I called home last night for the first time since the move on Saturday, to hear mama's voice. I rambled on to her about my profs, people who express with passion the romanticism of grammar, and swoon over the 100+ word sentences of Charles Dickens. (I'm not kidding.) Then she asked me about the commute, the cat, and how everything was going. How was I feeling?
It was then, I had a moment of pristine verbal clarity, something that does not happen to me very often. "Mom," I said, "No one daydreams about the transition period."
No thirteen year old on the cusp of puberty lays down in the evening, starry eyed about growing pains and acne. They wax hopeful about new heights, about breasts and curves, about muscles and low voices. The end result.
I never sat with my psychologist, pouring my heart out about the excitement of struggling with my social anxiety. I looked forward to a time when heading into work wouldn't be the cause of tears and panic, when I didn't care so much about what people had to think of me. When I could feel 'normal.'
So, I guess what it boils down to at this moment in time is: Am I 100% happy?
No. Of course not, I'm in transition. I've been in the city not but a week, without a full week of classes under my belt. I've not yet stretched my legs out and headed to the higher ground. I haven't had much opportunity to make new friends, or build a new life here, or get into a routine. Those things take patience and time. When people spew entire whip-lash paragraphs of Quebecois French at me, my brain still shuts off, like it's white noise. Je ne comprends pas. This English-outcast mentality has put my confidence offside. Where once I felt strong and confident, I now feel.... paled in comparison. Reverse ugly duckling syndrome.
I knew this wasn't going to be easy, and I'm not miserable, I'm just incomplete. I have to make what I want for myself. "Putting yourself out there," is nowhere near as simple as it seems.
I had a similar discussion with my friend JG, who lives in Liverpool at the moment, but is planning on making the move to Edinburgh. I lectured him that moving to Scotland wouldn't be a cure all for any discontent he had with his life. I said he would have to take pains and put in effort to get what he wanted. Well, it seems as though I may as well have been talking about this to myself. Advice that I ought to take straight into my heart, until I find my niche, where I belong, and this new brave world of happiness. I guess we'll see. It's a little premature to be developing anything, and little early to be despairing too.
Awkwardness. And they say you only go through puberty once?
September 07, 2012
September 03, 2012
The French Revolution: Moving Day
[NOTE: I WILL UPDATE THIS POST WITH PHOTOS WHEN I CAN GET AT 'EM. UNTIL THEN, YOU JUST HAVE TO READ STUFF. READ IT WELL.]
I've done it. Move complete. I'm typing this away in a Second Cup in Montreal.
The night before the big move, I could only lay awake in bed and think one thing: "This is the craziest thing I've ever done." And it is. I've never lived so far from home, in a place where I don't fluently speak the preferred language. I'm pouring literally thousands of dollars into a degree and this living arrangement for the next three years. They say the big risks = the biggest payoffs.
Fingers crossed on that.
The move itself went something like this: we got up with the sunrise to jam poor Telly into his cat carrier, then schlepped him into the back of Bek's car. Bek and I took that car, and our parents each went in their own respective vehicles. We had a gaddamn convoy. Before we left, we geared up on coffee and breakfast sandwiches, then took off down the highway. And we drove over 500KM, over 6 hours, until we made it all the way to la belle province (Québec) and la ville (Montreal...duh). The drive itself didn' feel long at the finish, but by the end I was talking to the cat, he was talking back, and no one was in the mood for the next step of the journey.
I had been dreading this for weeks. Steady goodbyes, one by one to the people I love as well as the slow disappearance of my worldly belongings into bags and cardboard boxes were pretty much symptoms of the looming apocalypse. Friends and family with their eyes alight would ask me if I was excited and I would just shake my head.
"No. I'm too stressed out by the move."
The idea of moving is simple by definition, and most people only hate it because of the hard work it signifies. You take your stuff from the home at point A, move it to point B. Well, it so happens that Point B, my new home, is an apartment graced with ample stair-age. No elevator.
My parents are both over 50 years old, not spring chickens and the very IDEA of sending them (cruel taskmaster styles, yo) up not one, but two narrow, somewhat steep flights of stairs carrying heavy/fragile/featherlight/nothing was giving me massive anxiety. If someone broke something, I was going to have THAT on my conscience for the next...oh...forever.
Every family dinner or special occasion, someone would say, "Hey, do you remember the time you got the idiot idea to move to the only French speaking province in our country and mom was carrying that big box up the Aztec pyramid that you call your stairs using only her love for you and she slipped and got a hangnail?" Dare I say, the story of the agony would echo through the ages as first fact, and then legend.
Yes. This is the MO I was working with. Dreading. When we GOT there, the former tenants of our place were still moving out. They were pretty well all francophones, which one of the fellows seemed to find important as he made a big show out of asking us all if we were from Ontario and then bidding us goodbye as "anglophones." Merci, bro. Nothing makes me feel at home like having it pointed out explicitly why I don't fit in. Seriously!
As we hauled box after box up the stairs, my dad stood on the balcony and pulled things up by a rope. My parents in the end, actually did very little stair climbing, for which I am very grateful. We got all the stuff up, threw it into the rooms, shutting Telly in the bathroom, to adjust to part of his new home. He curled up in the window, petrified. I could sympathize.
