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I have often heard British people sneer at the service culture in North America, particularly the practice of servers exclaiming, “Have a nice day!” despite having no relationship with you other than taking a small fortune off your hands in return for a couple of measly cappuccinos. I can only think that most people who express this view do so purely based on culturally insensitive attempts by American multinationals to coerce this practice onto the begrudging British service industry. I come to this conclusion because this was my belief too until I visited North America.
There seems to be a fundamental difference in the attitude of service workers in the two cultures. There are, of course, many notable exceptions but by and large it seems that British workers serve the public reluctantly, wish they were doing some other job, and want to make sure that that the customer is aware of this fact. In North America, by contrast, it seems to be an unwritten part of every server’s job description that they must make the customer feel totally at ease, try to make the transaction as enjoyable as possible, and help out in any way they can, even if goes way beyond the call of duty and sometimes, it seems, even if it may not be in their company’s best immediate interests.
Take, for example, our search for car insurance. We visited one particular broker who, having given us his best quote, informed us that he had heard that a rival broker may be able to offer better rates to expats. He then looked up their details on the internet and wrote them down for us. We went to the other agent, gave her the details and got an alternative quote. We bumped into her a few days later while job hunting and chatted briefly about our problems finding work. A few days later she emailed us, not to follow up about insurance, but to let us know that she had met the director of a recruitment company at a business function, discussed our situation with her, and got her details so that we could call her directly. I’m not trying to say that either of these individuals didn’t have their own interests in mind, but that there is a far more sophisticated approach to selling over here, based on taking the first step towards building mutual trust by going way beyond the call of duty to help the customer and make them feel special.
Take as a further example the experience with our bank, the Royal Bank of Canada. On the first day we went to set up our account it was Halloween. We were warmly welcomed by the woman at the reception desk, who informed us that our nominated bank adviser wasn’t ready to see us, but that we should help ourselves to the complimentary hot apple cider and Halloween cake while we were waiting. This was a special customer appreciation event for Halloween, but on subsequent visits I have always been given coffee if I had to wait. Three weeks after our first appointment I had to go back to the bank and saw the same woman who had been on reception at the time of our first visit. She remembered my name and inquired as to how my wife was, also by name – this in spite of the fact that she hadn’t laid eyes on us for three weeks. Any North Americans reading this are probably not overimpressed, but I honestly can’t remember ever having comparable service to this in the UK, and we haven’t even been here a month yet.
However, there has been one fly in the ointment as far as Canadian service goes. We have had to go to the main Waterloo Region police station twice now, first to apply for a routine police record check and then to collect it. Both times we have been treated like dirt.
The first time there was no-one else on our side of the counter and three or four people on the other side. In spite of this, we were not even acknowledged for getting on for five minutes as they chatted amongst themselves. Finally we complained, and to be fair were then treated with a bit more consideration. We put it down to being a one-off instance of bad service. When we returned today, my wife started to explain why we were there, but was quickly cut off with the words ” Show me your ID”. When my wife did, the woman taciturnly hunted through some papers, wordlessly shoved the paperwork into my wife’s hand and walked off. It seems that the Waterloo police customer service staff have forgotten who pay their wages, and that not everyone they deal with is a criminal – in fact, most of them are probably victims of crime, which makes their insensitivity all the worse.
Although I have heard horror stories of people being treated badly by the police in Britain, but in my personal experience of visiting police stations their customer service has always been helpful and courteous. It seems there is at least one group of Canadians who could learn a thing or two about service from their British counterparts.
Although the commonly held belief that the Inuit have a whole lexicon of words for snow is evidently an urban myth, I have a feeling that I will have more than a few choice words for the white stuff before too long. Here in Kitchener we are currently hostages of a weather system that sprinkles just enough snow on us each day to cause me to look puzzlingly toward the snow shovel.
The problem is that there are rules here as to when you should shovel the snow from the sidewalk in front of your house. The written rules are quite clear. If you don’t clear your sidewalk after a snow storm and a neighbour complains, the council will come round and ask you to clear it within 24 hours. If it still isn’t cleared the council will then take it upon themselves to come round and do it for you, and then charge you $300 for the pleasure.
The kind of snow we have at the moment is not going to make the sidewalks impassible, and is thus not going to draw the ire of one’s neighbours to the point where they turn you in. And in any case, when that much snow falls it is clear what needs to be done. It is the unwritten rules of how much snow is needed before it becomes one’s duty as a good neighbour and citizen to clear the sidewalk that I just can’t figure out.
