At the hostel in Jasper, while cooking the lentil soup, I started talking a little with a Canadian guy who was frying vegetables on the stove next to mine. He asked how I had liked the slopes, and I said that they had been wonderful.
Later, just before I went to brush my teeth, I ran into him by the front door, “There she is!”, and when he asked how I was doing, I said that I was about to crash, still being jetlaged and all. He said “Too bad”, because they were going to light a fire outside in the snow and crack some beers.
The next morning I woke before the others and went out to the common room to read while waiting for them to wake up. There, the Canadian guy was already boiling eggs and when he saw me coming, with my hair on end and my eyes still puffy from sleep, he said, with a smile: “Good morning, honey”.
Ah, these North Americans and their generous use of pet names. I can’t help loving it. Being called ‘honey’ suits me just fine.
(And I’m feeling it. I’ve turned on the backpacker mode. I talk freely with strangers, I ask questions and make jokes and it feels completely natural. At home, I would never behave like that. I’m a shy person by nature. But apparently not when I’m abroad.)
Katja Malmborg 