My parents headed to Ikea to bed hunt (which is like head hunting but sleepier in the back to school season) and Bek's parents went to scope out their hotel. What did we do in that moment? Did we jump up and down with excitement? Did we high five? No. We threw my comforter on the floor and laid on it without moving. Then we made coffee and laid still some more. The start of our glamorous French-Canadian Metropolitan lives began with no sugar, no milk dark roast and paralysis courtesy of fatigue.
We went out for dinner with Bek's parents, tried to order in French, and came home to find the cat missing. POOF. Gone. We searched the apartment top to bottom. We checked every room, every pile of miscellaneous stuff, every box, twice. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feared that in some WEIRD anglo-hate fueled terrorist act, someone had had broken in to let the cat out. We literally could not find him. ANYWHERE. So I did what my mama taught him to do best: come to the sound of a treat container being shaken. Following the sound of the bell on his collar, Bek found him in my closet. Which we thought was regular size, but ACTUALLY goes all the way back to Narnia, while still providing room for several fugitives and/or in denial people of the gay persuasion.
We have no beds, so we slept on the floor. C'est la vie.
None of this even feels real yet. Like by next week, I'll be back home, in my Waterloo life with my family and everything will be on hold again. Not this time, mes amis. This time, we're playing for keeps.
À Suivre...
I've done it. Move complete. I'm typing this away in a Second Cup in Montreal.
The night before the big move, I could only lay awake in bed and think one thing: "This is the craziest thing I've ever done." And it is. I've never lived so far from home, in a place where I don't fluently speak the preferred language. I'm pouring literally thousands of dollars into a degree and this living arrangement for the next three years. They say the big risks = the biggest payoffs.
Fingers crossed on that.
The move itself went something like this: we got up with the sunrise to jam poor Telly into his cat carrier, then schlepped him into the back of Bek's car. Bek and I took that car, and our parents each went in their own respective vehicles. We had a gaddamn convoy. Before we left, we geared up on coffee and breakfast sandwiches, then took off down the highway. And we drove over 500KM, over 6 hours, until we made it all the way to la belle province (Québec) and la ville (Montreal...duh). The drive itself didn' feel long at the finish, but by the end I was talking to the cat, he was talking back, and no one was in the mood for the next step of the journey.
I had been dreading this for weeks. Steady goodbyes, one by one to the people I love as well as the slow disappearance of my worldly belongings into bags and cardboard boxes were pretty much symptoms of the looming apocalypse. Friends and family with their eyes alight would ask me if I was excited and I would just shake my head.
"No. I'm too stressed out by the move."
The idea of moving is simple by definition, and most people only hate it because of the hard work it signifies. You take your stuff from the home at point A, move it to point B. Well, it so happens that Point B, my new home, is an apartment graced with ample stair-age. No elevator.
My parents are both over 50 years old, not spring chickens and the very IDEA of sending them (cruel taskmaster styles, yo) up not one, but two narrow, somewhat steep flights of stairs carrying heavy/fragile/featherlight/nothing was giving me massive anxiety. If someone broke something, I was going to have THAT on my conscience for the next...oh...forever.
Every family dinner or special occasion, someone would say, "Hey, do you remember the time you got the idiot idea to move to the only French speaking province in our country and mom was carrying that big box up the Aztec pyramid that you call your stairs using only her love for you and she slipped and got a hangnail?" Dare I say, the story of the agony would echo through the ages as first fact, and then legend.
Yes. This is the MO I was working with. Dreading. When we GOT there, the former tenants of our place were still moving out. They were pretty well all francophones, which one of the fellows seemed to find important as he made a big show out of asking us all if we were from Ontario and then bidding us goodbye as "anglophones." Merci, bro. Nothing makes me feel at home like having it pointed out explicitly why I don't fit in. Seriously!
As we hauled box after box up the stairs, my dad stood on the balcony and pulled things up by a rope. My parents in the end, actually did very little stair climbing, for which I am very grateful. We got all the stuff up, threw it into the rooms, shutting Telly in the bathroom, to adjust to part of his new home. He curled up in the window, petrified. I could sympathize.
My parents headed to Ikea to bed hunt (which is like head hunting but sleepier in the back to school season) and Bek's parents went to scope out their hotel. What did we do in that moment? Did we jump up and down with excitement? Did we high five? No. We threw my comforter on the floor and laid on it without moving. Then we made coffee and laid still some more. The start of our glamorous French-Canadian Metropolitan lives began with no sugar, no milk dark roast and paralysis courtesy of fatigue.
We went out for dinner with Bek's parents, tried to order in French, and came home to find the cat missing. POOF. Gone. We searched the apartment top to bottom. We checked every room, every pile of miscellaneous stuff, every box, twice. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feared that in some WEIRD anglo-hate fueled terrorist act, someone had had broken in to let the cat out. We literally could not find him. ANYWHERE. So I did what my mama taught him to do best: come to the sound of a treat container being shaken. Following the sound of the bell on his collar, Bek found him in my closet. Which we thought was regular size, but ACTUALLY goes all the way back to Narnia, while still providing room for several fugitives and/or in denial people of the gay persuasion.
