Life in the Other Hemisphere

an open letter

2011-07-12T02:21:00.006-04:00

From: Helen Ballinger
Sent: Monday, 11 July 2011 9:49 a.m.
To: George Studio
Subject: Is it really over?

Dear George,

Where did you go? This morning I crawled out of the warm comfort of my bed and hopped into the car for my early commute. I was looking forward to spending some quality time with you, after a weekend of being outdoors and away from your scope. Even when it’s dark outside, dreary and miserable, I’ve become accustomed to finding you waiting to murmur sweet sounds in my ear. Ever patient, ever present, still there for me even in my absences. You make waking up worth it, even on a Monday.

I know we haven’t been together for very long, but after ModeFM left me so cruelly last year – and I knew, I knew it could only ever be a short-term romance, a poor student unable to commit – I was looking forward to abandoning myself to you for the long term, to care for me, soothe me, heal me, calm me, revive me.

We were so young, so fresh; such a bright future lay before us! Or so I thought. You opened my ears to sounds I never cared to know before in a loving way, not judging me for my pre-George ignorance. But something wasn’t right this morning; there was a dissonance – you weren’t there to greet me. I heard unfamiliar voices; there was discord and despair.

And then I learnt the truth. You had left me.

I miss you. You can’t really call it quits on us at such a time as this, can you? We had such good times together. And I’ve seen the range of what else is out there – it pales in comparison with your vast beauty. Won’t you please come back? I promise I’ll text more, and give you feedback when you ask for it, and praise your achievements to everyone who will listen. I’ll make you popular the city over, just as long as you’ll say you stay with me.

It’s not too late for us, is it?

Helen Ballinger.

-----

After only a few months of being on the Christchurch airwaves, George FM has disappeared. My love for a new genre of music has been curtailed and I am left with nothing but pop to listen to. It is a sad, sad week.

the chocolate incentive

2011-06-04T01:55:00.003-04:00

Fifteen weeks ago, the world came down around our ears and I found myself walking home half dazed in the middle of a workday afternoon. The earth had shaken violently not an hour before, and I had ditched the truck on the side of a chasmed riverbank because I could take it no further. The roads were flooded and ripped apart. I could see my street across the river, but I couldn't drive to it.

Luckily I had my old pair of running trainers in the back of the truck. I sat in the back and tied them tightly to replace the flimsy flat work shoes I had on. I rolled up my pants and I set off on foot, like half of Christchurch, in an effort to complete the journey home from the centre of town. A man braver and more foolish than I pulled up next to me in his rugged truck and offered me a ride to the next bridge. He looked as rough as his vehicle and of questionable character, but I didn't hesitate for a second. All barriers were gone, all of the social norms had been shattered.

He drove me as far as the bridge, surely damaging his truck in the process. I got out and continued on my way, half running and half walking along the other side of the river, avoiding the places where the path had fallen away. I neared the home stretch, five minutes left until I could check on the status of my already damaged yet beloved house, and matched my pace with an older woman in the similar situation who was walking in the same direction as me. She held her now impractical high heels in her hands and her stockinged feet were covered in the mud and sand and silt that had pushed its way up through all of the roads in large, bubbling volcanoes. As she walked awkwardly along the uneven ground I asked if she was okay and she smiled anxiously back at me. She was fine, she said, she just wanted to get home. I asked her how far she had to go. I guessed it was half an hour of walking, maybe more, based on the location she gave me.

I looked down at her feet and, in a tone I hoped wasn't patronising, I asked if I could give her my shoes. I explained I was almost home, just five minutes away, and that I didn't need them. She shook her head vehemently, said she was fine, said she couldn't possibly take my shoes, even if we were the same size. I tried offering a few more times, but she wouldn't have it. So we merely exchanged pleasantries and well-wishes, and I started to leave her side. I only got a few paces ahead of her before I shook my own head. I couldn't accept her answer, and I couldn't walk off. I dropped to my knee and started undoing first one shoe, then the other while she approached. I told her I didn't accept her answer and that I was giving her my shoes anyway. She fretted greatly over how dirty her mud-caked feet would make them and I told her that was the least of my concerns. I waited while she laced them up and tested them out. She made sure to get my address from me and I told her it really didn't matter if she returned them or not, because I had another pair and the loss of them was of no consequence to me. She was so grateful but I told her it was nothing, really. Because it was nothing, really.

