I pull up to a stoplight on the way to my friend Carolyn's house, hoping her directions are correct, knowing there's no guarantee of that. Out of habit, I look up at the street signs, with the intention of memorizing where I am and am struck with terror. I am lost. I must be, because I'm at the corner of Sharon and Sharon, and have no idea which direction is which. How the hell did I end up here?

It's a loaded question. Not only do I wonder what I'm doing at this bizarre intersection, I wonder what I'm doing in Charlotte period. How exactly does a Canadian (not just a bloody Yankee) end up in the banking Mecca of the South, in a city she's never really heard about, let alone read about, dreamt about, or anything about? Like so many others, my family and I are transplants and headed south for a better job and a better life.

Life back in Toronto wasn't bad. It was good. Really good. But my husband, Kevin, is a Southerner, and six Canadian winters were all that he could handle. Mind you, he never once was in charge of snow shoveling ... always my job. Regardless, we decided to head for the sunshine once again. A good friend of ours moved to Charlotte from New Orleans post-Katrina and had nothing but glowing reports. We just had to come check it out.

On separate occasions, Kevin and I traveled to Charlotte to visit Carolyn and see what was so good about this relatively unknown (to us) city that had turned her life around. She was happy here. Her practice was flourishing and her personal life as well. Carolyn was lucky enough to find a new Starbucks "family" in no time and they doted on her like courtiers with their queen. She had dinner dates, doggie playdates and even threw parties. In all the years I'd known her in New Orleans, not once did she throw a party. Something was up.

If Charlotte could be that good for our friend, why wouldn't it work for us? We were game and made plans to relocate, including finding a new home, new jobs, new school and new life. Kevin was lucky enough to get hired as music director for a new club opening in the fall and was certain he'd find other gigs to play his horn. Easy enough ...

"I am lonely – Why aren't I meeting friends in my home office?"

First impressions count, and I noticed right away that Charlotte is gloriously green. Not in the eco-conscious sense, but literally. Toronto on the other hand is all about the planet-centric type of green. Every company and every product is eco-friendly/conscious/fabulous in one way or another. It's also a cycling town. Even in the crappiest snowy weather (and there's a lot of that there) you'll find people out on their bikes. (Side note: Toronto has the highest rate of bicycle thefts of any city in Canada. It's almost a badge of honor and a fact of life. Very few people own bikes that haven't been reassembled from other bikes, which of course may or may not have been stolen.)

You can find Canadians in almost any city meandering on their bikes, in their business duds or black motorcycle boots and shredded clothing. Charlotte, however, has cyclists with "uniforms" of proper helmets, bike shorts and aerodynamic shirts. Has anyone seen a cyclist here on a beater, heading Uptown in khakis and a blue shirt? I haven't.

What I have seen a lot of here are trees, and I noticed them on my first drive into the city. I still take note of all the trees and am struck by their simple beauty. Sometimes I have to go looking for them, to appreciate what is good about being here.

I did that a lot in the beginning. As a mostly self-employed writer, my office happens to be the back room of our house, and surprisingly enough, I don't meet a lot of people there. I left a vast circle of friends and family in Canada and experienced an enormous sense of loss sitting in the quiet of my back room.

At first I would wallow in self-pity, staring out the window and cursing myself for agreeing to move. "Why am I here?" was on rewind in my brain. Thankfully the movement of the birds would shake me out of my trance, and I would find myself looking at a giant oak tree in my neighbor's backyard. I would always manage to remember I was lucky to be here on earth, even if it wasn't Toronto.

In order to feel like I belonged here, I had to find a way to connect with Charlotteans, and find people who were like-minded. My goal was to seek out groups of people in town who shared similar interests with me. Kids, pets, writing, art and music were all a part of my life. Surely I'd encounter someone to relate to, right?

A Par-tay

Sensing my sadness, my friend Carolyn decided to throw our family a "Welcome to Charlotte" party shortly after we arrived; seeing as how we missed getting together with people in a big way, we said, "Of course!" I know she was saddened by my lack of friends in Charlotte and wanted to introduce me to many of her friends whom she loves so much. (Carolyn has so many friends she just has to throw parties to get them all together.)

