A Lady from Perth

 Don't ask me why but I drove along Highway 7 from Ottawa to Toronto.  

Ottawa is a dump with a string of nice buildings.  Queen Victoria was clearly extremely busy the day she picked that seedy backwater as Canada's capital.  They didn't have "focus time" in people's calendars back then and her majesty probably just put her seal on some junior intern's recommendation.  

Highway 7 is a 6 hour extension of Ottawa: grimy patches of human life cutting through boreal forest.  Along the road, I stopped for gas in a town called Perth and had to pay for gas inside the little convenience store next to the pumps.  There, a gaggle of locals regaled the cashier with lazy stories about moose and meth parties.  None seem overly burdened by work or careers.  And I was pretty sure I had more natural teeth in my mouth than all of theirs combined.

When I reached Toronto, I had dinner with my project team.  As we cut through middle class steaks and loaded potatoes, I shared with them with my putdowns and observations of my drive through North Alabama.  The Toronto-proud crowd lapped up the schtick of an urban sophisticate dealing with extras from the set of Breaking Bad.  

Then an old lady stopped at our table on her way out.  She stood dignified at the edge of our group, her face flush with repudiation.  "Young man," she declared to me, "I am from Perth."  She followed that with a heavy silence.  

I carried her silence a few beats longer.  Then, smiling, I answered, "a quick look look at you lady and that's a pretty obvious conclusion to make."