It was an hour away from Montreal I finally felt I was in Canada. Canoeing on a small lake with a friend I hadn’t seen in years, observing the charming houses on the coast, resident ones at that, not meant only for vacation, birds on the island and green green everywhere. For the weekend, I was in a home away from home, nurtured by the enormous hospitality, readiness to show me around, the getaways and the mundane villages, where even rich city folks climb a hill or two, or at least take the funicular and then chill in a restaurant. All the while, I was anchored in that real-folks life, peanut butter on toast and filter coffee for breakfast, local beer in the afternoon and sweet cider for the aperitif, home-made dinners and red wine that still came from Italy – ”Don’t get too tempted to try the one from Quebec, hardly drinkable!”. The huge supermarkets, candy bars, hunting stores, dollar stores, mini golf. My first hike of the season on a foggy Saturday, the rewarding clearing right when we got to the peak, the onion soup in the valley afterwards. Everything so easy and without pressure I was glad I was not going back to the city quite yet.