I was a bit nervous about the party for several reasons, including -- most importantly -- my open and apparent need for new friends. Would I seem desperate? I sure didn't want to come off that way. I also wasn't sure what parties were like here and how different they would be from my own Canadian backyard summer affairs, which tended to be loose and long-lasting.

Our farewell party back home was held on a warm summer night with friends gathered on our back deck. A few fellow musicians brought their instruments and music flowed all night. One local DJ taught my 5-year-old to break dance, though they looked more like Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin after a few hits. My daughter and her friends destroyed two feather pillows in a friendly, girly fight. Watching the feathers float around in the moonlight was something close to magical. Canadians, at least the ones I know, really let go of formalities when there's lots of wine, food and music.

I didn't know if people in Charlotte would take off their masks, let down their hair or whatever other cliché there is for having some real fun ... that's what I like to do. I waited.

To ease my anxiety, Carolyn strategically made me in charge of getting everyone their first drink. This allowed me to introduce myself, get people talking, and hopefully a little liquored up. As a former bartender, it was a role I was very comfortable with. It also gave me a purpose other than sitting on the sofa waiting for people to be my friend. Blech.

My kids planted themselves out front and worked their quirky, adorable charm on all the unsuspecting guests. "I'm Keller; my dad is famous, and I'm famous, and I like armchairs" was a particularly memorable opener. Cyre on the other hand, shook hands and directed traffic. Her manners are impeccable at most times and shone this particular night. My husband grabbed his horn, seated himself in a chair beside the piano and played jazz tunes with his partner in crime, Ethan. I couldn't help but relax and smile.

The music, food and wine worked wonders. Before long, people were laughing and chatting up a storm. Friends sat with friends as per usual at a party but were quick to make room for someone new. The kids got tattoos from the hostess and one mom took it upon herself to put them on every kid there (and herself of course). Food just kept showing up as did bottle after bottle of Cab, Merlot and the like.

I was flattered by the friendliness of the folks there and the warm welcomes I received. I knew I wouldn't be a BF or a BFF with all of them, but I knew I'd be friends with some of them. It was a wonderful way to meet some wonderful Charlotteans.

A Welcome from the Mayor's Office

Though my introduction to some new friends went relatively smooth, getting to know my neighbors, with the exception of Ms. Southern Hospitality next door, didn't start out quite so well. I wasn't expecting warm apple pie and open arms, but I was hoping for something better than an official complaint to the city.

As a general rule or stereotype, Torontonians are somewhat stiff. They'll be friendly, but from a distance. They will say hello, but only if spoken to. They won't bring you a pie if you move into their neighborhood, but they'll give you a push if your car gets stuck in the snow.

Upon arriving in Charlotte, our family was lucky enough to have gotten a personal and warm welcome from the mayor's office. It certainly didn't start off that way, however. Of course, how it came to that point would not have been possible without the assistance of Ms. Southern Hospitality.

One of the key things to learn when arriving in a new town is how garbage disposal and pickup works. Every city does recycling differently, on different days, with different materials and bins.

We did a lot of unpacking in a short period of time, and it seemed as if we were never going to unpack the sky-high pile of boxes sprawled across our house. As the stack of empties got higher and higher, my anxiety about the amount of work we were creating for the garbage men rose higher and higher, too.

Back in Canada we had made friends with the garbage guys, offering them sodas on the road, tips at Christmas, help in loading up the truck ... I swear by the time we left we could have put a dead body out on the curb and they would have thrown it on the truck without batting an eye. Canadians, as a rule, don't like to break the law per se, but they're happy to buck the system.

Here in Charlotte, it doesn't quite work that way. First of all, any boxes that don't fit in the bin are considered bulk and require special-order pickup. Secondly, all boxes must be piled in single form, measuring a precise three-foot-by-three-foot area. Of course we weren't aware of the new policy and quite frankly were arrogant enough to figure we'd just butter up the new crew like we'd done before and all would be well.

