Data and security

Security in the UK

Crime statistics in the UK are a mixed lot. On the one hand, the overall levels of crime victimisation are fairly similar to those in the US, Canada, and Western Europe, a bit on the high end overall. Homicide rates, on the other hand, despite recent well-publicised drops in the US, are still drastically lower (by a factor of about 3) in the UK and most of Western Europe (and Canada). Presumably this is attributable, at least in part, to the smaller number of guns. Gun murders in the UK are the lowest in the world, as a proportion of population, about a factor of 20 lower than in the US. (This does not directly contradict the “only outlaws will have guns” NRA rhetoric, if we generalise from a recent report in the NY Times, explaining that the classic random-mugging-murder is now extremely rare in New York, leaving mainly revenge killings and turf wars between drug gangs, and kinds of intimate crimes that are the meat of crime fiction. Gun bans, presumbly, have relatively little impact on the former — and the RMMs — but quite a lot on the jealous spouse and Double Indemnity types of crimes.)

While getting tough on lawbreakers, the hapless government of Gordon Brown is now having to answer for its own role in aiding and abetting identity theft. Supposedly a “junior official” of Customs and Revenue copied the entire database of families receiving the state Child Benefit (7.5 million families, comprising about 25 million individuals), including names, addresses onto compact disks, and sent them by unrecorded internal post to the National Audit Office. They did not turn up at the other end. As they say, it’s an ill will indeed that blows no good. Until this blunder sprawled over all the newspaper headlines, I had no idea that there was a Child Benefit, a monthly payment to parents (or anyone else raising a child) worth about £80 a month for families with one child. (It’s funny that we got caught out on this, because we were irked to discover, shortly before we left Canada, that we’d missed out on applying for a similar benefit there. For some reason governments don’t go out of their way to inform new immigrants of these things.) Anyone moving to the UK should be aware of this: official information is available here. My understanding, though, is that it’s generally only available for Europeans (which I’m not, but the rest of the family are).

If you wanted to contrive a damaging political scandal, without anyone really getting hurt, it would be hard to better this one. All the ingredients are there: Incompetence, money, long-term uncertainty, vast number of potential victims, new technology (making everyone particularly uneasy), and, most important, children. Furthermore, there are reports that

  1. The Audit Office requested an anonymised version of the database, but C&R refused, claiming it would be too costly. (Oops.)
  2. C&R suggested the auditors come visit them to peek at the database. Too much trouble, they said. (Oops again.)

Why are they e-mailing CDs anyway? Anyone with even a tiny bit of technological literacy could have used SSH to transfer the files over the Internet, and saved them the price of a stamp.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer, Alastair Darling (I can’t escape the feeling that there are names you meet at the top levels in politics here that would simply provoke too many giggles in the US or Canada) whose head might be expected to roll, explained that it really wasn’t his fault. In an inversion of the Eichmann defense, he explained that he just makes the rules. “There are rules that mean you can’t download this info and stick it in the post… In asking ourselves what has gone wrong here the rules appear to have been breached with catastrophic results.” Sounds reasonable. It’s not his fault if someone doesn’t follow the rules. This reminds me a bit of the reaction of the day-care teacher in Berkeley who instructed me, after my then two-year-old daughter ran out of the school unnoticed (fortunately I was still right outside the building when she came out), “You need to tell her that she’s not allowed to do that.” She did not return to that daycare centre. Yes, the “junior official” ought not to have flouted the rules; but it should not be a matter of rules. The junior official should not have access to an extremely sensitive database, that he can download onto two CDs and send throught the mail. Once he can do that, he might just as well copy the database onto two other CDs and sell them to criminals. Who is to say that another junior official did not do that?

Of course, Mr Darling could reasonably protest that he only just took over the ministry a few months ago. The blame must really fall to his predecessor in the office, who put the database system into place over the past year. It’s a hard argument to make, though, since his predecessor is now the prime minister.

