I was five years old the first time we walked into Le Crocodile, a fancy French restaurant. We were greeted hesitantly. This was not an establishment to which one brings five-year-olds.

They sat us in a corner. Not a bad table, as a restaurant of that caliber has no bad tables, but not a table that everyone could see. Not by the window. Not in the spotlight.

The waiter greeted us politely in French before continuing in English with a thick French accent. Recognizing his obvious native tongue, my adorable five year old self responded in French, surprising the snot out of him.

As the story goes, between meeting the waiter and ordering, we were offered a table by the window that had “just opened up”. Or as my parents like to put it, I charmed the socks off the waiter and proved that a five-year-old could be well-behaved, earning us a spot in the middle of the restaurant.

As some parents do, there is an extent to which my parents believe I can walk on water, so the details of the story could fairly be questioned. Though in their defense, I am indeed charming and adorable, even to this day.

It’s a good thing their constant praise has not gone to my head.

My parents were used to the stressful Thanksgiving. The one with the turkey, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie that most Americans dream of. The one with the extended family members you don’t connect with, but have to converse with for an endless handful of hours. The one that requires the hosting party to deep clean the venue beforehand and tackle a seemingly insurmountable pile of dishes afterwards.

When my parents got together, their Thanksgiving tradition became leaving the country.

By the time I came around, leaving the country was a bit more complicated, so instead of a plane ride to an exotic destination, the trip got shortened to the three-hour drive to Vancouver, just across the Canadian border. Our first Thanksgiving dinner abroad was at Le Crocodile, and so have been the subsequent twenty Thanksgivings.

That’s right, in my family, the American holiday of Thanksgiving is celebrated in Canada at a French restaurant. Traditionally, I order frogs’ legs as my first course, leaving the second course to try new things. Where most Americans have their Thanksgiving dinner on the absurdly early side (practically a late lunch), we begin ours around 8 pm. With our multiple courses and consumption slowed by conversation, dinner averages around 3 hours, so it’s not uncommon for us to close the place down.

Even still, it’s always too much food. What does that mean? It means Americans can enjoy the weeks of turkey sandwiches in Thanksgiving leftovers. This year, my leftovers were venison tenderloin and duck confit.

For twenty years, we have had the same waiter whom I won over at the age of five. He now greets us fondly every year. Sometimes, he even shares words of wisdom. This year, he explained that “eating is like kissing: it should be done slowly.”

But of course, these are not the only things to enjoy in Vancouver.

Back in the day, Black Friday was pretty confined to the U.S. Combined with the exchange rate at the time, shopping in Vancouver around Thanksgiving meant great deals without the terrifying crowds. We usually spend one day on Robson Street and one day at the mall.

Over the past two decades, Black Friday has spilled across the border, so the crowds have increased. Still, it is better than in the U.S. and now we have Black Friday deals on top of the exchange rate.

Since Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving in October, the Christmas season starts a little earlier up there. They don’t wait until the third Friday of November to kick things off. We arrive in full-holiday swing.

Then there’s my favorite: Canada legally requires all retail goods to be labeled in the two languages in which I am fluent. I have a field day with the chosen translations.

The French translation for Starbucks’ “Give Good” loosely translates to “With All Your Heart”. Same general idea; more generous vibe. The best though was at the hotel.

In English, it’s called a vanity set and is composed of tools such as makeup remover pads, Q-tips, and a nail file. The French title for this box of goodies translates to “Bathroom Necessities”. Apparently what is vain in English is necessary in French – which, if you briefly imagine stereotypical French fashion compared to stereotypical fashion of any Anglophone country, really quite fits.

Well, the Thanksgiving holiday is over. People all across the United States are ten pounds heavier and Christmas music has begun in stores everywhere. I hope though to not forget any time soon how grateful I am for my family, the incredible opportunities I have been given, and for the gift of bilingualism that my parents gave me at the age of three.

What’s next?