We have no beds, so we slept on the floor. C'est la vie.
None of this even feels real yet. Like by next week, I'll be back home, in my Waterloo life with my family and everything will be on hold again. Not this time, mes amis. This time, we're playing for keeps.
À Suivre...
August 27, 2012
Funeral for a Friend
I had bought the bag when I was in highschool. It was messenger style, brown canvas, with two pockets on the flap, embellished with blue and brown plaid. However, sorting through my purses today, I realized that I not only wanted to leave this bag behind, but that I no longer wanted it at all. I looked up at my friend Steph, sitting on my bed.
"Hey, do you like this? You can have it if you want."
"Are you giving away all your things? It's like your funeral or something," she said.
And, kids, it very much is. Moving is exciting, but right now, I've found this bittersweet melancholic haze has taken over. I feel as though I'm soldiering toward the move instead of sprinting to it now. I'm giving away all my things, like a living will.
You know how there are distant relatives or friends you only see once someone drops dead? The deal is the same with moving. People you haven't seen for a year. People you've just met, they all come out of the woodwork. You have to say all of your goodbyes. Get some closure, or at least let them know they're welcome to visit your new life once you've settled in.
Thursday, I had coffee with a friend of mine from Starbucks. In the afternoon of the same day, I met up with a guy friend of from my days at Sheridan. I hadn't seen the Starbucks friend in about a week, and it had literally been about a year since I had seen my college pal. I had to say goodbye to both of them. She hugged me and then bequeathed me a set of knives for my new kitchen.. He hugged me so hard he picked me up off the ground. My favourite hugs are the kind that hurt.
Sometimes, moving is like a funeral because you struggle to find closure. Sometimes, you can't see all the people you want to. You can't give them reasons, or get rid of all of the things you wish you could say. Sometimes, you don't get to spit out all the goodbyes you want to and I think that's going to be the hardest part right now.
ANGSTANGSTANGST vs. excitement, basically. Je ne sais pas.
"Hey, do you like this? You can have it if you want."
"Are you giving away all your things? It's like your funeral or something," she said.
And, kids, it very much is. Moving is exciting, but right now, I've found this bittersweet melancholic haze has taken over. I feel as though I'm soldiering toward the move instead of sprinting to it now. I'm giving away all my things, like a living will.
You know how there are distant relatives or friends you only see once someone drops dead? The deal is the same with moving. People you haven't seen for a year. People you've just met, they all come out of the woodwork. You have to say all of your goodbyes. Get some closure, or at least let them know they're welcome to visit your new life once you've settled in.
Thursday, I had coffee with a friend of mine from Starbucks. In the afternoon of the same day, I met up with a guy friend of from my days at Sheridan. I hadn't seen the Starbucks friend in about a week, and it had literally been about a year since I had seen my college pal. I had to say goodbye to both of them. She hugged me and then bequeathed me a set of knives for my new kitchen.. He hugged me so hard he picked me up off the ground. My favourite hugs are the kind that hurt.
Sometimes, moving is like a funeral because you struggle to find closure. Sometimes, you can't see all the people you want to. You can't give them reasons, or get rid of all of the things you wish you could say. Sometimes, you don't get to spit out all the goodbyes you want to and I think that's going to be the hardest part right now.
ANGSTANGSTANGST vs. excitement, basically. Je ne sais pas.
August 21, 2012
Pack a' lackin'
The good news: I'VE FOUND AN APARTMENT TO LIVE IN. The lease is signed and Chez Wiley is a go. It's a two bedroom in what I've started calling "The French Quarter" of Montreal because...well...everyone there only speaks French. Rebekah and I made the choice to live together for the comfort of A) not being swallowed by a big city whole B) cheaper rent, and we're VERY pumped to get our asses out of Waterloo and out into the waiting world.
The bad news is that: It's way past the time where I have the energy or the memory or capacity to blog about my trip to Montreal, house hunting with my mother. I will say that it involved half French babble, LOTS of arguments (least proud moment: I told her to stop being a dick...something you should never say to your mama...), friendly waitresses and waiters, walking EVERYWHERE and getting lost. GETTING VERY LOST. Between us, I was the stronger navigator. Let us all have a moment of silence for the precious seconds of my life that I will never get back as we literally went in circles, struggled with maps and yelled at each other.
Amen.
The other bad news is that I went camping this weekend and I had an awesome time, but I'm also too crazy up in my head to write about THAT because I've started packing. If you want a photo that sums up the experience, this shot is just for you...and everyone on my Facebook:
That's me, next to a fire. I'm roasting a donut, on a stick. You might also notice the bag of kettle chips and the bag of peanut butter M&Ms by left arm. AKA, WE ATE EVERYTHING. Drank some, too. We laughed even more, which was the most important part. Quality time with big sis and laughing my ass off after all the stress as of late. I also got a sunburn on my arse, slept on the ground, peed in the woods, and learned how to set up a tent. Education at it's very finest, my friends.