Transportation in and around Oxford

Bicycling in Oxford

Oxford has the reputation of being the UK bicyclist’s utopia, and the Oxford City Council has the reputation of being extremely hostile to automobiles. One can see where that impression might come from, but it is sobering to note that the end effect is hardly different from that seen in communities where the ostensible priorities are reversed. Some believe that there is a secret transportation plan, carefully laid out in 1968, aiming to intensify the contradictions in the transportation dialectic  Be that as it may, for present generations bicycling through the city centre is difficult and dangerous at most times of day or night. There are bicycle paths that cross over automobile lanes, paths that run for 100m beside a busy road and then simply stop, and no lack of automobilists for whom passing a bicycle has a pavlovian urgency, even when the bicyclist has signalled a turn, even when the car itself is just about to brake to turn off the road. Outside the city centre, there are some very useful bicycle paths, some fairly elaborate. And on a larger scale there is the UK national cycle network, now over 10,000 miles in length, which we have yet to explore.

Continue reading “Transportation in and around Oxford”

Arriving in Oxford

We’ve been here a few days. So far, everything has gone far more smoothly than I could have anticipated.

Weather: It’s always sunny in Britain

I’ve spent a total of about three weeks in England, and about six weeks in Scotland. While there was a bit of misty rain in the Hebrides, and occasional overcast, but nearly all of that time has been bright, warm, sunny weather. I have heard that it is sometimes otherwise, but I believe it is wisest to trust my own experience, and thus to expect that the weather will always be bright, warm, and sunny.


Two adults and one five-year-old took a seven-legged trip (see below) without losing any of our 13 pieces of luggage or our sanity. Actually, after days of preparation and much missed sleep, we slept much of the time on the plane and bus. This was not made easy by our Canadian budget airline, Zoom Airlines, whose commitment to cost-savings left me with a non-reclining seat (not that the recliners were actually recognisable to the naked eye), and whose devotion to cramming as many seats as possible into the cabin led to bathroom queues more reminiscent of stadium rock-concerts (and even flight attendants fighting with small children over priority for the facilities. We chose Zoom for its peculiar policy of selling one-way tickets. We had not thought very carefully about their meagre luggage allowance of 30 kg per person, which we exceeded by at least a third.
We thought we were headedtravel diagram for a stiff fine when the grim-faced company apparatchik started weighing every bag carefully and toting up the results, and then turned to what I thought was a well-camouflaged small carry-on bag that was actually stuffed with personal papers and diaries that absolutely could not be checked in, and discovered that it nearly tripled the 5 kg carry-on limit. But in the end, whether she was worn down by my insistent questioning.(Is that a 5kg per item limit or 15 kg for the three of us? What exactly are the limits on a “personal item”?) and time-consuming repacking of bags, and the sheer variegated menagerie of luggage that we were presenting, or whether none of this was meant very seriously in the first place, she then just let it all through with no mention of fine or fee.

On arriving in Oxford (by bus), we were fortunate to obtain from the Worcester College porter the services of a very large luggage cart, to transport our 13 pieces of luggage from Gloucester Green to our home, about a 10 minute walk.
It will be interesting to see how the train system serves us on a more regular basis. Julia will be commuting to work in Coventry, about 45 minutes from Oxford, with train service once an hour. The prices are quite high: For less than the price of a year travelling second-class on this route, you could get a year of first-class travel on the entire German rail network. Another strange thing: It is cheaper to buy two tickets, Oxford-Banbury and Banbury-Coventry, than the single ticket Oxford-Coventry, despite the fact that it is a single train, operated by a single company. And everyone tells us that the rail service grinds to a halt as soon as there is a dusting of snow on the tracks, or even a surfeit of autumn leaves. We shall see.



in Kingston, I was somewhat uneasy to discover that there is very little by way of alternative schools in Oxford. Waldorf education is not very extensively established in the UK, as private schools in the UK (called “public schools”, as everyone knows, except that in practice many people do call them “private”, if not “independent” schools, perhaps for my benefit) seem to be very much about honing the children to a finer competitive edge. My general prejudice about the UK told me that the British had drunk deeply of the standardised testing Kool-Aid, that they were competitive and obsessed with “academic” achievement. The fact that “real school” starts at age 5 made the transition all the more frightening. I was made still more uneasy when I discovered that a significant portion of the state schools (technically called “maintained schools”), including our neighbourhood St. Barnabas Primary School, are operated at least in part by the Church of England.

