I got a flight to Acadia, the secret country inside Canada. Long ago, the people of a few French-Indian towns managed to evade the British; they moved into a deep valley in the woods that’s hard to see from anywhere else, and they’ve been living there ever since. There are millions of them. The Canadian and American governments are aware now, but they’re embarrassed and don’t know what to do, so it’s kind of an open secret. You can get these flights if you know where to look—travel agents put up ads in bus stops, mostly in black neighborhoods; I found one when I got lost in Bed-Stuy.

When I get there, I’m met by an acquaintance who had heard about the trip. It turns out he hangs out in Acadia all the time, and he reassures the locals about me: “It’s OK, he knows about us.” Right away I’m given an official but casual welcome, and we walk into a cozy little restaurant—kind of frontier cafeteria decor—where a very cute young woman, with a long face of no familiar ethnicity and unusual patterns of freckles, has saved me a table; she’s my official greeter.

I have no idea if anything I’ve heard about Acadia is accurate. Their system is sometimes described as “non-capital-oriented capitalism” and they have this contrarian pioneer culture, but there’s a lot of communist-nationalist rhetoric—more touchy-feely than aggressive—and, like they say about Cuba, I can’t tell if I’m just being shown a small piece of the picture. Their TV shows are odd: more like little conversations and people presenting stuff that they’re interested in, sort of like public-access cable if it were really good. They seem to know a ridiculous amount about American history. They’re a little sheepish about the lack of amenities, like how the tables in the restaurant are all hacked-up pieces of wood, but it all looks pretty charming and I suspect it’s false modesty. The city I’m in seems about the size of San Francisco. Supposedly the whole valley system is self-sufficient.

What are they up to?