March 2004, Cowtown Bar, I Hope Michael Moore Reads This
"It's not as good as you think." She tells me, taking a big swig of her Molson.
"Really?"
"No. A lot of Canadians come to the U.S. for surgeries."
"Why?"
"Because they don't have to wait," she raises her eyebrows.
"But do they pay for American surgeries?" I ask, picturing the bills for thousands and thousands of dollars.
"Yes."
I gasp. "The cost beats the wait?" This is very hard to believe! I thought Canadians loved their healthcare!
"Yes."
"Wow. That's pretty bad."
She is a short haired women in khaki pants and a plain white t-shirt. She appears to be neat and orderly and wears burgundy tinged rectangular glasses. She is sitting alone at the corner of the bar when I join her. She starts the conversation by asking, "Where ya headed?" I respond and ask her the same question.
"Montreal."
"Are you Canadian?" I ask.
"I live there, but I grew up in San Antonio. I was there for my mother's funeral."
"I'm sorry," I say.
"She was old," She says, shrugging and gulping her beer.
We talk about old age, retirement and nursing homes, which leads us to the topic of socialized healthcare.
I take away two morals: 1.) The grass is always greener, and 2.) If you've got the money you can get the services, but you might not want to get them in Canada unless you've got a lot of time on your hands and you'd prefer to spend the money on jewels or trips to expensive places like Moscow.
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