street walking, sweet talking

One of the things proving most difficult, and most worrisome, is my lack of luck in the realm of employment.

The search started on my first full day alone in Windsor.

It wasn’t a good start. I had just been denied access to the States on the (accurate) grounds that I didn’t have enough ties to Canada. Not surprising, seeing as I had only been in the country for three days and I had all of my luggage with me. The plan had been to spend the weekend with Michael in Michigan and attend his friends’ wedding. Of note: I had been looking forward to this weekend more than I had been looking forward to moving to Canada. All of my attention and excitement was focused on this, and the rest of the year was almost an afterthought.

You can imagine my dismay at 1am in a foreign city after having just spent two hours being mostly ignored in a brightly lit border patrol office. We checked me in to the first lodgings we found: the Econo Lodge. And then Michael left, many hours late for his night shift at work.

This set the scene for the blog’s title; my life here.

I muddled my way through the first few steps: I got a social insurance number, a cellphone, and a bank account. I found a place to spend my first week. I found a church within walking distance so I could attend Sunday Mass.

And I started applying for jobs. I scoured adverts online and sent my resume out to numerous locations.

But Windsor was depressing. The city workers had been on strike for the past ten weeks and the place felt abandoned. Rubbish piled up on street corners, the parks were overrun with grass and weeds. I walked down one street where almost every yard had a for sale or for lease sign. I had initially thought I would try moving to Sarnia, and my one week in Windsor convinced me to do just that.

The next weekend when Michael visited, I packed up my two suitcases of belongings and we drove a few hours north. I continued the job hunt. Nothing was coming of all the emails I had sent out – my phone stayed depressingly silent. One particular moment of angst found me throwing it on the bed and yelling, why won’t you RING?

In the midst of this, we tried getting me across to the States again for a visit. After all, this time I had ties to Canada and I wasn’t lugging all my worldly possessions with me. They couldn’t possibly think I was going to overstay this time, right?

Right. They let me in and I spent a wonderful fourth of July weekend with Michael and his family and friends. It was very much needed.

Unfortunately, we made the mistake of trying again the next week. Denied. Even though I had done everything they suggested to make future entries easier, they turned me away. In fact, in doing the things that were supposed to make it easier, I actually made it harder for myself. There are many, many hours worth of anguish wrapped up in border patrol incidents and I don’t care to recount them all, but let me say that I was disillusioned and weary and had very minimal hope about the potential success of my year abroad.

After another weekend of upset in which we actually spent a night sleeping in the car (my landlady at the time didn’t allow overnight guests, and every hotel in the city was fully booked due to a summer festival), I was back to job hunting. I tried another tack. I made many copies of my resume and reference letters, and I walked the streets (during daylight hours; I’m not that desperate yet). I entered all number of shops that looked like they might be nice to work in. I smiled and faked confidence; more often than not I found that my accent broke the ice and gave me an in.

A few places took the bait. I had a few impromptu interviews with one place and was offered about ten hours a week, but they were in the weekend and would always be in the weekend for the length of my employment with no chance of changing, and that would defeat the whole point of me being here.

I had more on-the-spot interviews at other places. And I guess this is the good thing – everyone who met me and talked to me told me I was great, that I had all the experience required, that they would love to hire me, but just didn’t have anything on offer right now. In person, it appears I am an employer’s catch. On paper, well, who knows? I have had no replies from any cold emails.

But still, I was coming up on a month and didn’t have any firm leads. I was losing hope. I made more copies and went to the mall for a big blitz: I entered over twenty stores and left my resume and reference letters with no less than fifteen places. Before the day was out I’d had a couple of phone calls and had wrangled two interviews for later that week. I felt like I had mastered the first, while the second was postponed.

I got a call later the next week while I was hanging out with new friends; I had the job. I had a job. I was on the much yearned for cloud nine. I jumped up and down in the hallway where I had taken the call, and I may have let out a small squeal. I was overwhelmed with relief. Now I could spend my days working! I would have an income! I would be allowed entry into the States because I could prove I had a reason to return to Canada! I could find a more permanent place to live! I could actually settle in for a year and focus on enjoying myself.

Eh, yeah. Not so fast. Part time job, part time hours. Ten if I’m lucky, six if I’m not. They may increase later in the year once school starts up and the Christmas rush starts happening, but I can’t bank on it.

So, back to hunting while simultaneously trying to learn a new job. Back to the place that promised a position in mid-August. I was still loved and wanted there, but the vacancy has been pushed back to late September. Another interview at another store, the position also being open late September with hours that can’t be guaranteed: as many as thirty, as few as three in any given week.

