Thursday, June 25, 2009

ThePeach goes to Vancouver; is Mistaken for an Indian.

Oh hey I’m in Vancouver.

I’ve also been awake for almost 24 hours and yet am not tired. Jet-lag induced insomnia is going to be fun. By the way I might write like a drunk. I feel a little crazy.

My mom recently moved here and I decided to come for a visit. I fucking love this beautiful city, even in the goddamn non-stop pouring rain. Packing a hair straightener was a futile choice. My hair is like a wooly yeti, but I’m going to embrace it peacefully. West coast stylz.

My first day was fun. My mom and I spent the day at Granville Island, eating like two fat whores. Then I had a 15 minute coma-sleep, during which time the caffeine from the 3 coffees I had on the plane and the 2 cappuccinos I had here made my pulse race so hard that I could actually feel it in my neck. I swear the sheet twitched. At one point, my pulse may or may not have synced up with the ticking of the clock in the spare room where I’m sleeping. It's like my body makes music now. Healthy.

My mom lured me out of bed with more caffeine and the promise of Indian food. We walked to a restaurant and ordered enough food to feed all the orphans in Asia. My blood content is now 40% caffeine, 40% curry, and 10% awesome.

The waiter – a nice Indian man – came over to talk to us for a bit about his Tandoori oven. No, I should clarify. My mother, who likes to randomly delve into weird conversations with total strangers, started talking to the nice Indian waiter about the Tandoori oven. The waiter started explaining how it adds to the flavour of the food, and then nodded at me and said “Well, you know what I’m talking about.”

I looked at him blankly as I shoveled lentil curry down my throat at breakneck speed.

“Well,” he said, “have you not been to India?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said between bites.

He looked at me with wonderment. “But you are Indian?”

Wait, what?

I told the kind sir that I am not Indian and he looked at me like he refused to believe it and then tried again. “But…you are Indian?”

You know, people often think I’m foreign. I have naturally really tan skin. I’m a darky. And I have dark brown hair and brown eyes, and my features are a little unusual because I’m an Italian/Ukrainian/Canadian mix. I often get people asking me if I was born somewhere else. When my sister and I traveled in Europe, locals thought I was one of them in every country we visited, from Croatia to Italy to France. It was kind of sweet as it meant we rarely got the tourist treatment until I opened my fat, ignorant Caucasian mouth. Just yesterday I was asked if I was Greek from the waitress in a Greek restaurant. That’s weird two days in a row, come to think of it. Also, I eat a lot of foreign food. Maybe too much.

But…Indian? Really? I guess maybe my hair is a little extra exotic looking, what with the rain-inspired fro. I mean…I guess I have a bit of extra colour. I spent a lot of time outdoors when I was visiting Universitytown. TigerCat has a pool.

I looked in a mirror in the Indian restaurant and was shocked. In dark light I could totally pass as Indian. Like, one from the north or something. Holy shit. I need to increase my spf useage.

Next up: Bollywood?

Watch out, Ruby Dhalla.



Anonymous said...

Yeah, when you live here you stop eating 'Canadian' food and every night is a different nationality of cuisine ...

Also, call me already!!!

Andrea said...

That's funny. I'm the EXACT same mix as you and I get mistaken for all sorts of nationalities that people are constantly trying to figure out as well.

Do you get people betting their friends on where you're "from?"

Okay so ... you lived in my old house AND we're the same nationality AND I've been asked several times if I was Indian ... and Croatian ... and Greek ...

Jewish? Spanish? South American?