When the first snow of winter fell, we eagerly grabbed our shovels and got to the job in hand, enjoying the novelty of it all and looking disapprovingly at the uncleared sidewalks around us. As the novelty wore off and the weather warmed a little, I came to think that maybe we could get away with leaving it – the snow would probably thaw anyway. Looking out of the window I was reassured to note the untouched whiteness in front of other houses on the road. It seemed, however, that as soon as my back was turned our neighbours left their houses en masse for a shovelling party. This seems to me the only explanation for the absence of snow when I looked out again a few hours later save, of course, the white patch in front of our property.
Then, on Saturday I looked out to see a uniform light covering of untouched snow on the sidewalks and wondered if people are more laid back at the weekend. Next time I looked, our next-door neighbours had cleared their own property of snow and, not only taken care of our sidewalk as well, but also cleared all our paths and driveway. We have very kind neighbours and this was undoubtedly an act of kindness rather than a hint that we were letting the side down, but you don’t want to take advantage of such acts and give the impression that they are taken for granted.
I have tried to be a good neighbour and have shovelled our neighbour’s sidewalk at the same time that I do our own, but Murphy’s Law dictates that as soon as I’ve finished more flurries come along to rapidly cover up my good deeds. That’s the problem with shovelling; clearing your sidewalk in my experience seems to guarantee more snow almost as soon as you’ve finished to put you back to where you started.
I’m still new to this and, as is my wont, I am probably overanalysing the matter but I guess that, when in doubt, it’s better to shovel too much than too little. It’s certainly good exercise, and it’s much cheaper than the gym.
Three-and-a-half weeks in to our new Canadian life, and I now have my social insurance number, Ontario driving licence, bank card, and today I received my lovely, shiny Permanent Resident card. Gradually, my Canadian identity is manifesting itself. Unfortunately, as one side of my wallet fills up, the other is gradually emptying. I am in receipt of all important Canadian paperwork with the exception of good old hard cash. In spite of my best efforts, a job still eludes me. My wife and I have been knocking on the doors of agencies, applying for appropriate positions, networking wherever we can, but, until today, all to no avail.
Then, this morning, out of the blue, there was a call for my wife. It may not seem much – filling in as a receptionist for a couple of days to begin with – but it is a start. It’s all my wife needs to create a good impression. A bit of positive feedback from the employer, and hopefully she’ll be further up the call list for any future opportunities. More important than anything, it shows us that jobs are out there, and that we are being considered for them. With a couple of notable exceptions the employment agencies that we have contacted in Kitchener-Waterloo have simply treated our résumés as search engine fodder, making no attempt to engage with us as real people. Most have not even sent us an acknowledgment email to let us know that they’ve receive the résumés and are working on our behalf. But, having said all that, my wife’s job came from one of these silent agencies, so our thanks go out to The 500 Staffing Inc. for putting our first few Canadian dollars in our pockets. Let’s hope there’s soon more to follow.
May I be the first to send you and your kin all the best wishes for the season!
A bit early you say? Not in Canada, it seems. As the Halloween decorations come down and the pumpkins are retired from service, illuminated reindeer start to graze Canadian lawns, nets of multi-coloured bulbs are seen draping over bushes and icicle lights appear dangling from eaves. To be honest, I can see the logic of it. I wouldn’t want to be up a ladder knocking off the real icicles, risking avalanches of snow from the roof as I’m decorating the house. But it does seem a tad early to my English sensibilities.
On top of that, the Saturday before the last, November 15th that is, I was treated to the Kitchener-Waterloo Santa Claus parade. I can only surmise that the jolly old fellow is trying to avoid the peak period hike in air fares.
All of this, however, is pure joy to my Canadian wife, who has for the last seventeen years had to put up with at most a month of Christmas, and plenty of ‘bah Humbug’ in reaction to even that much. In England she was considered a Yuletide fundamentalist, following the holy books of Dickens and Clement Moore , the calls to prayer of Crosby and Cole, and worshipping at the altar of Jimmy Stewart and Frank Capra . I would find propaganda videos left in the recorder in November, Miracle on 34th Street or maybe Holiday Inn. Sometimes in mid-January there may be a seasonal crooner compilation CD found by the stereo when I came home from work. Having seen the unseasonal blooming of the Canadian Christmas, I now see these aberrations as my wife just returning to type.