More copies of resumes. More street walking. More sweet talking. The phrase most commonly tumbling from my lips is now 'I was just wondering if you were hiring', rather than 'yes, New Zealand really does look like what you see in Lord of the Rings'.

So that is where I’m at, and it’s why I haven’t been answering emails. What can I possibly say in reply to questions about whether I have found work? It is a mess and I don’t know how to begin talking about it. I should have been firmly settled by now, with a steady income and a purpose to my days. I had saved up enough to give me a few months’ grace period if I didn’t find work immediately.

Well, a few months are up.

I knew before I moved that I was taking a risk, what with the economy like it is. But I still figured that things would fall into place; I didn’t realise that every step I needed to take would throw up one seemingly insurmountable hurdle after another after another.

And this? This is all just about finding work. Don’t get me started on all of the other small details that are required in a new life; they are just as trying and do not bear thinking about if I am to stay positive about my chances of making it.

Like I said in my last post; these are not the updates I’m meant to be sending out. This is my big overseas adventure and I am supposed to be having the time of my life. I am afraid that after two months, I am still struggling. More often than not, I just want to fold my hand and crawl home with my pride in tatters.

all my belongings

It's harder than I ever imagined it would be.

Half a year ago, when I was over here visiting before I moved, I found myself in tears in a supermarket. I had planned to cook dinner for a friend but I didn't know where to start. I couldn't visualise the kitchen where I would be creating the unspecified masterpiece. I didn't know the contents of the cupboards, of the fridge, I didn't know what staple ingredients were already on hand. I wasn't sure what selection of cooking utensils would be available to me.

It required me to start from scratch. To conjure up in my mind all the ingredients I could possibly need. Not just the meat, not just the vegetables, but the sauces and the spices and the condiments. Flour, oil, butter.

I was standing in the midst of what I later discovered was categorised as a hypermarket. All I knew was that it was big, it was bright, and they sold goldfish and hula hoops right alongside bread and milk. The concept was foreign and the packaging was unfamiliar. I didn't recognise brand names or labels. No longer was I in a place where, with a quick scan of the aisles, I could make my selections and be out the door in minutes. I had to read everything, first to figure out what the product was, then to find out if it fit my requirements.

I could go on, but it is enough to simply say I had a miniature meltdown (though so composed you wouldn't have noticed it had you been looking) right there in the fresh meat section while holding a packet of steak. My mind blanked, my optimism plummeted and my companion looked at me in frustration.

How could I explain? How could I put into words how utterly defeated I felt when we were simply shopping for groceries? How incompetent I had been struck at a task I've been finding effortless for a decade.

This should have been my first warning.

My second came months later, sitting on a train hurtling my way from Toronto to Windsor on my third day in the country. I wasn't even at my final destination when I wrote, somewhat guiltily, that I already wanted to go home. That I was done with my adventure before it had started. Of course it was too late for regret and it was merely a thought that I hoped would be fleeting. I was still green, looking to dive in and make the most of this.

I suspected it would be hard. But I also expected the greatness to overwhelm whatever doubts and struggles I encountered. I was prepared to write home with stories of adventure, of laughter, of love and of exhilaration.

I had no idea that it would lead me to some of the darkest months of my life.

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In June of this year I sold all of my furniture, and my (first and only) car of ten years. I said goodbye to all of my friends, and I headbutted my cat for the last time.






I packed all my belongings into two suitcases and I stepped on a plane in Christchurch, New Zealand, at some time before dawn.

Countless security checks, queues, departure lounges and aircraft changes later, I arrived in Toronto, Canada. I had a newly issued work visa that was valid for a year, the phone number of a friend, and terribly flat hair. At least my luggage arrived safely.

Fast forward two months, though they have passed painfully slowly.

It occurs to me that I should have started this blog back then, when it was all new and fresh and my observations were still made in wonder. But this is the product of desperation. I need another outlet, and a way to keep in touch in a slightly impersonal way.

That may sound strange - after all, isn't a blog the more intrusive, vulnerable option? But the way I see it, this requires less from me. I can update without having to reply to emails, without having to censor my words or cast my stories in different lights with the individual recipients in mind. This does not demand much of me, which is very well because I do not have much to give right now.

Besides, maybe it'll keep me more transparent. Something that has long been my downfall and my isolator. Because updates to friends have been scant. To family, even less. I'm supposed to be having the time of my life. Admitting that I'm not tastes a little too much like failure for me to readily do.

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This is too long, and too heavy for a first post. I'm just trying this out, anyway.