And so, the election came and went like a polite tornado鈥攁 roaring swirl of lawn signs, half-finished debates, and suspiciously sincere campaign ads featuring men in rolled-up sleeves and women with the gaze of someone who just spotted a tax loophole, sunning itself in the wild on a spreadsheet.  The ballots were counted, miscounted, rechecked, politely recounted (twice on Salt Spring Island, because Jerry forgot to hit 鈥渟ubmit鈥�), and suddenly鈥攑oof!鈥攁 new government, or at least, a recycled one with a new haircut, a daddy vibe and a different version of virtue.
 

We Canadians emerged from our homes like groundhogs peeking out after the winter: cautious, blinking, unsure if the political storm had passed or merely stopped for a coffee. And in coffee shops from Nanaimo to St. John's, we leaned over counters and said things like, 鈥淲ell, at least it wasn鈥檛 the other guy,鈥� or 鈥淒id you see the size of her majority? She could pave a highway with it.鈥�

And that was it. The sacred rite of grumbling commenced鈥攁 truly national sport, second only to hockey and patio beers. But here's the odd thing about us, my friends: we are almost pathologically committed to not letting politics ruin the mood. A cousin might bring up trade policy over turkey, but before things get pulled apart, someone offers pie. We, as Canadians, understand, with epiphanic resignation, that governments are like the weather鈥攗nreliable, changeable, and somehow are still blamed for potholes.

There was no revolution, no marching in the streets (except that one guy in Tofino with a surfboard and a homemade graphic T-shirt that just said 鈥淣o!鈥�). There has been, instead, the slow, Rave-like-trance-like return to normal: neighbours nodding at each other again, even if we wore all the different campaign buttons a week ago; Francophones, Anglophones, and the guy who only speaks sarcasm at the craft brewery,  all returning to the communal business of patio beers, avoiding phone calls, and complaining about Toronto.
And perhaps that鈥檚 the magic of the thing. In the hip documentary film that is Canada, the ending is always the same: we disagree, we vote, we survive. And in the final scene, we meet again over our fences and potholes and say, 鈥淲ell, we鈥檒l try again next time, eh?鈥濃�攁nd somehow, that鈥檚 enough.

Douglas Zhivago