In closing, I should admit that my wife’s disproportionate love of Christmas has not left me unaffected. Her joy in the little, special details that make Christmas so important for her cannot help but rub off a little on me. I am happy to see her so happy, and thus the Christmas bug infects me more than it ever did before I met her. And that is, without question, a very good and special thing.
Things have been so busy that I’m having to play catch-up. I’ve finally got organised enough to upload our photos onto the new laptop – from one camera at least.
I mentioned briefly before about St Jacobs Market, which is to British farmers’ markets what Tesco Extra is to Tesco Metro.
With over 600 stalls it dwarves anything I have seen anywhere else. You can buy a staggering range of fruit and veg, all of very high quality and mostly locally grown. Don’t be fooled by the hard winters; southern Ontario’s latitude and geography give it an excellent climate for the growing of a wide range of produce, not to mention the excellent selection of wines. At the time we went, the apple harvest was in full swing. I mentioned in an earlier post that I counted 20 varieties of apple before giving up.
There is also an excellent indoor market at St Jacobs. Meat, cheese and deli stalls vie for your trade around the sides of the lower floor, while in the centre there are stalls selling a range of goodies such as sweet pies, maple syrup, preserves and, my favourite, a stall run by Mennonites selling the most delicious summer sausage – my mouth is watering as I type the words.
Mennonites are found in great number at the market. They run a good number of the farms in the region, and they have stalls selling a range of produce, home-made foodstuffs, furniture and quilts. A Walmart opening close to the market has an area set aside for them to park their buggies while they do their shopping. The crafts and traditions they have preserved are now in such great demand that their simple lifestyle can provide a good living.
The market also provides a good selection of foodstuffs unfamiliar to the English palate. Kitchener traditionally was home to a large German community, and still hosts the largest Oktoberfest celebrations outside of Germany. The city changed its name from Berlin in 1914 to ensure there was no doubt as to which side the German community were supporting in the war effort. The rebranding did not extend to food culture, however. Aside from the aforementioned sausages, there are all manner of German specialities on sale, and one can still hear conversations in German between customers and stallholders while walking around the market. Certain specialities such as rolled ribs and pigtails have become signature dishes of the Kitchener/Waterloo region.
Also on sale are certain other, more stereotyplcal, food curiosities.
Can’t wait to try some!
Thanks to The Squirrel Queen for letting me know that Fark.com gave considerable publicity to the piebald squirrel story in The Record – 109 comments no less! No wonder the article was the most popular on The Record website and is still in the Top 10.
In other squirrel news, my Mum, a poet of considerable note, has penned her own tribute to our black and white friend:
IT’S ALL IN BLACK AND WHITE
Happy in a backyard,
he became a super star,
his parentage was questioned
by the media near and far.
He’s certain he’s a squirrel,
I can almost hear his plea,
“I know my Mom and Dad were squirrels,
there’s no skunk in me!
Neither is there badger
and no zebra I am sure,
my pedigree as squirrel,
I have been assured, is pure!”
No, OK, he doesn’t speak
he’s simply black and white,
so easy to identify
in daylight or by night.
His fame is planet wide
but he’s quite happy in his rut,
he loves his life in Sauble beach
as long as there’s a nut!
He’s had his fifteen minutes,
in the spotlight of his fame
but I think he’s contented
now he’s in his tree again.
If you like the poem, you’ll love this site, and if you also enjoy more serious poetry, check out this one.
The popularity of the squirrel has exceeded all my expectations. Not only did we make the front page of the website, we were also on the front page of the paper. The story was the most visited on the website, and is still no. 4 even today.
The blogosphere has cottoned on too, and a number of sites are reporting the story and showing my pics. Here’s a selection:-
Thanks for the coverage, guys.
Sad to go on about my moment of fame I know, but fifteen minutes goes by so fast…
A week in Canada and we’ve already made the papers.
I mentioned in my last post that we’d seen a very unusual squirrel while visiting our Aunt and Uncle. We left some photos with them, and they contacted The Record, the newspaper for the Kitchener/Waterloo region.
They were so curious that a reporter drove two-and-a-half hours up to their place to interview them and take some photos but, predictably, the squirrel stayed away.
I got a call this morning from the journalist asking if they could use my photos for the story, which is now the top story on the website. Here’s the photos:-
The full story can be found here. I still haven’t uploaded the other pics to my computer, but I’ll post more soon.
