Spoke too soon

It appears, as things tend to do, that I spoke too soon with my misery and self-pity. Ah the immediacy of the blog. Well, of course, here I am now with my foot in my mouth. After writing that tirade, I wandered out into the hall and met the girls.

We were all international, mostly American, and none of us were particularly happy with our nunnery situation. But one thing I have to say is that everyone I met was really friendly and personable, and I was really impressed. Something I hadn't banked on was that we would all get along so well. I met my new roommate, we went for a walk and checked out our new digs. Sterile and reeking of 1970's disaster, still the rooms were big, the kitchen full of space and we were generally pretty pleased. Move-in goes through on Saturday.

International Orientation was more of the same, trying to get a feel for this town and meeting people en route. Everyone I have met so far seems very smart, very friendly and easy to talk to. I know that we are all here to make friends, so you can't necessarily judge, but overall I think we are a good giant crowd.

Not much else to ponder right now, I am looking forward to having my internet connection set up and a home to call my own!

Rough Day

I suppose I should expect to feel this way, and believe me, I do, I honestly do. Sure, being exhausted doesn’t help, of course not, nor does having my phone on the brink of extinction. My god, how unorganized am I? So I will have to just hope the sun wakes me tomorrow. And that I don’t kill the phone.

A part of me wants to ball up and cry, but knowing that this would be entirely unproductive, I am instead doing this. With the door open. You never know. I should go out, I would go out, but for this heavy exhaustion. Last night, it was his concoction of ‘super snakebites’ that I should have known enough to say no to. But here I am, supreme hangover, and not even a cup of water to take the edge off. Nasty water as it is. That is something I doubt I will grow used to, the taste of the water here.

My window faces the Iffly road and its noisy. I am fighting the urge to ring up people from home, knowing that it will only make me more upset in the long run, I know all of this, I have done this so many times before. I am so tired. Tired of living out of a bag, tired of holding my cranky mask over my face to my mother, for some reason this is who I become, and tired of starting over and over again. I know, I chose this, and I am happy that I did, but all the character building in the world doesn’t make this sensation go away. The sense of being totally alone at this moment.

Who am I kidding, I should go find a phone.

So who am I anyways?

I’m having trouble writing a profile for my department. Well, not for my department, for my peers. Its ridiculous. I have been putting it off for god knows how long, and finally I can’t put it off anymore, because it is already late and I have to send it tomorrow. And here I am, midnight, unable to come up with a shred of anything. Its impossible! How on earth do I describe myself to total strangers without sounding dull, banal, pretentious or arrogant? Or all of the above? Honestly. As if I don’t do it all the fucking time on a blog, no I have to do it for people who have a photo to attach to the verbal barrage?

Who am I? What do I like? What are my interests? More importantly, how do I say all of this and still maintain myself? Here goes… I suppose this should start at the beginning. Which would be Vancouver, or rather, my impression of Vancouver. Something about growing up between mountains and seemingly endless sky left its impression on me, and no matter how far I leave it behind I cannot help but strain for the smell of cedar every time it rains. My second home was Montreal, 3500 miles and worlds away. I spent four years studying at McGill University there, unable to settle academically. In the end I had to choose, ending up with a degree in history in an effort to remain well-rounded. This city too left its mark: its language, its attitude, its subtle sense of mischief. And now would be my third life. Coming to Oxford has already been an adventure; there is a certain sense of colonial awe at the magnitude of things here. So where does that leave things: a bit about myself? I’m fascinated by just about everything, and could spend pages discussing my interests. I love travel and music in the broadest sense. Mostly, I’m just a Canadian girl overseas, waiting for last night’s hockey highlights.

And that is what ended up being sent, for lack of anything better. Fair enough I suppose, because anyone who reads it will be mere moments away from meeting me in the flesh.

How many degrees?

The old joke is that Canadians all know each other. That anywhere you go in the world, you can play six degrees and find some sort of connection. School, work, it all comes together to make us one big happy family. So as my wandering feet took me towards the most Canadian spot in London, it was inevitable that I would meet someone that I knew somehow. It’s the only place that I don’t find myself hiding my accent behind lengthened vowels and misplaced consonants, that I can smile and feel like I know a little better than all of them what the atmosphere is aping. Especially, it’s the only place I can track down a good hockey game and a plate of poutine. But I digress.

