A Noise in the Basement

As I think about househunting in Montreal, I am thinking about America.

I did get lucky with the place I saw today: newly renovated with washers for my clothes and dishes, and no stairs to tackle (driveway entrance). This is probably my new home, if I don’t forget to pester the landlord and they actually believe my rundown on my income and work.

And yet, I think about America...

As a Canadian, I am often asked about our relationship with the people to the south. Canadians still define themselves by not being American, but there are better ways at looking at our nation as we stare at the border: imagine that you are home late at night. It has been a long day; you’re tired; you just want you favourite Netflix/YouTube moments flowing on a screen in front of you as you gorge on Doritos.

And then you hear a noise in the basement...

Now, what do you do? Go the Horror Movie/Scooby-Doo route and check out
 the commotion, or stay put and see what happens next?

For me, this is the quintessential portrait of what it means to be a Canadian at this very dizzy moment in history. If the noise stops, the lights stay on, nothing leaks up through the floorboards, or attempts to climb up the stairs, you can live your life. Once any of those statements proves not to be true, then we need to act. Fortunately, Canada is not a country the U.S. takes much of an interest in (and look at what happens to countries when they take an interest in them).

So, we let the noises continue...

Oh, and that place I saw today? It was the ground floor of a home...with no basement!