Elder W

With Elder Jones, the homesickness and inadequacy had never really disappeared. It had merely been fossilized. It was still there, abandoned like a deformed puppy, whimpering in the corner. When I was yanked — figuratively, for the most part — from my trainer, I was once again in a new world. The deformed puppy crept from his hiding place and started wailing.  

Elder Jonas Wodjcidek met me at the mission office. His more irritating quirks had yet to manifest themselves, so I moved into our new apartment without incident. Elder W kept to himself, which also allowed me to stare at the wall, trying to delay the full realization of my utter loneliness, for another few hours in peace.

I soon got to know Elder W. He was from Alberta, Canada, a fact that seemed to crop up every time he introduced himself. Spending time with him, one would quickly be indoctrinated to the fact that everything in Canada, from the Slurpees to the couches, was several degrees superior to its American counterpart. 

"Up in Canada, the Taco Bells are much better. They put magic beans in the tacos, grown from the excrement of the Great Moose Spirit, guarded by sacred beavers and plucked by beautiful maidens in Mountie uniforms," he would say. Actually, the details of his ethnocentric boasts have been lost to time, but I hope I've conveyed the general flavor.