She smiled at me knowingly and gestured down the bar. “I’m not sure, but he just asked the same thing.” I wanted to know if the Canuck’s season opener would be played the night of, or if I would have to wait until Friday cleared the Leafs or Habs from the calendar. It’s the problem with enjoying west coast teams, always getting shafted for the east’s share of the Original Six. He didn’t have the answer, not having known to ask which game was playing when (of course, being cursed with an Ontarian’s belief that the Canadian universe revolved around him and the Leafs, he wouldn’t have thought to), but he did have a pint in his hand. I asked if he’d be interested in making a friend.

We sat down with Canadian beer and chattered away, what brings you to London and how do you like things around here, silently sharing the unspoken but ever-present colonial fears of the motherland. Both of us slightly wary of the age, the seeming wisdom of this tired city, its awareness of the passage of time in a way that neither of us had ever experienced before. Our foreign senses thrown by the smells, the not-so-fresh air, the noises and crowds, and a sky that seemed so much smaller, closer. The distaste for being mistaken for Americans and the subtle smugness that comes with our Canadian flags on our backpacks.

And then we got down to it. The game. Six degrees. So where did you go to school? Oh yeah? I know someone who studied there. What program were you in? Really? She was too, for her first year. Maybe you know her? Really? Wow, what a small world. She just got engaged you know. And so it goes. One degree of Caroline, in a pub in the middle of London. Wouldn’t be surprised if his Vancouvie roommate comes from the Westside as well. Or played ringette. Or somehow connects us full circle.

And so we parted ways, each of us a little more secure in knowing that we had found a piece of home. As much as we Canadians like to think we come from a large country with endless spaces and faces between Vancouver and St. John’s, in reality things are just as small as everyone thinks. Everywhere I go, I meet someone who is six degrees (or less) away from my home. And that is maybe what makes us Canadians so friendly, that we know we will always have a friend.

Leaving

I am leaving today.

Yesterday we went down to the beach and walked through sunshine, breathed mountains and saltwater deep into our bodies. The bright afternoon somehow knowing that I would need it then, in my memory. Where am I going?

I feel lost and strange but strangely normal, cannot seem to bring myself to feel for this. Excitement? None, and very little else. Mild apprehension, guilt, exhaustion certainly. I just need this to be over and to be settled. I want to get back to some semblance of normalcy, anywhere but here. So accustomed to the constant change, I just want to rest after four months of movement.

Last night I asked him if he thought that I was doing the right thing. He told me it was the right thing for me right now. I couldn't help but feel cheated of an answer, even though I am more than aware that there is no answer to give.

T-Minus 48 hours

Two days. In exactly two days I'll be off for good, and right now I am thinking that I should feel something. Its still not real to me. Packing should be sending me into a panic, but it just fills me with a mild urge to sleep. I am still sick from my insane week in Montreal. I am not getting involved in any drawn out goodbyes, having none to make. I feel drained and disinterested in everything.

Looking around, my room is a disaster of non-packed objects that will not be coming with me. I decided against bringing photographs for my walls, having too many to choose from, and being unwilling to take them out of their frames for fear of damage. Instead, I will take Jordan's advice and try not to dwell on the people I have left behind.

And I assume that I feel afraid, anxious. Last year a friend told me how feeling disjointed and lost had become normal to him, and I think I know now exactly what that means. I cannot dredge up a shred of panic because I don't have anything to panic about. There is nothing out of the ordinary with this situation: I am leaving somewhere familiar and going somewhere unfamiliar. I am leaving friends behind and I may never see them again. The difference is that none of this home, this familiarity is in Vancouver, it was in Montreal. I left Montreal last spring, and again yesterday, but in reality... in reality leaving Vancouver is not the hard part. The hard part is having the energy to do this all over again next year. In fact, the only thing I am feeling right now is that way too soon I will be telling a life goodbye.