We finally parted. I ran home barefoot and was glad to see my flatmates slowly arrive over the course of the afternoon, as cell phone coverage was unreliable and aftershocks continued strongly all through the night. The rest of the day's story doesn't bear repeating here. It was an awful time that no one wants to relive.

Occasionally over the last three months I thought of the woman and of my shoes. I didn't regret giving them to her for a second, but they were my first ever pair of running shoes, and they treated me so well for so long, and I still enjoyed wearing them every now and then for casual walks. Even though they had been relegated to second place in terms of use, they were still my favourite. But I did a good deed and I made someone's awful day just a little bit easier to get through, and we all lost so much else in the process that it wasn't an issue at all.

Over the past month especially though I found myself missing them quite frequently. I figured with the amount of time that had passed she had forgotten my name, my street, my address. I wouldn't have been surprised - there are so many things I barely remember from that day, there was so much vying for our attention. I didn't expect to see them back and I was okay with that.

And then yesterday happened. I came home after an easy week of work to find a plastic bag sitting on the door step. I shrugged and left it where it was as I kicked the crooked front door open, assuming it was put there for one of the other flatmates. A while later when I left the house to go out, it was still there, so I picked it up to bring it inside.

That's when I saw them. My shoes! My beautiful shoes! I eagerly ripped into the bag and out tumbled my shoes, their laces, a blank envelope with a card and a box of chocolates. The card read:

I am sorry I have taken so long to return your shoes. They were an absolute Godsend and I don't think I would have got home without them. Many thanks once again. My home isn't too bad now and I hope yours is also. Many, many thanks, and kindest regards.

I broke out into a smile, so glad that I was presented at such an awful time with an obvious need that I could easily fill. I had wondered so often what had happened to her and if she'd got home okay, and was glad to see that my little act was of use to her.

What's more, I was reunited with my favourite shoes. And I got chocolate.

So really. The moral of my story is that if you do a good deed, there's a good chance you'll be rewarded with chocolate. SCORE.

the one for Sharyn

2011-04-18T18:19:00.006-04:00

In the middle of last week I found myself captivated by a thought that had appeared out of the very cold, very blue sky. Suddenly my heart was harbouring fantasies of spending the dark winter nights this year curled up next to a fire, a cup of chai tea on my left, and a pile of knitting projects on my right.

Yes.

Knitting projects.

Says she who hasn't knitted since the age of eight when it was half-hearted at best, and abandoned before completion at worst.

I sat on the thought for a few days and tried my hand at googling Knit Shops, without much success. Finally I decided to take the step that I knew would be pulling the pin on the grenade of an idea. There would be no going back once I made my thoughts known. I took a breath, I found my words, and I asked the guru of all-things-knit for her advice. The lovely Sharyn rose to the challenge within minutes! The information, the suggestions, the tips and pointers came pouring in from her Sydney location and I found myself set up with a pattern to attempt, a shop to track down, and a slight fear of failing in my heart.

With no idea what I was doing, and a new language in front of me (a round? A skein? Purling!?), I was a little overwhelmed. Saturday afternoon arrived and while the lovely Nick waited patiently in the car, I braved the rain and braved the shop full of domesticity at its best. I waited until the counter was clear and the shop had emptied a little, then I asked in little more than a whisper if someone could help me find... chunky wool? And a circular needle?

A lovely woman about my age lept to my aid, and once I'd shown her the pattern she was completely on board with my quest. She picked out a few varieties of wool, then spent a fretful time trying to find the correct needle, to no avail. She discussed my options and suggested a few other stores, aware that I was a novice wholly unable to tweak the pattern to fit a different needle. She asked if she could make a copy of the pattern to try herself, saying she was on her way south for the weekend and wished she had more time to whip up another weapon against the chill. She invited me back on Tuesday night to what sounded like a secret knitting society, looking around at the older customers as she lowered her voice conspiratorially and said, the ones who come on Tuesdays are more our age.

Then, clutching her newly copied pattern, she released me empty handed to the world and the rain. I felt a little let down. I wanted to start immediately, but there was a spanner in the works. An attempt to find a Peterborough St shop reminded us of the earthquake chaos our city is in, so it wasn't until later in the day that we found ourselves in a Warehouse, and I accidentally stumbled into the craft aisle. Wool! For a lot cheaper (both monetarily and quality). And needles! Still unsure of what exactly a circular needle was, I made the executive decision that an 8mm by 80cm would suffice for a 9mm by 60cm.

