Picture it: Sherbourne Street in Toronto, July 17, 1994.
With apologies to Sophia Petrillo of Golden Girls fame, this was when my Cape Breton propensity for politeness made for one very long, dry evening.
It was a beautiful Sunday evening, and it was my first road trip anywhere. I had just purchased my first new car three days earlier, a 1994 silver grey Toyota Corolla, and would drive it back onto the lot at Tri-Mac Toyota for its first 6,000-kilometre checkup less than a week later.
Brazil had just defeated Italy 3-2 on penalties in the final of the 1994 World Cup, and as we made our way along Lakeshore Drive, the announcer on the radio let us know that the celebrations were well underway, advising us to avoid the city’s downtown, if possible, especially Yonge Street.
It was my first time driving in Toronto, and this route was recommended by our hosts, my sister-in-law and her husband, so we stayed the course as I thought to myself, “how bad could it really be?”
Well, I quickly got my answer as we turned onto Yonge Street and were immediately greeted by a sea of Brazilian and Italian flags being waved from cars – their drivers honking furiously, confirming that the party was indeed well underway.
A mounted policeman steered his horse over to our car and asked us where we were headed. When I replied, “Sherbourne,” he laughed. “Good luck!”
If I hadn’t been on the road all day, I might have been more content with my fate, as I inched the car along Yonge Street for the next hour or so. I mean, a 29-year-old Cape Bretoner could have worse introductions to Toronto than the image of dozens of young Italian and Brazilian women leaning out of car windows screaming and waving flags. I haven’t received a similar welcoming party on any trip to Toronto since.
So, by the time I finally settled into an armchair in my sister-in-law’s apartment, I was more than ready for a drink.
Now, before I get into what transpired over the next few hours, I should explain something I have to call “The Three-Offer Rule.” It’s not written anywhere. It’s just something that was bred into me as I grew up in Mabou in the 70s and 80s. With some variations, it goes something like this:
“Will you take a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Aw, you’ll take a little one?”
With this third offer, the drink is accepted and this whole charade of mock politeness comes to an end. For the first 29 years of my life, this little dance was how things worked, and both people involved in the equation knew full well its eventual result.
By the way, the “little one” that would finally be accepted was always the original offer, and not a downsized version, as some people might expect. It was just part of the charade, a way for the host to acknowledge, and eventually reward, the visitor’s civility.
So, I’m quite possibly the most tired I’d ever been to that point in my young life, and as I settle into the comfort of that armchair, there is nothing I could possibly want more than a cold drink. So, when Raffi, my sister-in-law’s husband, emerged from the kitchen with two cans, my breeding was about to clash with that of my host.
“Dave, do you want a beer?”
“No, thanks,” I instinctively replied, as I watched beads of condensation slowly make their way down two cans of Heineken.
And then there was nothing!
Raffi sat on the sofa in front of me, placing one of the beers on the coffee table in front of him and proceeded to open the second one. For the next three hours, I watched him open beer after frosty beer, while I sat there cursing my upbringing.
Raffi, I should explain, was of Iranian descent, having come to Canada in the 80s to attend classes at St. F.X. That’s where he met my sister-in-law, a mainlander. Tragically, there is no way he was ever going to know anything about the Three Offer Rule.
In that moment, generations of breeding collided head-on with the customs of the outside world, and never again would I decline a drink, if in fact I wanted one.