I came back from my home land, Canada, to my home, Japan, two days ago. While my mind firmly believes that flying eastwards makes for tougher jet lag, this time included, my last two flights have shown otherwise, and the westward difference that is comparatively minimal has been harder to break. Going to Canada, I go with a mentality of knowing that I will be tired, and knowing that I will want to fight against it, subconsciously to show my parents that I am a big boy and can do big boy things. Furthermore, there is non-stop stimulation which makes it easier to stay awake. Around 7pm yesterday I was sitting on my couch with a book, thinking about how I was tired, and how it seemed to make little sense to try and continue reading as opposed to just sleep if I wanted to. Who cares if I wake up at 3am? I woke up at 3am today, and it has been glorious. 

This has been my first trip back to Canada where I decided beforehand that nothing was going to be weird for me. I turned 35 in December, and 35 year olds cannot hide behind not being used to something, or any other excuse for them not to act with conviction. If I don’t know how to tip, or make small talk, or do any other mannerism that I had effectively run away from 14 years ago in migrating to Japan, I would take the fall, leave my hands by my side, and see what happens. 

I remember on one of the last days of my trip I was to meet my parents and my younger brother at the Sylvia, a hotel with a bar and restaurant where English Bay and Stanley Park meet on the West End. My dad was having a phlebotomy, and my mom and him went to St Paul’s Hospital together. I got a ride downtown with them, and decided to walk along English Bay from the Granville Street Bridge towards Stanley Park. My brother had taken the Skytrain down, and I imagine did something similar. I assume we both wanted some space, and did not coordinate our walks in order to be together. 

I started my walk around 12:30, and needed to be near the Sylvia around 2, so I thought I would walk along the Seawall as far as I could until around 1:15, at which point I would turn around. As I walked, I intermittently checked for where I would have wifi, so that I knew where I would be able to communicate with my family. My dad had quite strongly said that he cannot guarantee when his phlebotomy would be finished. He can get mentally fatigued, and I believe the question of “what time” to him is an attempt to force him to fully comprehend all the different variables regarding when he would be finished, and then communicate that to a person who is not aware with all these variables, and to avoid that, he strongly says he cannot guarantee a time. I get all the way to Third Beach, trying to walk as fast as I can as a vain attempt to burn off the slice upon slice of Havarti cheese and leona sausage I had been eating for breakfast at my parents’ house. I am also paying way too much attention as to how people move along the Seawall. Do they stick to their directions prescribed side? Are they conscious of the people around them? Do macho guys play chicken with each other? The wind was quite strong, and the waves crashed against the Seawall, on occasion going onto the Seawall path itself, so I also looked how people dealt with this “risk”. Some people walked not on “their side” when possible, others were just mindful of the waves. No one seemed to care too much.

I got back to the Sylvia about five minutes to 2pm, and walked towards the Cactus Club, where I knew if I stood outside, I would have access to free wifi. I saw a text from my younger brother, and I met him in front of the Sylvia. This is where massive decision making had to occur. We had to act like 35 and 29 year olds respectively, and could not cower anywhere in the fetal position under a strong mask of indifference and apathy while others nonchalantly make obvious grownup decisions. 

My parents should arrive soon, but they weren’t there yet. It was cold outside. Do we continue to wait outside, or do we go inside and wait in there? In such cases, to keep that mask, I would usually wait outside, but I was not alone now, and I had made a promise to myself to fall down, arms at my side, and so once our conversation got to where should we wait, I assertively without reservation said that we should wait inside. As we went in, we saw the bar area, where people, mainly older were sitting down. “In Canada not all places require you to wait until you are seated, that means I must find a seat, and a seat that would be to the satisfaction of all people in my party, I shall do this!” I thought in melodramatic fashion (but under the above-mentioned mask). We scanned the room, slowly walking and making ourselves to the entrance of the restaurant part of the establishment, where there was a sign that said “please wait to be seated”. 

Do we continue to scan the bar? It didn’t seem like any seats were available. Do we wait to be seated at the restaurant? The average age in the restaurant was even older than the bar, and when a server casually asked “are you guys doin’ okay?” I instinctively waited a split second for my brother, the Canadian, to take charge, and upon seeing him mutter monosyllabic whatevers, I said in my coolest voice possible, “we’re okay right now”.  At the time, I don’t think I knew if that would imply that we wanted to sit down or not.

Both my brother and I would never come to the Sylvia by our own choice. We had nothing against the place (I’m projecting), but we would not spontaneously say that we felt like going to the Sylvia for whatever reason. Both my parents have fully embraced the beauty of routine, and they had their peculiarities of what they liked and disliked. Perhaps only subconsciously, but both my brother and I knew that, and this created hesitation to make any big decision, because it may or may not be what they were used to in their routine. However, waffling like a bunch of morons at the restaurant entrance, hesitating as to what to do, was not acceptable as a new 35-year old. My brother didn’t seem to know what he wanted to do, which in the heat of the moment, under my thick mask of indifference, I was disgusted about, as he is a Canadian living in Canada, and Canadians living in Canada should all be able to deal with any situation while never breaking from that casual friendly drawl, being able to interject mindless conversation to create a “connection” with anyone and everyone. But I did not have time to wallow this disgust, and when a server came back I said with perhaps too much conviction, and not enough casual friendly drawl that there would be four of us dining in the restaurant, not the bar. We got led to a lovely booth having English Bay, with the sun brightly in our faces. 

We sat, talked about video games (a common interest), looked at our phones (I had wifi here too), and commented on how our parents are sure taking their damn sweet time. 

My parents came, they saw us. They came and sat down.

“Oh, you guys sat here! I guess we meant to go to the bar!”

“I guess you guys don’t know how your father really doesn’t like booths.”

“No, it’s fine, we’ll make it work.”

“I guess their menu should be similar to the bar.”

“It was quite busy over there, wasn’t it?”

In hindsight I placed too much importance into their need for their routine, because they both seemed to have a decent time, we ate burgers and nachos and chicken wings loudly, had white wine and beers, and may have even had friendly light conversation about whatever. 

My brother wasn’t what I imagined all Canada-living Canadians to be like, and my parents didn’t care as much as I thought they would. As a new 35-year old I was overthinking everything, but at least with a burger with bacon and mushrooms on it.