I can’t say now how the education system matches up over all to my prejudice, but the St. Barnabas school seems now to be a real treasure. The headmistress and the teachers I’ve met seem competent and caring, and other local residents criticise the school for its lack of academic intensity and kindergarten-like atmosphere of the Level 1 class (Chaya’s), which from my point of view is a very positive sign. It is a highly multicultural school, as its catchment area pulls in a large number of Oxford University visitors. Actual variety among the students is a more reliable guarantee against proselytization or exclusion than any formal policy of supporting diversity. There is at least one other Jewish child in Chaya’s class, and a child fresh off the boat from Germany who doesn’t speak any English (a good opportunity for Chaya to play translator). That outweighs the crucifix in the gymnasium…


It seems bizarre that this should be a major topic, but with all the globalisation of capital and banking, access to bank accounts and credit remains a small but significant impediment to the free movement of people, which is the human side of “labour-market flexibility”. In two years in Canada we never managed to get a credit card. This isn’t just about credit, of course, but about being able to do any commerce by telephone or internet. (It baffles me that credit card companies are still the primary mode of online payment, taking a couple of percent off the vast quantities of money sluicing through the Internet.) We started with Scotia Bank, which lured us into opening an account with the promise of a “Welcome to Canada” credit card. The next day, when we returned to complete the credit card application, we were informed that “Welcome to Canada” is only for permanent residents. (Permanent residency in Canada takes several years, because of the overburdened bureaucracy.) The university tried (somewhat desultorily) to help, arranging a special application with CIBC for Queen’s University employees. Somehow, though, despite several (very positive) telephone conversations with representatives of the company, they seemed to keep losing my application, and indeed any record of my ever having applied. After that went on for several months I realised that they really were not interested in doing business with us. I don’t know if it was xenophobia, rigidity, or something else. It surprises me that banks, willing to extend credit cards right after a bankruptcy, would consider two university professors to be such a high risk that they would not offer credit cards under any conditions, simply because they are new immigrants. Of course, this is just one of many things that confuses me about modern credit. For instance, a person who has always lived within his means is considered a high credit risk, as compared with the person perpetually in debt, but managing to scrape up the payments. One wonders if the banks truly believe that credit is fundamentally different from the rest of a person finances? Are they unaware of the simple schemes — sometimes promoted by the banks themselves — by which people effectively lend money to themselves, then pay it back, and it shows up as positive credit on their reports. Not to mention the fact that anyone who knows a merchant with access to the credit-report databases can add positive information about herself.

Here in the UK we had a different problem. I went first to Barclay’s, where I was told first that they could not open a bank account for me without proof of address which, they insisted, by the 1993 money-laundering law, could only be a UK driving license, voter registration or a utility bill. This was a problem, since I don’t drive, I can’t vote, and we won’t be getting our first utility bill for three months. Furthermore, because I had only recently moved, they also would need a utility bill from my old address. (My Ontario health card, a government issued identity card with photo and address printed on it, was insufficient. It is not, after all, a utility bill.) They did slip me a sheet of paper with super-special information for Oxford University employees. They can have their department contact the university treasurer who will contact the bank who will set up an appointment at a more secluded branch of the bank, and the person at that branch is authorised to accept the treasurer’s letter as proof of address. I took the information, but went on to the next bank down the street, NatWest. My assumption that Barclay’s was simply being peculiar turned out to be unfounded.  NatWest had no special arrangement with the university, and the only thing they could suggest was that perhaps my bank in Canada could send a statement with my new address. What would that prove? I asked. They only have this address because I gave it to them. It’s not as though the bank has any independent evidence of my true address. Yes, said the banker, but the bank is then vouching for your identity. (But the problem wasn’t about confirming my identity. It was my address.) And the utility bills that I could fake in five minutes on the computer? Well, she said, we could call the utility company to confirm the information.

