If someone takes a journey, or several, they can certainly tell a tale or two. Yes, I can. And not just about the travelling itself — that is, more or less, moving yourself from one place to the next. But the arriving, and the finding-your-feet, that’s where it gets interesting.
More than ten years ago I landed in Canada with all my worldly belongings — a test run, no more, no less. I didn’t know whether I’d feel at home, whether Canada would accept me as a permanent resident or not.
Today I have a few answers.
Yes, I feel at home, settled in, and rooted. The feeling reported for duty the moment I landed at Toronto Pearson Airport. And it has stayed.
Does that mean I’m now a full-fledged Canadian? Hmm, good question, one I wouldn’t phrase quite that way. Because there are too many gaps in my biography that have little to do with Canada, and much to do with growing up Swiss. Well, to be more precise: it has to do with sixty years of living and striving in Basel. That part of my life is very much alive, because Basel shaped me. I never quite made it to a full-blooded Bebbi with flawless Baaseldytsch, but the borderline-ness between France, Germany and Switzerland sits in my genes. Basel is a city limited in size, but open in spirit. A Bebbi knows no borders.
So what’s missing for me to be a full-fledged Canadian? Well, plenty of things surface that could create a bit of distance. I don’t play hockey. I don’t care for Caesars at all. On the other hand, Canadians here surprise me almost daily. Canadians rarely pass up a chance to strike up a short conversation, offer a friendly greeting, or hand out a compliment. Just because — it feels Canadian, and neighbourly.
And I know only the tiniest sliver of the second-largest country on Earth. But what I’ve taken into myself from Canada is something more solid: the openness of people who treat a stranger like a neighbour after five minutes. And the friendliness — with the emphasis on “friend” in the word — which delights my inner hippie right down to my toenails.
In these ten years of the Canada adventure, something has developed that keeps catching me off guard. The moment I read or hear the phrase “We Canadians,” my inner voice pipes up: “Here I am.” And that reaction feels warm, and right. That doesn’t mean my interest in Basel and the rest of Switzerland has vanished. That would be plain ignorant. But that warm feeling of “I have arrived” — that’s what lets me feel, and live, as Swiss-Canadian. Swiss stands for my origin and my upbringing, and Canadian stands for my home and my future. Reads quite simply.
And that’s how it’s lived, too.
Team Switzerland still lives in me.
But the captain’s armband now belongs to Team Canada.