But now, we're onto packing. PACKING, which involves being calm and organized. I've already scrubbed more pots and pans before shoving them into boxes than I probably have in the past 6 months.
I think as a rebellion against just being so tense, I have constant music playing as I gallivant around the house, slinging kitchenware and fretting about where the hell the plates went. This comes along with stints of manic DIY fever. I've already:
• painted and stenciled my bulletin board
• refaced a retro style clock
• mod podged a collage box for all of my teas and such
These stints of creativity among wrasslin' with newsprint, coffee mugs and appliances are actually making me excited to have a kitschy, snuggly home of my own, with all the weird touches my parents wouldn't care for. I've been sitting here too long. I have to go find my toaster.
The bad news is that: It's way past the time where I have the energy or the memory or capacity to blog about my trip to Montreal, house hunting with my mother. I will say that it involved half French babble, LOTS of arguments (least proud moment: I told her to stop being a dick...something you should never say to your mama...), friendly waitresses and waiters, walking EVERYWHERE and getting lost. GETTING VERY LOST. Between us, I was the stronger navigator. Let us all have a moment of silence for the precious seconds of my life that I will never get back as we literally went in circles, struggled with maps and yelled at each other.
Amen.
The other bad news is that I went camping this weekend and I had an awesome time, but I'm also too crazy up in my head to write about THAT because I've started packing. If you want a photo that sums up the experience, this shot is just for you...and everyone on my Facebook:
But now, we're onto packing. PACKING, which involves being calm and organized. I've already scrubbed more pots and pans before shoving them into boxes than I probably have in the past 6 months.
I think as a rebellion against just being so tense, I have constant music playing as I gallivant around the house, slinging kitchenware and fretting about where the hell the plates went. This comes along with stints of manic DIY fever. I've already:
• painted and stenciled my bulletin board
• refaced a retro style clock
• mod podged a collage box for all of my teas and such
These stints of creativity among wrasslin' with newsprint, coffee mugs and appliances are actually making me excited to have a kitschy, snuggly home of my own, with all the weird touches my parents wouldn't care for. I've been sitting here too long. I have to go find my toaster.
August 04, 2012
Prequels
August is the month of reckoning. The month in which EVERYTHING. GOES. DOWN. (Well, until September, in which case everything really gets set in motion.) Basically, August is the prequel that will set up the rest of the series which is my life in Montreal. Apartments will be viewed, jobs will be quit, goodbyes will be said and tears will probably be shed. Panic attacks may or may not be impending, sponsored by hormones, pressure and oh yes, drama.
Wednesday, I made the first round of calls around to my list of potential apartments to ask after the availability of them. Some people spoke French over a crackly connections, some were very friendly. Some had a little more to say than I wanted to hear. The superintendent of a student residence building told me that she was booked solid until 2013 and I "should have started looking MONTHS AND MONTHS AGO."
Which I'm sure she didn't mean with any cruel intention. However, filtered through my panic of finding a roof over my head, coupled with my anxiety about moving,
"I started signing leases for September in January."
Sounded like:
"YOU'RE FUCKED."
Be still, my poor, aching heart. Thank you lady, for that little tidbit. Days like that, I try to remember that 'give them hope' is on my arm for me too. Mama and I are headed down on Tuesday the 7th to look at some places. Which should be interesting because my mom thinks most people are out to scam you and loathes big cities.
We live in one of the tamest lamest suburbs in our city, an Olympian shotput throw away from the Mennonites and she's paranoid that I'll be mugged walking anywhere after 10PM. I'm serious. Bringing her into a big, half French metropolis is going to border on social experimentation.
Housing has been the main focus of any and all topics I discuss with my parents lately. When I told mama I didn't want to live downtown, instead opting for The Plateau, NDG or Verdun, 3 nice neighborhoods just outside of the core, her eyes popped out of her head.
When I told her I wanted to be part of a neighborhood or a community my dad stuck his head into the discussion by asking me if that was really important, because I mostly "keep to myself." Which is father for 'anti-social.' My dad also thinks I despise drinking & socializing, and that I'm the smartest of his three children...........................PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA.
I'll hopefully post more about my adventures in moving my life around soon!
Wednesday, I made the first round of calls around to my list of potential apartments to ask after the availability of them. Some people spoke French over a crackly connections, some were very friendly. Some had a little more to say than I wanted to hear. The superintendent of a student residence building told me that she was booked solid until 2013 and I "should have started looking MONTHS AND MONTHS AGO."
Which I'm sure she didn't mean with any cruel intention. However, filtered through my panic of finding a roof over my head, coupled with my anxiety about moving,
"I started signing leases for September in January."
Sounded like:
"YOU'RE FUCKED."
Be still, my poor, aching heart. Thank you lady, for that little tidbit. Days like that, I try to remember that 'give them hope' is on my arm for me too. Mama and I are headed down on Tuesday the 7th to look at some places. Which should be interesting because my mom thinks most people are out to scam you and loathes big cities.
