Hey Miley, Where’d you say that Party was?

America. You may be a country that shamelessly embodies the “go big or go home” principle when it comes to national pride, politics, and food, but I will simply never understand you.

I recently went to Florida and I must say, the American experience, for me, revolves around two important factors:

1. Ample opportunities to work on my American accent and alternate personas, as I’m interacting with the southern accent first hand and those who will likely never meet me again. (This is truly an entertaining pastime close to my heart.)
2. Chances to eat at the chain restaurants us Canucks only get to see in commercials.
Oh, and the one’s we can’t seem to get right (Burger King in the States is a whole other ballgame...a tasty, and truly worthwhile ballgame).

That said, this second visit to the states taught me some valuable lessons that I thought I should share here because they each caused varying degrees of "what the what"-reactions.

Lesson 1: You can get away with saying anything as long as you refer to people as “y’all”.
When picking up our rental car at the airport, my family approached a perfectly nice young woman who was very chipper considering the abandoned terminals and eeriness of the airport at the time. She welcomed us to the Sunshine state in a voice reserved for those auditioning to be Disney Princesses at the theme parks.

“Ya’ll here to see Mickey?” she chirped at my 19 year old brother and I.

Despite the mix of her overwhelming cheerfulness and our unbearable crankiness from the typical airport activities, we continued to joke with her while my dad provided signatures.

She mentioned her own kids, made small talk, then started asking if we’d like to sign up for additional insurance for the rental.

“No, ours is transferable. Thanks all the same though,” my dad nodded.

“I see,” she said in a tone no different from before.

Continuing with her sing-song voice and highly dramatized expressions she said, “Guess ya’ll haven’t heard about all the accidents around here on the radio...cars just totalled; entire families torn apart...and on vacation too... *pause for dramatic effect* That’s fine though, ya’ll look like y’all can take care of each other. Just remember that if ya’ll are in a horrible accident...we’ll I warned ya’ll now didn’t I?”

My brother elbowed me at each “ya’ll” while dad looked like he couldn't raise his one eyebrow any more incredulously. (Was this one for real?!)

“We’re good. Thanks.” (And thankfully, we were.)

Turns out it’s policy to speak like a chipmunk on speed when you talk about fatal car accidents and the horrors of vacation disasters to terrified-looking tourists. Oh, and be sure to talk about them collectively as “y’all” in all instances.

Lesson 2: Chocolate chip pancakes are, unfortunately, not a universal understanding
When I finally got tired of my newfound love affair with Burger King, we headed to IHOP for what was sure to be a wholesome family dining experience.
However, as I discovered, pancakes are a case of expectation versus reality.

If I were to survey a number of individuals, I expect that many would agree that chocolate chip pancakes look something like golden disks of buttermilk with evenly dispersed chocolate chips melting into the fluffy goodness. (right?!)

Well, perhaps you’d have been as surprised as I was upon finding that chocolate chip pancakes at IHOP are gigantic mounds of what I would describe as heavy cocoa-dough dyed brown using a granular, chocolate powder. These dry chocolate monsters are packed with crunchy chocolate chips that are not baked into the batter, but sit atop the mountain of whipped cream gracing the top of the pile; the cream melting in a heap towards a chocolate syrup river.

The waitress put down the plate of five pancakes, each of them the size of my face, and I truly wish I had a photo of my reaction.
How was I going to eat these steroid-enhanced sugar-coma inducers? (Honestly, the picture provided doesn't even do these pancakes justice).

It took all of three seconds for my entire family to come up with my new nicknames.
“Wow, just had to order something fun didn’t you, Count Chocula?”

“Hey Cocoa Puffs, you’re coo coo for ordering that”

---Insert many more chocolate-themed jokes---

I did my best (2.25 out of five) while my family laughed at me. But Hershey, well she just couldn’t stomach the chocolate extravaganza of death.




Lesson 3: Your GPS isn’t to be taken seriously...especially if it can’t pronounce certain letters
Suffice it to say that while our GPS could navigate roads with ease, it had trouble pronouncing the letter ‘T’. This electronic speech impediment was plenty of entertainment for me, as each time we arrived somewhere, the Elmer Fudd GPS would announce in a serious voice that we had arrived at “wendy woo wendwy waif”, for example.

Lesson 4: Your desire to win a prize from the claw arcade machine < the luck of a ruthless 7 year old
So maybe I’m far too old to attempt to win things out of a classic claw machine at the supermarket, but I was on holiday and I really thought I was destined to own the stuffed Dispicable Me doll for only fifty cents.

A slow motion montage played in my mind. I would take such pride in my win. I’d be a champion of champions. I’d tell of my victory and inspire future hopefuls that, yes, they too could be winners.

(In all likelihood, I’d have kept it for a short time, it would collect dust, I’d decide I was over nostalgia and chuck it in a donation box).

Unfortunately however, I played numerous times, convinced in a casino-mindset that I could be a champ, only to turn away for an instant while a three-foot Muppet in roller-shoes stole my doll with ease. Her nimble fingers and luck far exceeded my attempts at arcade glory.

She roller-shoed away too quickly for me to challenge her to a cage match, and perhaps it’s for the best.

I counted my losses and headed back to BK.