Charting the Unknown Read Online Free Page A

I could not quite put my finger on, but felt like it was important and I had missed it. Through a dissipating mental fog I heard her say, “Children, you can open your eyes now. I wanted you to stretch your imaginations and learn that numbers are important. Remember that.”

2
    After high school graduation, I decided I agreed with Miss Kahn. Numbers were important. For instance, eighteen years was far too long to live in the same city, the same house, with the same people. I had zero tolerance for any numbers that happened to make up a curfew or the amount of chores needing to be completed on a Saturday. What I needed were fresh numbers in my life. Like the telephone digits of new friends who didn't insist on recounting all my embarrassing moments at every party. And it was definitely time to live at a new house number on what was preferably an avenue or a boulevard. Better yet, a Rue Le something-or- other. Going to university provided the opportunity to mix up the numbers in my life. To eliminate any possibility of running into people from my past at the mall, I decided to go to someplace outside the United States. I wanted something foreign, exotic, but not third world. Nothing too crazy. Canada, I thought, could be just the place. I applied to a university and got accepted. When friends asked where I was going for university, I told them British Columbia. Several of them asked why I was going to school in South America.
    My preconceived ideas of Canada came largely from watching the fictional characters Bob and Doug McKenzie on SCTV, and later, the movie Strange Brew . I had further instruction from them in a tape cassette possessed by a friend called, The Great White North. I wasn't much of a beer drinker at that time, but I figured jelly doughnuts, if truly as prevalent as implied, would help ease my culture shock into Canadian society. I found the interjection of “eh” to be a quaint locution, much better than the American “huh.” The summer before I left for school, I practiced calling my younger brother a “hoser” and found it to be a more than adequate insult. I told him to “take off eh” when he tried to tag along to the mall. Yes, it would seem to be cold in Canada, as evidenced by Bob and Doug's toques, but I figured I would keep warm by singing, with friends in a round, the catchy, “Coo Roo coo coo coo coo coo.”
    On a more educated level, I had heard of Canadian political giant Pierre Trudeau. If his antics, including mouthing the euphemism “fuddle duddle” to opposition MPs and performing a pirouette behind the back of Queen Elizabeth II, were any indication of the passion and humor of Canadians, I figured I was in for a rousing four years.
    I was shocked to find that life in Canada was less than shocking.
    Even without the help of jelly donuts, no more numerous than other doughnuts, I settled into a similar culture whose subtle nuances were initially lost to me. I was at university to get educated, not to get the famous MRS. degree. The first week of school I told my roommate I was not interested in boys or dating. She smiled and gave me two weeks before I succumbed like a wuss to having a boyfriend. I told her in no uncertain terms that I had my life all worked out and a boyfriend was not in the plan. I wanted to graduate and get a good job. It was important to me to be able to provide for myself without being dependent on some guy. She grinned.
    The second week of school, I walked through one of the guys’ dorms and found a foosball table. It was not my intention to set myself up as a foosball hustler, but when I asked the guy running the table if I could play and he smirked, nudged his buddy, and said something like, “next thing you know some girl is gonna want to be Prime Minister” I had no choice.
    Sidling up to grab the handles, I said things like, “What a cute little ball,” and “I think I'll name this little man