We live in one of the tamest lamest suburbs in our city, an Olympian shotput throw away from the Mennonites and she's paranoid that I'll be mugged walking anywhere after 10PM. I'm serious. Bringing her into a big, half French metropolis is going to border on social experimentation.
Housing has been the main focus of any and all topics I discuss with my parents lately. When I told mama I didn't want to live downtown, instead opting for The Plateau, NDG or Verdun, 3 nice neighborhoods just outside of the core, her eyes popped out of her head.
When I told her I wanted to be part of a neighborhood or a community my dad stuck his head into the discussion by asking me if that was really important, because I mostly "keep to myself." Which is father for 'anti-social.' My dad also thinks I despise drinking & socializing, and that I'm the smartest of his three children...........................PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA.
I'll hopefully post more about my adventures in moving my life around soon!
July 26, 2012
Wilderness, Ho!
Last Thursday, my friend Adrian and I decided we needed to get out of the 'burbs and reconnect with nature, so we headed out to a local provincial park known as Rattlesnake Point. Now, for those of you who know me, I have a way with getting lost even if I have a GPS, road map and a Navajo guide leading me about by the hand. I'm not to be left to my own devices. So in the woods, on a hike by our lonesome selves, we probably should have been dressed like this:
Did you ever go on a field trip as a child where there was a recreation of an old city or town to give young'uns a piece of a the past? Because we ended up wandering through an abandoned educational Native village complete with barracks, two longhouses and signal fires waiting to be lit. It was pretty awesome, feeling like the last people on earth.
We shortly realized after this (we've been walking about for about 4-5 hours now) that we have to take the long path back to where we parked, and thus were looking at another 2 hour ass drag through the hardened woods. Which totally would have been okay if it hadn't started drizzling and one of us had the brains to remember bug repellant. Spoiler alert: We didn't. And even THAT would have been okay if we were able to read the maps properly. The goal was to NOT get lost in the woods. Double spoiler: we totally did.
We were following blue and white trail markings through the woods for about two hours. Oh. Except we lost the blue trail markings. And by the deep woods I mean over and under, rock climbing, no signs of civilization, 'well-I-guess-that-looks-like-a-path-if-you-don't-mind-breaking-both-ankles', giant bugs infesting our hair and taking great bleeding chunks out of us, saying your goodbyes, kind of deep woods.
We crossed two roads before we realized we were definitely not going the right way any longer.
In fact through the magic of data and technology, we discovered were a full 7 kilometers away from the park where we had parked. Which means we had hiked 7KM out already. After having been hiking all afternoon. My face at that moment:
Rather than heading back into the woods, we proceeded to walk via the road, all the way talking about life, how the day could have easily turned into a horror film and been axed to death my a mad woodsman and breathing the bug free air. We were also becoming more tired and more hungry, and finally, my feet had given in and decided to be sore.
Somewhere in time and space, I was missing the Thursday Burlington Slam Project and could tell neither Justin nor Rebekah, the two people who I had planned to go with because we were off the grid. Which sounds far cooler than it actually is.
Of course, that totally would have been fine if at the end of it all we didn't have to walk up a hill that was practically a 90 degree incline-- oh wait we did that too. It was the one hill our trusty Buick almost didn't make it up at the beginning of the day, so 8 hours and probably 20+ kilometers of hiking ago. When we were fresh and optimistic. We were shooting for the address of 7200 and starting at...7074.
It was steep as hell. Our feet were aching with the ferocity of 17 rabid ligers, shredding their own swollen mosquito bites. We were both sweating and gasping as we climbed. And climbed. And CLIMBED. And while this small Everest expedition transpired, cars leaving the park on the hairpin turns DOWN the hill almost killed us. And then had the audacity to HONK at us about almost killing us.
When we FINALLY made it to the top of the hill, I believe I screamed "LAND!" and ran for the entrance, kissing the sign. that sign. You better believe it.
We were deliriously high off of our victory against nature, and when we got back into civilization, we went out for pub food, proudly bearing the bites and beatings the wilderness had inflicted. Changed, like no one else knew what we had been through.
Would I do it again? ABSOLUTELY! But next time, I'm bringing bug repellant, more food and oh...I don't know. Two Navajo trail guides.
But instead we were two city kids looking for a small time nature walk and got far more than we bartered for.
STOCK
Adrian Me
• sneakers • boots
• jeans • jeans
• t-shirt • t-shirt
• cellphone • light jacket
• wallet • backpack: 2 sandwiches, 2 mini bags of chips, 2 iced tea, & 2 notebooks
Also, my wallet, which would have been useful in the chance we died out in the forest and they needed something to ID my body after the raccoons made off with my Visa, and oh, I don't know, ate my face.
STOCK
Adrian Me
• sneakers • boots
• jeans • jeans
• t-shirt • t-shirt
• cellphone • light jacket
• wallet • backpack: 2 sandwiches, 2 mini bags of chips, 2 iced tea, & 2 notebooks
Also, my wallet, which would have been useful in the chance we died out in the forest and they needed something to ID my body after the raccoons made off with my Visa, and oh, I don't know, ate my face.
