Why Do Canadians Sit in Their Parked Cars?

Canadians do everything in their cars. Brand-new SUVs or driveable lemons, their cars are like extensions of themselves.

They drive to work, to run errands, to meet friends, to get food for their families or themselves, on the go or for the week, and occasionally to go somewhere fun.

Yeah, transportation. I get it. That’s what wheels are for.

But they also eat, smoke, take calls, cry and argue in their cars—maybe they have sex too. I can’t testify on this one. According to Hollywood, all teens are supposed to at least “make out” in their cars, though maybe they don’t do that north of the border because it’s quite chilly six months out of ten.

I know an awful lot about cars and the semi-private life of drivers here.

They see me but I see them too.

Have you ever walked around a parking lot on a Saturday afternoon, talking to your mum, so into the conversation that you’re walking from one end to the other instead of stepping into the supermarket as you’d planned half an hour earlier, when you said “bye” for the first time?

Maybe this is just my typical weekend routine, then. But when you have nothing to look at, your eyes start seeing things, like people in their parked cars. Especially those who don’t look like they are getting ready to leave or have just arrived, as you’d expect, given where we are. Checking the GPS? Taking a call? What the hell are they doing parked there for longer than a French family phone call and going nowhere?

“Taking a break from their family,” one of my friends laughed when I tried to solve yet another Canadian mystery.

“People who drive a nice car usually live somewhere,” I replied quite naively. “Aren’t Canadian houses big enough for you guys? Back in France, there were five of us sharing one bathroom and two bedrooms…”

Not to mention that most of us across the Atlantic don’t have a car or a driver’s licence, but I saved this part for yet another fun chat about cultural differences after ordering coffee.

She shrugged.

I kind of know what she means, though. I know the feeling. Despite wide open spaces and the size of the country, Canada can feel claustrophobic. It’s just… too big. The land is barely tamed; free, neutral places away from home are few and far between, and you can’t really sit outside in a park when it’s -40C.

Indoors we stay, and yes, sometimes the house isn’t big enough—or it feels like no house will ever be big enough.

We have a car, and I have a licence, but I don’t really have a car life, partly by choice and partly because of logistics. This is actually rare. Many families have one, two, three or more vehicles—a former manager of mine once told me she was fighting with her neighbours over parking on the street. It turned out that between the two households, there were 4 cars, 3 trucks and one boat. No shit.

I have… the gym and walking. I’m fit by accident, really. I just go places when I have nowhere to go at home.

Maybe my friend has a point.

Case in point, cars are parked by the curb all the time on my random suburban street. Sometimes it’s a lost Uber driver. Nope, not us—it’s next door, I tell them a couple of minutes later. Occasionally it’s a police car with an officer half monitoring speed, half picking the next flavour out of a box of Timbits bought at the corner Tim Hortons.

But most of the time it’s perfect strangers who do nothing but park and process their thoughts.

Or smoke pot.

A lot of pot gets smoked in cars. Eh, it’s legal here.

I occasionally see people park to cry, eat dinner, or listen to music—a muffled beat coming through the windows, the driver leaning back in their seat, eyes closed, a hand tapping on their knee.

Really, cars can become little rooms of their own. I’ve climbed into countless cars for a ride home or somewhere else with friends but I can count on one hand the number of homes I’ve stepped into.

Huh. Funny. I know my friends’ cars but not their actual homes. Hanging out at people’s places isn’t really a Canadian thing. But after all, being invited into someone’s car is the local equivalent of sitting in their living room.

And sometimes, maybe it’s home.

Shit.

There’s this white car, parked in the neighbourhood, at the end of a cul-de-sac. I wouldn’t have noticed it if it hadn’t looked so full, with dozens of bags piled up on the back seat and blankets on the front passenger seat.

A couple of days later, the rear windows were covered with a black plastic bag.

It’s still here.

I hope this is a silly misunderstanding. I hope this isn’t where someone has to sleep this winter.

Apparently, I’m not the only one wondering. Tonight, I saw that someone had left a prayer book on the windshield.

I’m half tempted to leave a friendly note as well. Way more efficient than prayers, if you ask me.