Years ago, my boyfriend and I were driving to Vancouver, Canada to stay in a hotel overnight. I had recently turned 19 and could finally legally drink there. We were on the freeway when suddenly a stop light appeared out of nowhere and, before we could even register it, we had crashed into another vehicle.
By the time we realized it was our fault, the Canadian guy was already walking towards us. We got out of the car, fully prepared to get chewed out, and the following conversation ensued:
“Hey there folks! Everything alright?” the Canadian man asked us.
“Yes, we’re fine.” we responded, “Are you OK? How bad is your car? We’re so sorry, we didn’t expect a stoplight to be on a freeway.”
“No worries, I’m fine. Looks like you went and popped both my tires though! Ah, well. I’ll just call my buddy then.”
“We’re so, so sorry!! Here’s our info!”
After exchanging info with him, he continued the pleasantries.
“So you’re from the states then, eh? What brings you up north?” he asked, as though we had met him at a party and not just smashed his car.
Growing more confused by his relaxed and happy demeanor, we replied “Oh, well, she recently turned 19 so we’re staying at a hotel in Vancouver. Lower drinking age here and whatnot. But…