We hit a short trail which took us to an awesome drop off filled with trees and swooping turkey vultures. After taking in the view, we decided we still had ALLLLLL DAY and took on a more advanced trail, which the sign proclaimed to be 2-3 hours in length. I know what you're thinking but not yet...wait for it. We made it to the second lookout by Nassagaweya Canyon after a trek through the deep woods, up hills, past caves, all the while being eaten my mosquitos and every other bug in the Canadian wilderness. By the time we got to the lookout, we were pretty tired, itchy, sweaty and starved, so we stopped to eat and enjoyed the view.
This moment of earthly tranquility and sandwich nomminess was interrupted when two women and their entourage of toddlers including ONE IN A BABY CARRIAGE showed up. Having come over hell and high water to arrive at the lookout we were stunned. Either these were super toddlers, capable of taking on the lows and highs of the land or-- oh my god there had to be an easier path back. We were determined to find it.
Did you ever go on a field trip as a child where there was a recreation of an old city or town to give young'uns a piece of a the past? Because we ended up wandering through an abandoned educational Native village complete with barracks, two longhouses and signal fires waiting to be lit. It was pretty awesome, feeling like the last people on earth.
We were following blue and white trail markings through the woods for about two hours. Oh. Except we lost the blue trail markings. And by the deep woods I mean over and under, rock climbing, no signs of civilization, 'well-I-guess-that-looks-like-a-path-if-you-don't-mind-breaking-both-ankles', giant bugs infesting our hair and taking great bleeding chunks out of us, saying your goodbyes, kind of deep woods.
In fact through the magic of data and technology, we discovered were a full 7 kilometers away from the park where we had parked. Which means we had hiked 7KM out already. After having been hiking all afternoon. My face at that moment:
Somewhere in time and space, I was missing the Thursday Burlington Slam Project and could tell neither Justin nor Rebekah, the two people who I had planned to go with because we were off the grid. Which sounds far cooler than it actually is.
Of course, that totally would have been fine if at the end of it all we didn't have to walk up a hill that was practically a 90 degree incline-- oh wait we did that too. It was the one hill our trusty Buick almost didn't make it up at the beginning of the day, so 8 hours and probably 20+ kilometers of hiking ago. When we were fresh and optimistic. We were shooting for the address of 7200 and starting at...7074.
It was steep as hell. Our feet were aching with the ferocity of 17 rabid ligers, shredding their own swollen mosquito bites. We were both sweating and gasping as we climbed. And climbed. And CLIMBED. And while this small Everest expedition transpired, cars leaving the park on the hairpin turns DOWN the hill almost killed us. And then had the audacity to HONK at us about almost killing us.
When we FINALLY made it to the top of the hill, I believe I screamed "LAND!" and ran for the entrance, kissing the sign. that sign. You better believe it.
Would I do it again? ABSOLUTELY! But next time, I'm bringing bug repellant, more food and oh...I don't know. Two Navajo trail guides.
July 07, 2012
Pride 2012
There are too many things to write about this Pride, which was undoubtedly the best Pride I've had yet, but I'll try and get out the best bits and pieces for the enjoyment of your eyeballs and for the sake of me writing down all the joyous details before they slip from my memory.
The City Is a Drag
Friday began with Bek and I giving our friends giant rainbow lollicocks as hostess gifts and ended with me spooning/straddling a giant teddy bear in their living room as I fell asleep. The in between was something else. Something ELSE. The Crew glammed up at their place and headed out for the evening. While we had a drink at his apartment and waited for Amy's boyfriend Darby to come home, we were all treated to the delight of conversation with their co-worker, Anthony. I can't describe him, other than say that he was beautiful, insanely smart (among many things, he told me about the Roman Emperor Elagabalus...look him up), and he wanted to borrow one of our credit cards to order a replica SS cap off the internet. He also treated us to delightful rants about how Jim Morrison was a douche bag. Also, he coined the phrase "limp wristed frivolity." I heard it there first. Now you heard it here. Fly my minions, fly!
We ate sushi, and after that, I watched as the others got their pre-drink on by filling measuring cups (there were no real cups) 3/4 full of booze and splashing the mixer in for posterity. I sipped my juice flavoured wine beverage, keeping in mind I had a 5K to smash the next morning. Judging by the faces everyone was making, juice flavoured wine beverage was the way to go.
At Crews & Tango, the bar was a sauna. We literally sweat out just by existing. Up on stage an array of gorgeous drag queens paraded their stuff, their ability to walk in heels higher than the CN Tower, and chatted with the audience. We were incensed. The excited energy in the air was a cocktail with the raging hormones, the eccentricity and the booze.
Over the course of the evening, we crept closer and closer to the stage through the crowd until we were right up front with the best view of the action. At one point, Alli put money in the front of my dress and shoved me up towards the stage. The queen performing took the tip from my decolletage...with her teeth.
A beautiful drag queen from Montreal also pulled Alli up on stage to dance with her... on account of their matching giant knockers. I had thought that I had lost my voice screaming and cheering already, but at that point I found another octave. We belted out Pink, Gaga, Nicki Minaj, we danced hard, we sweated profusely. I ended up slow dancing to Gaga's Speechless with a boy who told me he knew how to dance because he had, "slept with a lot of dancers."