But do they? Has British Gas set itself up with a full-time staff devoted to confirming background checks on every household in the UK? And if they have, why don’t they do these checks directly, rather than indirectly by way of these utility bills and bank statements? I suspect that the information is rarely, if ever, checked, but that they content themselves with the possibility that it could be checked. Why would the bank rather have an easily falsifiable utility bill as proof of address, rather than a letter signed by a senior official at Worcester College, who is actually providing me with the accommodations, and who could be personally contacted for verification? This is typical of the kinds of compromises that go into avoiding an honest political debate — in this case, about address registration and national identity cards. These systems work well in Germany and the Netherlands, but Anglo-Americans view them as inimical to personal liberty. But then, along comes money-laundering and terrorism, and something needs to be done, so they latch onto something informally in place which has the appearance of being voluntary: Driver’s licenses in the US and Canada, utility bills in the UK. The Departments of Motor Vehicles in the US are hijacked to serve as de facto registration authorities, without any clear plan: My non-driver identification in California was issued without a check on any of the information included on it, except my name and birthdate. Then people are shocked when terrorists are able to obtain illegitimate licenses from West Virginia. So they introduce the Real ID Act, leaving identification still in the hands of state DMVs, but imposing national standards. The voluntary nature of these identity cards is a sham, as I discovered fifteen years ago, when I spent several weeks hiking along back roads in New England. I was repeatedly stopped by police who wanted to see a driver’s license, and threatened to arrest me if I did not identify myself properly.)

Then, I discovered Lloyd’s TBS. It was a tip from another American I met. They did not ask for any proof of address. They said they don’t need to, because mine is a “private address”. Very odd. You would think that if they are trying to prevent terrorism by checking people’s addresses, you would not want to allow the customer (aka potential terrorist) to tell you that this is unnecessary. And it is very strange that one bank has such a different take on the legal requirements to the others. Still, I am happy to accept this back door. And once you have your foot in, there are no problems, since I now have plenty of bank statements with my address on them.


I am a lecturer for the department of statistics of the University of Oxford, and a tutor in statistics for Worcester College. How these things fit together I don’t yet really know. The university pays most of my salary, but most of my defined duties are for the college. Lectures are given under the auspices of the university, and are not compulsory, though I am told that nearly all students do attend lectures (differing in this from North American universities I have taught at, where lectures in principle were compulsory, and students did not attend). Most teaching takes place in tutorials, typically in groups of one or two, though I have been told that some colleges are cutting costs by increasing the size of tutorial groups.

I have rather sumptuous offices in both the department and the college. The college provides free (and quite elegant) lunches, as well as dinners if I didn’t have to be home in the evening, and if I had a dinner suit (tuxedo) and academic gown to wear. This may seem like an extravagant expense, though it actually makes good economic sense. Universities, particularly in the US, increasingly are being forced to compete for top research talent with ever more lavish salaries. An alternative is to attract academics with special perquisites that the university is specially suited to provide. In addition to tenure, which clearly provides a substitute for a considerable amount of salary, the lunchtime company of other academics is one of the cheap resources that universities have in profusion. The college gardens are another benefit peculiarly suited to intellectuals. That still leaves open the unanswerable question posed by my 11-year-old neighbour: “So they’re giving you a house and meals. Why are they paying you?”


One of the most important college perquisites is the housing allowance, which can take several forms, but which currently takes the form of a house, which the college is simply making available to us, to live in for five years. It is in the Jericho neighbourhood of Oxford, a currently very trendy area, sort of a peninsula bordered by a slight bend in the Oxford Canal, and Worcester College. Our house is in Nelson Street, with a backyard up against the Worcester College wall, with the college cricket field on the other side. It’s a lovely little terrace house, painted yellow, with two bedrooms on the upper floor, many skylights, and a small attic which will be attractive as a study, as long as the insulation material turns out not to be a health hazard (something we’re trying to find out).

Our house was blown up last week:

house blowup

Fortunately, by the time we arrived all was back in pristine condition. This was part of the filming of a popular television mystery series set in Oxford.


“Things are so expensive in England.” That’s what everyone says. A colleague in Kingston expressed sympathy for us moving to Oxford, telling us of friends of his who had made a similar move, and were forced to trade their half acre in Kingston for a two-bedroom apartment in Oxford, and their two splendid automobiles for two bicycles. In fact, while housing prices are quite high here, they are no higher than in Berkeley, where I used to live. In both places, high prices are largely a symptom of an attractive place to live. In the UK, this is exacerbated by longstanding greenbelt regulations that inhibit urban sprawl and protect open spaces, but also inhibit new housing construction. There can be little doubt that higher housing costs as a fee for preserving open space is at least money being spent on something worthwhile (even while one may haggle over the exact price, leading to compromises and corrections to the greenbelt program).