The first time the garbage truck passed by without picking up our boxes was puzzling until Ms. Southern Hospitality clued me in to the three-by-three requirement. So I spent more than two hours that night out front, cutting, breaking, bending and restacking the high-end, heavy-duty boxes we bought from the reputable moving company back in Canada. These weren't your scraggly leftovers from the liquor store.

After much huffing and puffing, I got the job done. Just to ensure that this new pile of garbage would make its way onto the truck, however, I left a couple of sodas and a thank you note on top of the stack. They just had to take them now!

The next morning I awoke to find my stack still there. My heart sank. What the heck was I going to do? Get a measuring tape and a paper shredder? I decided I'd wait for my husband to get home and we'd discuss our options, which so far included midnight runs to the dump and paying the guy with the red truck on the next street over to come and rescue/dispose of them himself. That night over dinner, we decided we would slowly take a small pile to school with the kids each day and throw them in the cardboard waste bin there. Sneaky, sure, but problem solved.

Indeed. Seems Ms. Southern Hospitality was hooked up with some city officials and got on the horn on behalf of her clueless neighbors. She "gave them a what-for," as she put it, and explained that we were foreigners who were unaware of garbage policy in Charlotte and how she personally witnessed hours of back-breaking labor on my part trying to make it right, and what kinda welcome was that anyhow?

That very next day, the pile disappeared. No word, no note (no sodas either). I saw Ms. Southern Hospitality out front that next evening, and she told me the mayor sent her an e-mail, apologizing to us and offering a personal welcome to the Queen City. Talk about neighborly love!

And yet a few days later, our landlord showed up with a citation from another disgruntled neighbor who had taken a picture of our boxes and sent them to the city, along with a nuisance complaint. We of course explained how the matter had already been taken up with the city and how the mayor had sent us a personal welcome too. Are all neighborhoods this caring? At least I had one neighbor I could call my friend.

Flea Market: The Future of Americana

One of my favorite things to do is to go antiquing. In my search for bargains, soon after settling in, I stumbled upon another of Charlotte's subcultures, one I hadn't consciously sought, and it was both baffling and enlightening. When my friend from Toronto came to town, I decided we needed to go bargain-hunting, something we did on a weekly basis back home.

Now in his typically eloquent style, comedian Jeff Foxworthy once said, "Show me a 3-year-old in a diaper walking around a flea market with a baby bottle full of Coca-Cola, and I'll show you a future NASCAR fan." It rings oh so true. I know because I saw that 3-year-old at a flea market just outside of Charlotte.

Someone told me the flea market south of Pineville had really great antiques on Saturdays, so being a secondhand/thrift/consignment store junkie, I naturally decided we all had to go. My kids have been down this road before and are automatically suspect of any such invitation, which means bribes are in order. My husband, on the other hand, loves the social petri dish that is flea-market culture so he was game. My poor friend from out of town had no choice but to tag along.

To say I was disappointed with the offerings is a major understatement. No antiques -- only junky electronics and cheapo fleece blankets with pictures of wolves and football teams were to be had, and they did nothing for me. Although there were some truly far-out, glow-in-the-dark, neon palm trees and blessed Madonna lanterns for sale, most of the stuff there was forgettable. I left empty-handed. Humpf.

What I did get out of the trip though is really hard to explain. How to do justice to the phenomenon that is "Dave's Ministry" ... let's see. We were walking down a main aisle, browsing rows of imitation brand-name sneakers when we heard the strum of a gee-tar, followed by a lonesome voice. "They have paid entertainment at this place?" was my first reaction, followed by "What the hell kinda busker is that?" Hell no, heaven, ummm ... maybe. You see, "Dave" drove down to the market every weekend to spread the gospel of Jesus' love to all those poor families who were willing to park themselves on the nearby benches and listen up. He had a hand-written sign with his name, a bucket to collect money (for what I don't exactly know), some pamphlets to hand out and a microphone to sing into.

As surreal as it was, I was mesmerized and couldn't tear myself away. I looked over at my husband and friend just to compare their reactions with mine and validate that what we were witness to was truly unbelievable. Yep, same stunned look. My husband then raised his eyebrows in "Oh ya, baby" glee and my friend turned away in "only in America" embarrassment.