Over the course of the evening, we crept closer and closer to the stage through the crowd until we were right up front with the best view of the action. At one point, Alli put money in the front of my dress and shoved me up towards the stage. The queen performing took the tip from my decolletage...with her teeth.
A beautiful drag queen from Montreal also pulled Alli up on stage to dance with her... on account of their matching giant knockers. I had thought that I had lost my voice screaming and cheering already, but at that point I found another octave. We belted out Pink, Gaga, Nicki Minaj, we danced hard, we sweated profusely. I ended up slow dancing to Gaga's Speechless with a boy who told me he knew how to dance because he had, "slept with a lot of dancers."
We split back for home at two. As I laid down to fall asleep that night, I found what I had been waiting for the whole evening: pre-race jitters. With me and the darkness, there they were, putting my bravery on life support. I was never going to fall asleep.... I was up, feeling around in the dark. Muttering to myself. Finally, Bek had had enough.
Bek: "What are you doing?"
Me: "I need to get the bear."
And when I finally found the giant teddy bear and spooned the damn thing until I could fall asleep.
Omen
I woke up on race day, not feeling overly strong, but very thirsty. The entire weekend was hot and humid. The water you drank instantly came out of your pores. The alcohol went straight to your head. I packed my post-run backpack and dressed my running gear. At the race line, I said goodbye to my support team and went to find a place in the pack of jostling, antsy runners.
It began with a rainbow explosion. I do not exaggerate, as confetti rained down from above. The run was hot. HOT. HOOOOOOOOOT. I found out AFTER, that the city was on smog alert, the sun was bearing down on us and here we were, 1100 people running, like it was SANE. (I maintain as I always have: runners are crazy.)
This run was monumental. I couldn't breathe deeply enough, which put a colossal stitch in my side. As I watched the elite pass me by, and I passed by people reducing themselves to walk in the deadly heat, I could feel my resolve begging for mercy. I had started the race with the intention of busting the ceiling of a sub-30 minute 5K run. But I was sweating, gasping, the thick wet hot air into my panicking lungs. My new goal was to just SURVIVE. To just. keep. running, no matter how hard it was. The second lap of the course by the water station saw me dump the entire glass on my head. Which relieved me for about 15 seconds before the cool evaporated and left me sweltering again.
This run was monumental. I couldn't breathe deeply enough, which put a colossal stitch in my side. As I watched the elite pass me by, and I passed by people reducing themselves to walk in the deadly heat, I could feel my resolve begging for mercy. I had started the race with the intention of busting the ceiling of a sub-30 minute 5K run. But I was sweating, gasping, the thick wet hot air into my panicking lungs. My new goal was to just SURVIVE. To just. keep. running, no matter how hard it was. The second lap of the course by the water station saw me dump the entire glass on my head. Which relieved me for about 15 seconds before the cool evaporated and left me sweltering again.
With 3 minutes left before my goal time slipped away, I could see the finish line in the distance. I remembered what Jill had told me: Leave everything on the track. You only have to run so fast for that little bit longer. I forced my legs to work hard. I could see it. Omen by the Prodigy pulsed into my ears, through my blood stream and my legs pumped harder. The finish line is always a shot of adrenaline. You see it, you're in pain. Suddenly the pain is gone as you fly over it. When you reach the other side, the pain returns with your lungs, your legs, your panicked feelings. As I crossed the barrier from run to complete, I saw 29:29 on my watch (aka 29:27.4 by chip time!). I had smashed my goal and my best 5K time ever by 41 seconds!
I wandered from the finish, grabbing a bottle of water from a volunteer, gasping, sweating, dying but AMPED. I sat down on a curb, and I admit it, I got misty. I started to cry, just a little. Never ever ever would I have predicted that I would do such a thing in my lifetime and the impact of the accomplishment had moved me to tears. Thankfully, my ladies showed up and moved me back into smiles. AND they brought Justin in tow with them. We hugged hard, and they all congratulated me. I rambled off about the race and running stuff, they were obliged enough to listen, and then we all went out for brunch. (Banana bread French toast with almond-maple creme anglaise. Take me now.)
Give Them Hope
We wandered around the grounds, including the Stag Shop, where I was accidentally punched in the face by Bekah with a fisting dildo. On the walk to my tattoo, Justin, Bek and I saw the beginning of the Dyke march. Lots of women on motorcycles, revving engines and inciting the screaming crowd into cheers: awesome!
At the tattoo parlour, we were literally less than twenty minutes. The time it took me to fill out the form was about the same amount of time it took to do the tattoo I've been waiting on for a whole year.
Give Them Hope. Not just a "gay" thing. Learning about Harvey Milk put me on the path to activism and working towards gay rights. And my interest in rights and activism has changed my life: I mean...I want to graduate from University three years to work in non-profit organizations and make a difference. Give Them Hope. A reminder that no matter what happens, it's important to be that beacon. Be bright, be amazing. Who are we not to be?
