This thing happens when there are consecutive days of sunshine in Vancouver: people flock to the beach. The first couple of days, they flock in droves, then gradually taper off, content and perhaps a little fearful of pushing their luck.
Yesterday, a bunch of friends had a BBQ on the beach. A number were from softball, and there were a few new ones to whom I was introduced. As an American, of course. All in good fun. They’re a humorous, entertaining bunch. Naturally, comparisons started being drawn, surprisingly about mail delivery.
For some reason, they thought the United States Postal Service delivered seven days a week. Not true. The post office is closed on Sunday. There is Saturday delivery, though, which was also surprising to them. Canceling delivery service on Saturday makes sense to them. As I learned last year, Canada Post doesn’t deliver on Saturday. I opted to stay out of the conversation and just listen, and the conversation was quite fascinating.
I grew up with six day mail delivery. When I was responsible for paying my own bills, that Saturday delivery was sometimes useful. I could put a bill in the mail (back before the Internet) on Saturday and know it would still arrive on time. When you are accustomed to receiving mail only during the regular working week, though, Saturday mail delivery can seem like a bonus, or a pain. Some thought it was harmful to postal workers. Too many working hours, too few hours spent with family. Others argued the business case since America is a nation of workaholics. Bills must be paid. Invoices sent. Saturday delivery makes sense.
Until I moved to Vancouver, it never occurred to me who does most of the adjusting: people, or businesses. Or, perhaps, who is most against adjusting. Different perspective when you find yourself in a nation of different customs.
This point came up again on the way home from the BBQ. My roommate and myself somehow got on the topic of immigration, and why Richmond is the Canadian equivalent to Hong Kong.
None of them moved to Vancouver with the intention of starting a new life, or for the purpose of seeking something better. They had money, and they were looking for a place to sit tight and bid their time while Hong Kong staying under British rule or going back to China was sussed out.
It never occurred to me that people would move half way across the world simply to bide their time. That is anathema to the America immigration story. Anathema to American idealism, too. We’re taught, from a very early age, to strive to be better. Raised on a steady diet of “land of opportunity” and, well, that is the perspective you get and, without realizing it, assume everyone else does, too. It’s the message America pushes out to the rest of the world. Land of opportunity. Chance of a better life. The ability to start over, for yourself and your family.
For Americans, going abroad is often pitched a professional growth opportunity. It gives you experience that employers look favorably on and thus will eventually advance your career. It’s supposed to teach you lessons, and give you a better life, back in America.
Just as I hadn’t noticed how fiercely independent we are, and how fiercely we proclaim that independence, I also hadn’t noticed how we propagate “land of opportunity.” Quite curious.