Now to be fair, his voice wasn't awful and his gee-tar playing was passable. But Dave was 100-percent sincere and that's what gets people in the end anyhow. I imagine Dave engages in one or two Christian discussions every weekend, and I also imagine that's good enough for him. That would have to be good enough for me to leave it alone and chalk it up to what also makes Charlotte unique.

Pleated Pants

This a banking town. It's what drives the local economy. But can something so large be considered a subculture? I'm thinking so. It's not so much the banking part that's weird and worth noting; it's the folks who make up this community that I find intriguing. Especially the "uniforms" they wear.

I never noticed it before, but bankers definitely have a strict, unspoken dress code. To make ends meet, my husband joined this subculture and got a job at the bank. He needed to update his wardrobe, so we went clothes shopping. There we were, innocently cruising the aisles of the local department store when my husband pointed out the obvious. "There's nothing but pleated pants here."

"Is that weird?" I replied.

"Haven't you noticed that so many men around here wear pleated pants?" I hadn't.

The pleated-pants syndrome had escaped me, until now. Row upon row of khakis and slacks in the department store with their neatly pressed pleats hung there waiting for average guys to take them home. If jeans could have pleats, I'm sure they'd sell them there, too.

Maybe it was just that store. I decided at that very moment to do an informal survey of every guy I saw for that day and every day going forward. (I knew I'd probably forget after a day or two, but it seemed like a great social experiment nevertheless.) It would prove to be a bit tricky, staring at men's lower halves, without coming off like an over-sexed cougar or a castrating man-hater. I had to be casual, sneaking sly glances at all times.

No sooner had I stepped out the door did I almost run into two guys wearing -- you guessed it -- pleated pants. Khakis, to be exact. Wow! It could have been beginner's luck, I told myself. As I crossed the street toward the car, I pretended to look for traffic, but instead did a quick pedestrian scope. Pleats, pleats, pleats ... Wait! Shorts! It was unbelievable.

What is it about this town that loves the pleat? It's the unofficial, official banking uniform. I was hoping it was just another male fashion faux pas until I spotted a woman walking downtown in a pair of pleated pants later in the week. Khakis, once again. I hit the brakes and risked a rear-ender when she passed in view. Could it be spreading?

Liquor-cycle

Now that my husband had joined the ranks at the bank and would be heading off to work bright and shiny every morning, we were in need of a second vehicle. We had been a one-car family for so long, we had to deliberate on what to buy. Back in Toronto we belonged to a car-share program, which helped us out in a pinch when we needed a second vehicle. One-car families are an anomaly in this car-culture town, but a one-car/scooter family is downright unheard of. Now, I'm not saying that scooters aren't ridden around here (because they are). But they tend to have drivers who are younger, college-student types who are limited on funds.

When I think of scooter, I think of a well-dressed, gorgeous European man tooling around the Piazza on a vintage Vespa, his dark purple tie flapping in the wind. He may have an equally gorgeous, slim babe in a shift dress, dark sunglasses and chiffon covering her hair, riding on back. How chic, how sophisticated ... how un-Charlotte-like.

Back in Toronto, my husband rode a vintage Vespa. He loved the freedom of zipping through downtown traffic and the prestige of owning an Italian model, the epitome of cool in scooter-culture terms. His friends were envious. When we got ready to move to the United States, we discovered it was going to be a paperwork/logistical nightmare to get it across the border and regrettably sold it to another friend who was more than happy to take it off our hands.

Taking into account the cost of a car note, insurance, astronomical gas prices and downtown parking fees, we concluded that another scooter would do the trick. Free parking, next-to-free gas prices and no paperwork ... what more could we ask for?

I pictured my husband in his Banana Republic suit, driving through town, women stopping mid-sentence to check out the sexy machine ... Um, wrong. Apparently in this town, men (grown men more specifically) on scooters are thought to be losers with too many DUIs, who can no longer legally drive and have resorted to getting around on a "liquor-cycle," as they are otherwise and affectionately known.

