Babs, eh?

The oddest thing was when The Babbling Syndrome spread north of the border to Canada, where it was also known as Le syndrome de babillage, because Canadians, as we all know, don't talk much in the best of times, and this certainly was proving to other that the best of times, at least south of the border.

Sent to investigate how our northerly neighbors were coping, or not, I found that in fact TBS had apparently mutated into a rather more benign form, as Canadians were becoming so fond of their loquaciousness that they nicknamed the condition Babs. It started as soon as I got to Customs, and rather severe-looking officer asked me suspiciously, "Why have you come?"

I fumbled for a suitable answer to this question, but couldn't locate one.

He looked up from my passport, with photo of me in goofy glasses, mustache and Groucho Marx nose. He squinted to find the resemblance and I instantly realized what a drag it must be to work for Homeland Security, which up north is called The Department of Just Checking, eh?

"And why do you have so many pencils?"

"I am a writer, and we always say, "The pencil is mightier than the light saber; or Der Bleistift ist mächtiger als der helle Säbel." (Maybe he will be impressed by my erudition, I was possibly thinking.)

Anyway, the Customs fellow tried again: "Business or Pleasure?"

"Neither, actually," replied, suddenly finding my own inner voice, briefly. "Curiosity."

"Ah," the man's expression softened. "Babs, eh?"

So, that's how I got into the country. I didn't know the name of the hotel where I was to be staying or answers to any other question, but being curious was a good enough reason to clear the border, at least in my case.

We Canadians are so relaxed -- "laid back," I think is what you gringos called it -- that we're quite happy with our babbling state. We just wander around our charming streets these warm nights, smiling at each other and saying "Eh?" There is a large Asian community in the town I chose for my Babs query, so I determined it might be interesting to see how these hyphenated Canadians were coping with Babs.

I got as far as the large Japanese community, where the condition is known as さざめくシンドローム, or "The syndrome which clatters."

I've got to go now, sorry, but amidst all this clattering, there is a report about a little man who has somehow become stuck inside a woman. It's tough being a lone investigator in times like these. But, given my expertise from the case of the man who wanted a little woman, I'm now considered something of an authority on the fate of the little people, who dart in and out of view constantly among us, occasionally even apparently becoming lodged within us.

What an odd lot has been dealt us. I'll report back when I can hear myself above the clattering, find the little inner man, and perhaps introduce him to his own little inner woman.