Canada is a rich country making its own people feel poor. The generation that built everything — the homes, the institutions, the wealth — is still sitting at the head of the table. The gates are warm and glowing. The inheritance is real. The problem is nobody's leaving anytime soon.
Canada sent its athletes to Milano Cortina in a maroon quilted vest that converts into a pillow. A pillow. We're a nation of backcountry skiers, Rocky Mountain hikers, and November ferry lineups — and Lululemon dressed us like a Willy Wonka fever dream. We deserve better. We always did.
Dickens didn’t write a holiday story—he wrote a knife aimed at England’s cold heart. We keep remaking A Christmas Carol because the ghosts won’t leave us alone. They ask the question we’d rather avoid: What are you becoming without realizing it?
Canada is committing suicide in slow motion. A nation with infinite land has created a housing crisis that rivals ancient city-states. We're forcing young people to choose between homeownership and children, then wondering why they're fleeing to Texas. History repeats: the exodus from feudal Europe is happening again—except this time, we're doing it to ourselves.
Notes Beyond the Map 