The first clue should have been the snickers from his coworkers, men who drive manly cars like SUVs or anything with the word "magnum" in its description. Our neighbor across the street straight-out bust a gut when Kevin told him he bought a scooter. "You are legal to drive aren't you?" was his very next question. They just didn't seem to get it, and neither did we.

Thankfully, our other neighbor, Ms. Southern Hospitality, clued us in to its pseudonym. By this point, however, we had paid for the thing outright, and he had no recourse but to drive it back and forth every day. The Fellini-esqueness has been sucked right out of our European scooter fantasy. Now it's left with a My Name is Earl residue. Bummer.

Join In

My husband now had officemates to swap stories with and musicians he could call "hang daddies." I, on the other hand, still didn't have a collective.

I'm not much of a joiner anymore. As a kid, I was a member of the choir, the orchestra, Girl Scouts, the yearbook club, chess club, gaylord club ... you name it, I joined it. But I've struggled in finding a "club" to join in Charlotte. I thought about starting one in my back room, but I didn't think I'd have many takers. So instead, I bit the bullet and joined a women's group at our church. Yes, I broke down and joined.

One of the first things we were told about Charlotte is that people will ask us three very important questions: Where do you go to church? Which Y did you join? And ... I can't remember the third one. So, in joining, we have been able to come up with an answer to the all-important "Where do you go to church?" question. We attend a liberal-leaning, thinking man's church here in Charlotte, full of disgruntled churchgoers of other denominations and retired hippies, and couldn't be happier about it. Imagine: liberal and religion in the same sentence.

Our family lived in Toronto for just over six years and never once found a church to call home. We sure knew a bunch of hippies (I'm related to a few) but never an organized religion that made us feel like we joined a real community. Toronto is full of real communities, mostly based on ethnicity. If you're from a remote island off the South Pacific coast, chances are you'll find others like you in Toronto.

The first service we attended in Charlotte was not a regular service, which was really fantastic in retrospect. The leader of this group lives and breathes poetry and conducts "poetry services" once a season. This was one of them. Besides hearing thoughtful, beautiful stories from writers around the world, we listened to several sweet Beatles tunes (what screams "live and let live" hippie-dippie '60s more than "Let It Be"?) and witnessed the congregation waltz together out the door at the end. I was moved, to tears to be exact. My soul was touched.

Things are coming together for my family here in Charlotte, though oftentimes at a pace that I find frustrating. It's not been the easiest place to navigate, and I've had to go searching for friends, something I had taken for granted in the past. But the journey through various subcultures has changed me in many ways -- and in some ways I'm probably not even conscious.

I do know I'm more tolerant these days. Starting over in a new city can also be extremely humbling; no one here really knows, just yet, how wonderful you are until you get the chance to share that. I'm working on it and realize I won't have that chance if I sit in my back room and stare at trees.

You won't ever find me in a pair of pleated anything, but I accept that others wear them because it works for them. I'm thinking that with gas prices the way they are, maybe more sober people will ride scooters. Driving anywhere on Queens still makes my hands shake, but I'm getting better at it. I still like flea markets, just not fleece blankets. And I always love a good party.

Canada's coolest contributions

Canada has birthed loads of cool people, places and things – stuff that's loved by folks all over America. Creative Loafing did some research on Wikipedia to unearth three great imports from the Great White North:

• Bob and Doug McKenzie -- Bob and Doug McKenzie are a pair of fictional Canadian brothers who hosted "The Great White North," a sketch which was introduced on SCTV for the show's third season when it moved to CBC Television in 1980.

• William Shatner -- William Alan Shatner (born March 22, 1931) is a Canadian double Emmy-, Golden Globe-, and Saturn Award-winning actor. He gained worldwide fame for playing Captain James Tiberius Kirk, captain of the starship USS Enterprise, in the television series Star Trek from 1966 to 1969, the animated series and in seven of the subsequent movies.

• Canadian bacon -- Back bacon is traditionally prepared from brined, center cut boneless pork loin. It is much leaner than American/streaky bacon. It is sometimes called Irish bacon, peameal bacon or Canadian bacon.