouldn’t have thought to), but he did have a pint in his hand. I asked if he’d be interested in making a friend.

We sat down with Canadian beer and chattered away, what brings you to London and how do you like things around here, silently sharing the unspoken but ever-present colonial fears of the motherland. Both of us slightly wary of the age, the seeming wisdom of this tired city, its awareness of the passage of time in a way that neither of us had ever experienced before. Our foreign senses thrown by the smells, the not-so-fresh air, the noises and crowds, and a sky that seemed so much smaller, closer. The distaste for being mistaken for Americans and the subtle smugness that comes with our Canadian flags on our backpacks.

And then we got down to it. The game. Six degrees. So where did you go to school? Oh yeah? I know someone who studied there. What program were you in? Really? She was too, for her first year. Maybe you know her? Really? Wow, what a small world. She just got engaged you know. And so it goes. One degree of Caroline, in a pub in the middle of London. Wouldn’t be surprised if his Vancouvie roommate comes from the Westside as well. Or played ringette. Or somehow connects us full circle.

And so we parted ways, each of us a little more secure in knowing that we had found a piece of home. As much as we Canadians like to think we come from a large country with endless spaces and faces between Vancouver and St. John’s, in reality things are just as small as everyone thinks. Everywhere I go, I meet someone who is six degrees (or less) away from my home. And that is maybe what makes us Canadians so friendly, that we know we will always have a friend.