I used to read my parent's copies of old Bill Bryson books when I was a teenager. For those who don’t know, Bill Bryson is a satirical American author who travelled the United Kingdom writing about how alien and downright fucking weird the UK seemed to him when he first arrived in the early 70s. The man's humour and ability to sail into Britain and just get it - as an American, as well - has since made Bill one of my favourite authors to read in adult life. So I, a speccy, gangly, disgraced former student decided that I would copy him. I would travel to the New World, make my fortune, have a whirlwind of adventures and maybe write a best selling book along the way. Sounds bulletproof, right?
However, there is an issue: getting a green card for the States is less likely than getting a golden ticket for Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. It appears I can only get into America if I have a sham marriage or it turns out my grandfather was a German scientist from the 1940s.
So I decided that Canada would be the next best option. Think less muscle cars and more maple leaves. Think less Bud Light and... well, actually, lots of Bud Light.
I’ve been in Canada for a month now and I’m going to be offering an exclusive travel guide solely for the readers of Left Brain. Expect some humour, some rants, and some love stories but definitely don’t expect a picture of me and Justin Trudeau going blackface at a house party...
So with that I give you: Notes from a Fucking Enormous Continent.
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