Assimilation.

When I first moved to Montreal, I was a fat American that wore Bears and Cubs jerseys all the time. Now I am a fat American that wears solid-colored non-branded clothing.

When I first moved to Montreal, I giggled every time someone said 'loonie' or 'toonie'. Now I jiggle the $24 worth of change in my pocket like the most jovial of Canadians.

When I first moved to Montreal, I didn't know anything about Canadian politics. Now, I know more about the Prime Ministers and MPs of Canada than anyone I know (other than Kathryn's dad).

When I first moved to Montreal, I had no idea how far 238 kilometers was, how tall a man is who is 1.8 meters, or how much pop was in a 581 kilogram bottle. Now, I still don't have any idea, but I have gotten good at going, "Oh, ok. Wow, 238 meters, eh?"

When I first moved to Montreal, I felt that I stood out as an American. But lately, I thought I had been assimilating very well.

That all changed when I went to Java U to get something to drink yesterday.

I walked in to the shop with a couple of toonies burning a hole in my pocket and a deep thirst for some espresso. What I got instead was a big old chunk of humble pie. When I got to the counter, I surveyed the menu, saw my favorite drink, and ordered an Americano. Without skipping a beat, the girl asks me what part of America I'm from!

I was shocked that from my massive girth and my choice of drink she could deduct my country of origin.

So later that day, over dinner I ask Kat, "Is it really obvious that I am an American? Like from my accent?"

She thought about it for a minute and then said, "No. Well like you can tell that you're... well that you're not... umm. Well yeah. It's obvious."

I am shocked. I really thought I was as Canadian as maple pie.

And for something totally unrelated, here is a bird pooping in a guy's mouth.