Certainly, the kinds of things that tourists are likely to encounter — hotel rooms, cafes, restaurant meals, train tickets, gasoline — are quite expensive here, compared with the US or Canada: The prices tend to be similar in pounds to their North American counterparts in dollars, making them effectively twice as high. Computer equipment seems to be 10-30% more expensive than in Canada, where they already seemed a bit pricier than in the US. On the other hand, cell phones and broadband internet service are a good deal cheaper than in Canada. In any case, these things make up a relatively small part of the average family’s budget when you’re living in a place. Supermarket food prices seem roughly comparable and, what’s more (and quite surprising to me), the quality is much higher. In particular, the fruits and vegetables are of a quality that we occasionally found in California, but never in Kingston. Delicious cheeses that you never see (and are probably illegal) in North America are readily available and not very expensive.


I was ritual committee chair for Congregation Iyr Hamelech, the reform congregation in Kingston, Ontario. There was a lot to quibble over, and the congregation suffered for not having a building, but there was a vibrant core of spiritually active reform Judaism, rather than the standard variety of conservative with ham. I’m interested to find out more about the Oxford Jewish Community (OJC), which purports to represent all Jews in Oxford. It remains to be seen how accurate this is. Certainly, as in every setting where there is supposed mutual respect between denominations, the Orthodox determine ritual matters, because they are the most sure of themselves. Thus, the soi-disant Orthodox are allowed to exclude women from Torah reading in their services (which are most of the services at the synagogue — Liberal services are only once a month), but woe if the Liberal Shabbat services include instrumental music.

On the other hand, our first impression is that the Hebrew school is very open, friendly, and competent, and Chaya very much enjoyed her first day there. I imagine we will find a modus vivendi. It is to their credit that they chose to site the synagogue just one block from our house.

Weather and Politics

From the old “Moving to Canada” blog, originally posted on 22 Jan, 2006:

Two things I did not anticipate for January in Kingston: A federal election, and having to remove my coat to cool off while bicycling.

Weather (or où sont les neiges d’antan?)

I didn’t expect to be able to bicycle at all in the winter, since I expected the roads to be icy and dangerously narrowed by snowbanks.  Instead, the two feet or so of December snow have vanished, except for a few tough icy rinds, and we’re back to shuttling Chaya to daycare in her bike trailer.  Some nights it has not even been dipping below freezing.  It’s like an unending late fall, with the days getting longer. Meanwhile, Europe has been having a Canadian winter.  The natives here complain about the weather.  It’s too slushy. They want the streets properly frozen.

Skating is a big deal in Canada.  Skating rinks are an essential public service, and municipal governments are judged in their effectiveness on their ability to keep them well maintained, and in their social conscience on making them available to the poor.  In this, they are like the swimming pools in German cities, or railway bicycle storage in the Netherlands.  Or prisons in the US…  The Market Square in Kingston (soon to be renamed the Springer Market Square, according to a backroom city council sponsorship deal which is now the topic of legal action) has had a cooled outdoor ice rink installed, open 12 hours a day every day, and several parks have had wooden ovals installed, which they hose down at regular intervals and let freeze, if the weather is cold enough.  Whereas middle class men in the US are always off to their basketball leagues, here they go play hockey at midnight, because that’s when they were able to get the ice free. Continue reading “Weather and Politics”


From the old “Moving to Canada” blog, originally posted on 10 July, 2005:

To begin with, I should say that, for the first time ever, I was on a Canadian train that arrived on time.  In fact, it was half an hour early.  Of course, that’s just the flip side of the casual timing that I mentioned in my previous posting.

At home, I am rarely out of contact with real-time news sources for very long, so one of the real novelties of travel is that I get to be surprised by an accumulation of news.  We arrived Thursday, July 7 in Winnipeg, and one of our fellow travelers, someone we had spoken with in the Jasper station, told us she had heard that there had been a major terrorist attack in London.  No further information.  Then we walked out into the city.  We passed the provincial parliament building, and noted that the flags were flying at half staff.  It was another couple of hours before we learned that several dozen people had been killed by four separate bombs on public transport in London: horrid, but not another 9/11, not even (apparently) another Madrid.  Such is the calibration of our times.

