(We’re Canadian and live in British Columbia. When my dad retires, my parents buy a cottage in Clallam Bay, Washington, about a six-hour drive south from our home. We often go down for long weekend trips. My husband and I are walking back to the cottage from the beach. A van full of people keeps passing us; it is obvious they are lost. Finally, they pull up next to us and ask for help.)
Lost Driver: “Can you help us find the Anderson place?”
Me: “No, sorry, we don’t live here; we are just visiting. I don’t know who the Andersons are. Do you have the address? I do know some of the road names.”
Lost Driver: “What? I can’t understand anything you said.”
Husband: *slowly and louder because we think the guy is hard of hearing* “We don’t know the Andersons. I have my phone if you want to call them for directions.”
Lost Driver: “Your accent is ridiculous; I don’t understand a thing. Where are y’all from?”
Me: “British Columbia, about a six-hour drive north.”
Lost Driver: “You’re British? Your accent isn’t British. I can’t understand you at all.”
Me: “Not British, British Columbian. We’re Canadian.”
Passenger: “Oh! I love the Canadian accents; they sound so educated.”
Me: “Didn’t realize we had accents. We’re not that far over the border.”
Passenger: “Your accent is great! You say things like a-boot and gar-adge.”
Husband: “About and garage?”
Passenger: “You’re not saying them right… Are you not Canadian?”
Husband: “I am, but I think that accent is more from the east coast, like Newfoundland. Like, people from Rhode Island sound different from people in Seattle.”
Lost Driver: “What? So you’re from Rhode Island? Makes sense. I can’t understand a word they’re sayin’.”
(Finally, we just tell them there’s a gas station two roads over that probably knows where the Andersons are.)
Lost Driver: *as he rolls away* “All these foreigners, taking our jobs and houses… Don’t understand a word they say….”
