A post from our friend littlefly -
I suppose that this is what they do to pass the time in their endless winters: bar trivia. Here it is, my boyfriend from the north has hunted down a NY bar that makes him feel as comfortable as he does in place Manitoba. They’re even asking questions about the hinterland …something about the Northern Continental Divide between the USA and Canada .. .they’re asking us to name a state…
Someone just shouted Minnesota.
Under pressure to win a free round of drinks I shout “Mississippi!” and I feel Nanook glare at me. I can’t think about anything but M states because I’m too drunk to extend any brain power so I shout “Montana!” just as as the emcee is exclaiming “Mississippi?!” with a contorted expression.
The bartender points at me and I’m shocked. I win!
“You should have had that one,” I tell Nanook. I’m looking up at him with twinkling eyes of intoxication. I know something about Canada, my correct answer surely is an omen.
Looking at his maple leaf face, his Canadian veneers, his Canadian shirt (actually he mentioned that some celebrity’s girlfriend insisted he try it on at a shop on Rodeo Drive on his last business trip to Beverly Hills…but as long as he’s wearing it I guess it’s Canadian) and his “weathered shoes” that he admits are “supposed to look like that” I realize that I adore Canadian men.
The bartender hands us our free drinks. I sip and he glows as brightly as the northern lights. What is it that separates him from the American losers that I’ve been dating? Maybe universal health care has given him the healthy sheen? I turn back towards my date as the next questions are shouted and wonder where exactly does the divide lie between Canadians and Americans?
Admittedly, after learning I was dating a Canadian I did some brief research over a lunchtime glass (bottle) of wine. However, the only thing that really sticks out in my mind is a headline featured in the news section of Canada.com that read “Canadians know good hygiene but don’t practice it”.
He responds to my cheeky comment by giving me a kiss that feels particularly Canadian. But, maybe it was more of a Upper West Side divide sort of kiss. God knows what a Nordic kiss feels like, but maybe this was one of those. . .
He clanks my glass and tells me “Good answer,” right before his hand finds my thigh. I decide that I should figure out where the divide is. Tonight.
A short cab ride later finds me in his fancy hotel room and an even shorter timeframe from there I discover that Canadian men, like Americans take pleasure in paying for high thread counts.
When the sun wakes me in the morning I think about my case through an alcohol induced haze. The Continental Divide is disappointingly unapparent from all the evidence I’ve collected.
Then I realize as I watch him sleep soundly in the nude. The divide is there but it is much smaller then I thought it would be. Much, much smaller.