Winnipeg was a bit of a surprise.  Knowing nothing about the city except its geographic location, I expected it to be like all the flat US cities I know, pedestrian in all but the literal sense.  In fact, Winnipeg is a good deal more attractive than that, on a human scale, pleasant to walk.  I had been warned that torrential rains over the past several weeks had caused an upsurge in mosquito activity, and potentially an early start to the West Nile Fever season.  It sounded bad enough that we considered giving the city a miss — and we might have, if not for the extra fees that Via Rail would have charged to change the dates for our travel, about $600 extra on $700 tickets.  I’m happy they dissuaded us, though, because Winnipeg is definitely worth visiting.  I got a few bites, but nothing terribly unpleasant, and there didn’t seem to be any toxic spraying going on either.  I wish we had more time to see the city, because we ended up spending most of our time (as planned) at the Winnipeg Folk Festival. Continue reading “Winnipeg”

We enter Canada

In the end, the immigration procedure was at the very lower limit of the range of hassle I had anticipated.  The immigration officers did not kiss us on both cheeks, shout “Welcome home, future Canadians,” or sing a chorus of “O Canada!”  (It would have been premature, in any case.  Perhaps they do that at citizenship ceremonies.)  But they were cordial, calm, and easy to please.  Over all, the procedure was about as formal and confrontational as purchasing a gym membership — You don’t qualify for this deal, how about this other one? Sorry it’s taking so long, we’ve just had a rush of customers.  (There were two RV-loads of Israelis whose passports were about to expire, requiring some personal attention from the immigration officer.)  There was none of the atmosphere of suspicion that hangs so thick over US Customs and Immigration. In fact, of all the papers we brought with us, the only ones they even looked at were the passports, the letters about the job offers from Queen’s, the HRDC letter (which they said I actually didn’t need, because of NAFTA — the people at Queen’s have a different interpretation), and Chaya’s birth certificate.  The list of items we had with us were cursorily perused, because I handed it to the official who was asking us what we might have to declare, but it was clearly more than she wanted to know.  The biggest surprise was on the issue of common law marriage.  I had expected a discussion that started with a presumption of marriage, then we would explain that we are not married, and would then be asked for the form, and some documentation.  Instead, she asked, “Are you married?  Common law?” and didn’t ask for any proof.

Whereas we ordinarily speak German at home — except Chaya, who typically insists on speaking mainly English — Julia felt it would make a bad impression on the immigration officials for us to be speaking a foreign language between us, so we spoke English.  Chaya was in no mood to change routines.  “We don’t sprech Englisch.  Wir sprechen German.”  She was also upset that the woman took her passport away, and asked quite boldly for its return.

Chaya has been challenged by the new circumstances.  In particular, for the past couple of months she has been telling everyone she meets, apropos of nothing, “I’m going to Canada.  There’s snow there.”  I’ve been trying to explain to her that it makes no sense to tell people that she is going to Canada when she is already in Canada.  She feels a bit cheated by the absence of snow, but if you try to explain seasons to a native Californian two-year-old, you may as well teach quantum mechanics.

Introduction to “Moving to Canada”

Introduction to the old “Moving to Canada” blog, originally posted 20 June, 2005:

Why are we moving?  Why Canada?

The simple answer is, we needed jobs.  Professors are like soldiers and priests, sitting on their bags, waiting for their next billet.  Less so in North America than in Germany, where you do 15 years of postgraduate training, and then cluck about in the university coop until a job opens up.  Between us, we applied for about 60 jobs, were invited for 11 interviews, and received two offers, one from Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario, and one from Louvain-la-Neuve, in Belgium.  About two thirds of the jobs were in the US, but we only had three interviews.  Two of these were at Yale, where they told us they found us quite interesting, but they didn’t really have jobs open, and weren’t quite sure why they had invited us.  We had heard that Canadian universities often have very generous policies for supporting academic couples, a crucial point when considering how many couples we know who work hundreds or thousands of miles apart, or where one or the other has abandoned all career ambitions.  Queen’s attracted our attention very early for its very generous policy, clearly stated on its website.  They were as good as their word: After offering me a position as associate professor in the mathematics/statistics department, they created a special five-year position for Julia, half in math/stat, half in community health/epidemiology.

While many left-wing Americans like myself have prattled about moving to Canada as a protest against the Bush regime, or to have a field where progressive politics are not forelorn, they pretty much all stayed put in the end.  We have no illusions of Canada as a progressive Shangri-La, but we are going.  Sutter’s Mill pulled more pioneers out west than a dozen idealistic Horace Greeleys.

Continue reading “Introduction to “Moving to Canada””