Strongbow & Espresso
By this point we were all pretty tired, so a couple of us went out to the Hair of the Dog, a local bar for some brews. This was followed by dinner (inappropriate jokes about the hotness of the waiter), getting ready to go out (GLITTER EVERYWHERE) + cake flavoured vodka and Sprite, followed by heading out to the Village once again (MORE GLITTER EVERYWHERE). We had a few more drinks which had me feeling a teensy bit silly. Cutting loose. However, our group was tired and jaded to partying in the city they lived in. So our kind hosts gave us the keys to the apartment and went home. Bek and I networked with Justin, who had a friend with him.
"Hi," said the vaguely tipsy me, smiling and being glowingly social as I put my hand out for a shake , "I'm Riley."
"I know," she said flatly, "we've met before." I don't know why, I think it comes out of old habits, but the most important thing to me when being even on the caboose of the tipsy train is proving to people that I'm still capable of all that I am sober. I'm trying to relax because I know there's nothing wrong with a little drinkie-poo, and being silly. I think it has something to do with my anxiety. Either way, the air was out of my tires, despite the fact that I am terrible with faces and names at the best of times anyway. Let alone up late bear spooning, up early, 5K death run, hot sweaty day, tattoo, no nap, Strongbow, and the doppio espresso I was drinking as I said this.
Sorry, Mom
Sorry, Mom
We ended up going to a lesbian bar called Slack's, which was something I'd never done before. The DJ was this beautiful vaguely androgynous woman who spun everything from Backstreet's Back to Umbrella with amazing skill. Bek and I agreed a lady of such a caliber made us question ourselves as red blooded allies... more than we did already. And we danced. We helped a girl with a makeout contest. (Sorry mom.) We danced a LOT more, until 3AM. On the cab ride back, Bek and I commented on the fabulousness of the heels worn by a woman on the street corner. The cabbie laughed, "That's a hooker," he said. It's so hard to tell around Pride Time.
Part the last: in which I am bad at being hit upon
Sunday, the day of the parade, Bek and I met Josh and Reb (first timers!) at Union Station. After giving them a brief tour of the grounds I had to split from them for my volunteer shift. I left them in full clothes, and the next time I saw Josh, he was wearing literally nothing but a pair of Espana briefs. (OLE!) There's nothing quite like the most liberal celebration on the face of the Earth to reduce your friends to frolicking around rainbow junction in their underpants.
Sunday, the day of the parade, Bek and I met Josh and Reb (first timers!) at Union Station. After giving them a brief tour of the grounds I had to split from them for my volunteer shift. I left them in full clothes, and the next time I saw Josh, he was wearing literally nothing but a pair of Espana briefs. (OLE!) There's nothing quite like the most liberal celebration on the face of the Earth to reduce your friends to frolicking around rainbow junction in their underpants.
After dinner (ALL THE CHICKEN WINGS IN THE WORLD), Bek and I took in our last taste of the festival. As our group worked through the crowd, a guy did a 180 to look at me so dramatically that I looked at him in return. Not just any guy. This guy was a black guy. Don't think that I'm being racist when I say that when I get hit on, 99% of the time, it's a black dude. Now, this guy was GOOD looking, all up in my personal space and my first thought was WOW, followed by ALL MY FRIENDS ARE STARING AT ME, followed shortly by the third: IS HE ON SOMETHING?
He looked my right in the face.
"You have really nice eyes," I said, which was the fourth thought, and the first thing out of my mouth. In my imagination I am the smoothest flirtiest flirt in the West. In real life: I am the polar opposite.
"I like your lips," he said, smiling, and I honestly couldn't tell you all the details about the conversation because men giving me attention turns me into a stammering dork without an ounce of sass or clout.
I accused him of not being a real live lesbian and he assured me that he was one. And in my embarrassment of having I attention, because I realize in retrospect that having my friends being treated to street theatre made me even more awkward, I told him his friends were waiting and I probably had to go. Well. This boy was firmly determined. He put my arms around his neck and uh. Kissed me? And I panicked more, being the worst person under pressure of ALL FUCKING TIME. And leaned away, stammered something about having to go, thanking him for the flattery and wishing him a good evening before making a beeline for the nearest merch tent, in a daze, a panicky daze. And when my friends caught up with me, I couldn't even explain what happened.
I accused him of not being a real live lesbian and he assured me that he was one. And in my embarrassment of having I attention, because I realize in retrospect that having my friends being treated to street theatre made me even more awkward, I told him his friends were waiting and I probably had to go. Well. This boy was firmly determined. He put my arms around his neck and uh. Kissed me? And I panicked more, being the worst person under pressure of ALL FUCKING TIME. And leaned away, stammered something about having to go, thanking him for the flattery and wishing him a good evening before making a beeline for the nearest merch tent, in a daze, a panicky daze. And when my friends caught up with me, I couldn't even explain what happened.
GOAL OF LIFE: BE SMOOTHER.
Then I bought a bright purple shirt emblazoned with the word FAG across the front. I don't know why I wanted it, I just did. We packed up and drove home that very evening, listening to Jack White and being very. Very. Very tired.
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