The annoying thing about blogging is that when your days are full to overflowing with interesting stories you want to pass on to all and sundry, there is no time left over to write them down.
Our feet have hardly touched the ground in the past week, which is not to say that we have been suffering the stress and strain of our last month in England. On the contrary. We are having a great time! Even routine tasks like going to the bank are full of novelty and surprise (never been offered cake and cider while waiting for an appointment in England). People are so welcoming, particularly when they find out I’m a new resident.
The weather has also played an important part in our enjoyment of our first week. Yesterday found us walking along the shores of Lake Huron, basking in the sunshine and enjoying temperatures in the low twenties.
Other highlights have been:-
- Halloween Canadian-style – nothing in the UK comes close. People spend fortunes decorating their houses – I’m talking plywood coffins, mannequins made up to look like they’re breaking through the drive, graves dug in lawns just to start with. Also, walking downtown we saw plenty of adults joining in with the fun, dressing up to the nines.
- St Jacob’s Farmer’s Market – there is a farmer’s market at Stroud near our house in England, which was voted as the best farmer’s market in England. It is, indeed, a fine market with tons of great local produce. St Jacob’s market must be at least ten times the size. For example, I counted twenty varieties of apples before giving up. I took loads of photos, the best of which I’ll post separately as soon as I can upload them.
- Visiting our aunt and uncle near Sauble Beach. Our aunt and uncle have a beautiful house close to the shore of Lake Huron. We stayed a couple of nights, enjoying their excellent company and very generous hospitality. It was so relaxing that it felt like convalescence after the stresses of recent times. Their house is out in the country, and the feeders in the garden attract a host of wildlife. I was transfixed, getting myself accustomed to many types of bird I am unfamiliar with including blue jays, chickadees, cardinals and hairy woodpeckers to name but a few. There were also squirrels of various hues – small red ones, large black ones, and even a very unusual black and white specimen. Once again, photos will follow.
- Walking along the Lake Huron shoreline around Southampton, Ontario. It was quite surreal to see people in Canada on November 5th going to the beach for the day, enjoying the warm sunshine. It’s a very picturesque part of the lakeshore, complete with lighthouses and islands. With the waves lapping at the shore and no opposite shore on the horizon, it was hard to believe we weren’t at the seaside.
Now we’re back home, and starting to think seriously of Ottawa. We’ll probably get up there for a few days next week to start the job hunting in earnest. There’s plenty to keep us busy, but we’re still finding it hard to wipe the smiles off our faces.
After the crescendo of mental, physical and emotional stress of the last month, we have finally arrived in Canada. At last we are starting to build our new life instead of ripping apart our old one.
An old friend we met just before coming over described the disconcerting feeling when moving overseas as one’s keyring gradually lightens until you finally have no keys left to anything that you own. I now know exactly what he means. What he didn’t tell me was that it has a similar effect on one’s wallet.
Wednesday was almost the final straw. We surrendered both our cars (one perfectly good one crushed for the grand sum of 14 quid), and had to say a very hard farewell to my Mum. Together with having to deal with a 17-hour power outage (the result of a highly unseasonable snowstorm – more evidence of God’s highly developed sense of irony), and the need to make countless last minute calls to shut off our British lifestyle-support systems, the stress of it all was close to unbearable. But by Thursday morning, somehow we found ourselves ready to go.
At 8:30am, I enjoyed my last pint of real ale with my Dad at Heathrow’s Terminal 5. Following another tearful farewell we waved our last goodbyes and headed off through security.
The flight went smoothly, and as Newfoundland appeared through the plane window, our tiredness turned to excitement. Fears of a gruelling immigration process were totally unfounded. Nothing but smiles and greetings awaited us at the Canadian Immigration desk. Within ten minutes we were through, and I was officially a Canadian resident. After half an hour at customs we were through. Under normal circumstances, the hour-long journey to Kitchener would have been a chore, but with the sun setting in a crystal clear sky and with our heads spilling over with dreams of our new life, nothing could wipe the smiles from our faces. Having safely arrived, we gratefully tucked into my mother-in-law’s hot roast beef sandwiches and two more beers, nineteen hours after the first with my Dad at Heathrow. We finally flopped into bed, satisfied and exhausted.
My name is Kevin, and I am a Canadian resident.
