The Nicest People in the World

by Alison Powell (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Canada

The Nicest People in the World Mention to anyone that you’re going to Canada and you’re likely to be met with sighs of envy: ‘Oh, the mountains! The islands! The bears!’ And then the biggest sigh of all, the one that anyone who’s ever been there will echo: ‘Oh, the people!’ Canadians have a reputation for being nice. Before my first visit, I was told to expect conversations on buses, to be bought coffee by strangers, to be offered directions as soon as I pulled out a map. I’m not a fan of stereotypes: they are at best limiting and at worst wrong. But I will make an exception for this one: Canadians are ridiculously nice. Within twenty-four hours of my arrival in Vancouver all the things about buses, coffees and directions had come true. People smiled at me in the street, talked to me on trains, helped me out wherever they could. At a cafe in Tofino, a man shared his chocolate cake and gave me advice about hiking routes. On Malcolm Island, a woman at the post office counter gave me a lottery ticket for free (‘If you win, please book another trip and think of me!’). On the ferry from Campbell River to Quadra, a couple gave me their Thermos flask filled with hot tea. (‘Keep it! We have plenty at home!’) Canadians. Crazily nice. But if there were a prize for the nicest Canadian of all, Madeline from Victoria would win it hands down. Madeline found me at the side of the road when I was hitchhiking on Cortes Island. I wasn’t hopeful about getting a ride that afternoon. It was pouring with rain and I was drenched through – not something anyone should be expected to let into their passenger seat. But Madeline pulled over and, with a huge smile, welcomed me into her car. ‘Get in before you drown!’ I had planned to camp at Smelt Bay on the south end of Cortes, but Madeline wouldn’t hear of it. ‘You can’t camp in this rain!’ She was staying with friends in the opposite direction, near Squirrel Cove, and insisted that they’d love an extra visitor, especially one from the UK. She gave them a quick call and suddenly I had a room, a proper bed, fluffy towels and an invitation to dinner. Madeline and her friends were welcoming, funny and overwhelmingly nice. The next day, the weather cleared and, after her friends had filled me up with a hearty breakfast, Madeline drove me the nine miles to my campsite – stopping off en route at a grocery store so I could stock up on supplies. She even helped me pitch my tent. Weeks later, I found myself in Victoria. Madeline had given me her card and said I should look her up if ever I was passing through. I looked at the card several times, but couldn’t bring myself to call. I’m British. We don’t phone strangers, no matter how nice they are. Instead I booked myself into a hostel on Yates Street and spend the evening wandering around the lively wharf and quaint city streets. I stopped at a sushi restaurant for dinner and was just tucking into a California roll when I heard a familiar voice: ‘Alison! Is that you?’ It was Madeline. Of all the sushi joints in Victoria, I’d somehow turned up in her favourite. She waved me over to her table where she introduced me to more of her insanely nice friends, then later picked up my bill. The next day Madeline departed on her own overseas adventure and gave me a spare key to her apartment. ‘Stay as long as you like. Make yourself at home.’ I asked her why she was being so nice and she laughed. ‘I’m Canadian. We have a reputation to uphold.’ My British cynicism got the better of me. ‘But what’s in all this for you?’ Madeline smiled. ‘Here’s the secret: we Canadians believe that what you put into the world, the world gives back to you.’ Nowadays, when I hear of anyone heading to Canada, I offer a genuine sigh: ‘Oh, you’ll have a wonderful time. Those people! They’re the nicest in the world.’