And then I youtubed.

I learnt to cast on! And then did it two more times because I either left too much, or not enough wool at the end.

I learnt what a stitch is! And I subsequently dropped one, or maybe two, but be lenient with me.

I learnt how to join in the round! I learnt how to knit a round! I learnt how to purl!

And I learnt how to laugh at myself and forgo my perfectionist tendencies when I discovered, three rounds in, a gaping hole. And something a bit weird going on with one section of the purl.

And I learnt how relaxing it is to curl my feet up under me and to click the needles together, to get a rhythm going, to occupy my always-fidgeting hands with something constructive.

I am one ball of wool, and one third of my way into a simple beginner's project.

And I am hooked.

Now I find in myself a desire to forget every other obligation in life in favour of knitting, baking, and keeping house.

What a wife. I mean, life.

snakes in a truck

2011-04-14T19:43:00.001-04:00

I remembered a little bit ago, half an hour maybe, that today is Friday. Friday! What great excitement that is.

Of course, I'd only forgotten for a short while. I knew yesterday was Thursday, and I knew I should start thinking about weekend plans, but somewhere along the line the reality of two days without obligations had slipped my mind.

Oh, sweet bliss.

That has made my day, almost before it's even started. That makes two good days this week. We're on the upward swing.

There are a few snippets, random occurrences that have left me thinking things over.

1. I've been fearful of everything lately. Take for example, leaving my house each day. I worry about the doors being locked. I worry about leaving my most precious, irreplaceable possessions there in case of fire / flood / earthquake (all of which seem not just possible, but probable these days). I worry about heaters being left on, hair straighteners not being switched off (I was the culprit for that one last night), taps dripping into a blocked sink that then overflows and destroys an already destroyed house, the river rising with too much rain and spilling into the property, the ground opening up and sucking down the rest of the foundations, the water not actually being safe to drink, the house being knocked down without our awareness, the world spinning off its axis and imploding.

I know it sounds a little silly, but there was a night I was in Australia and the weather raged outside the car as we drove the dark, twisting roads into the Blue Mountains. The rain lashed against the windscreen harder than the wipers could keep up with, and every half a minute there were flashes of brilliant white lightening in the sky. Half an hour earlier we had learned of the earthquake - only the earthquake, at that stage - in Japan, and for that night, though I smiled and interacted and we ate dinner as if our lives were unaltered, for that night it felt as though the straps on the world had come undone, and the very worst was happening. It seemed that no one, no place, no thing was safe from the forces of nature, and that the most terrible things you could imagine were at our doorstep.

That night, it seemed like nothing was ever going to be right again. And yes, while believing in God and a future greater than this is all well and good, when it comes down to living out a life in these circumstances, it's rough, and sometimes there is little consolation. There is no denying that it is hard, and often scary. The unknowns, the unpredictables seem so much more menacing these days, lurking in the shadows ready to leap out as soon as a back is turned.

That's what February's earthquake felt like. It sounds silly in hindsight, but for that afternoon and the few days that followed, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had let my guard down. I felt that my focus had been distracted by trivial things, I hadn't been keeping things under control and had looked away for a second, for a minute, I'd been thinking about other things and suddenly the earthquake happened. As if it was my fault. I've talked with a few people about this and have been reassured that while it's not entirely a natural reaction, it's not as uncommon or absurd as it seems.

Anyway. I got sidetracked as seems to be the case. In fact, I think I may have used that exact line in last week's post. Instead of all the other points I was going to discuss, most of which have packed up and left my mind, let me leave you with a story of ridiculousness as far as fear goes, so we can all laugh at me:

Yesterday, I had a snake in my truck. No, really.

After my small group finished at 9pm, I quickly walked out to the truck in the dark, opened the door and hopped into the driver's seat as I threw my bag on the passenger seat. Immediately I heard a loud, angry hissing, and I froze on the spot. My heart lurched painfully before I had time for conscious thought, and in a split second I assessed my fight-or-flight response. SNAKE, in the truck, how far away is it, and is it about to lunge at me before I can even see it!?

Before enough time had passed to make a move, rational thought kicked in. I hadn't forgotten I live in a snake-free country. I looked at the passenger seat, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, my hand still on the door handle for a quick exit. The snake was a book, that had slid across a receipt, ruffling the edges to elicit a hiss.

I am a fool. How about you tell me an embarrassing story of your own for solidarity?

practicing walking

2011-04-07T01:26:00.004-04:00

Two days ago I took my car into my regular garage in town to fix it up with a warrant. An hour wait was predicted, so I took the opportunity to do what I do best: I went for a walk. It was a cold day, one of the first to truly settle us into autumn.

My route took me along the edge of the cordon in town, where I stood at fences and looked down closed roads that are strewn with debris, seven weeks on. The stench of rotting food that wafted out from the deserted restaurants, and the dust that filled my eyes with every gust of wind was enough to leave me glum. I saw mud patterns of leaves stencilled on the footpaths. I saw broken windows and piles of bricks. I saw warped scaffolding that had failed to perform.

When buildings are torn down they leave an unnerving space. The nearby surviving structures look naked, the sides and fronts of them suddenly exposed like they never have been before. Each fallen fence feels a little like a violation, seeing behind them into yards that were supposed to be private. It is unsettling. I was glad to get back to the car, despite its failed warrant, so I could drive back down the familiar broken streets. It is too sad to stumble across new landscape changes in an old city that used to be so comfortable.

A day ago, reluctant as I was with dusk lowering the sun too early in the evening, I went walking along the river to maintain some activity in my freedom hours - the ones unencumbered by work obligations or chores. The air was still and crisp, the river like glass disturbed only by the ducks. There was no breeze; woodsmoke lingered gently at roof level with its comforting smell warming my spirit, if not my bones.

The chasmed paths were treacherous in the half light. On my return I noted sadly that only one out of every ten houses, on both sides of the river, were lit from the inside. It is a ghost neighbourhood and it feels every bit as abandoned as it is in actuality. Our immediate neighbours have pulled up their twenty four year old roots and moved to stabler pastures. The dark settled quickly and I hastened to get home without stumbling over cracks and lumpy asphalt.

Today, I made the most of having a free hour during my work day to myself. I'd begun to read, but there were my own words nagging at the periphery of my mind that I couldn't quite coax out of hiding. I left the makeshift office - a co-worker's house - and strolled down the quiet streets. The wind was back out in force; one day on, one day off, one day on. The forest towered over me on the left, and beautiful, elegant homes lined up at my right hand side.

With my eyes I consumed each picture perfect property as I passed, hungry for more snapshots to file away in my mind. Dreams are free, but these houses are not and I am too realistic to hope for one of my own one day. Their stylish gardens, immaculate stripes of light-and-dark grass mowed to precision length, sculpted trees as fences to give an illusion of openness while expertly hiding the windows behind them.

I saw a spade forgotten, half dug into the ground in this suburban paradise. Having inside information of the covenants signed up to for living in this subdivision, I wondered at how they got away with this. Perhaps no one else had noticed. Perhaps there is no specific stipulation ruling against gardening equipment lying unattended. Perhaps other things are occupying the minds of the modestly rich at this time. I wouldn't be surprised. Like the portaloos lining the streets. I doubt there is a covenant against them - after all, who would have ever predicted it would be a necessity in such a well manicured suburb in a well-developed city? No one could have guessed there would be a day, a month, a year when our sewer system would be on the brink of collapse.

Being autumn, the air is biting and the wind packs a real punch, even against the defences of a thick hoodie and a knitted scarf. I knotted the latter tighter at my neck and shoved my hands into my pockets, wondering at the discovery my fingers made of an empty sachet of sugar. When was the last time I dressed in this particular article of warmth? A year ago? I couldn't remember where I last wore it, or why I would pocket a small piece of rubbish instead of leaving it in an empty mug.

Maybe it was a takeaway coffee, and I had no other place to stash it. I don't remember much about my actions from the past year, but then, I don't remember much about anything from before the earthquakes. It seems all other life has been pushed out of existence; after the first, we were so consumed with the changes that were thrust upon us unwilling citizens, and the ways in which we could relearn how to live in a city that didn't feel right anymore. This time, for myself at least, I'm struggling to evaluate my commitment to the city. It hurts this time in a way that was only glimpsed in September, and my natural instinct is to flee. Even six, seven weeks on, I doubt my ability to bear the weight of sorrow.

Especially now as the temperatures start their descent into winter. The cold seems so much crueler this year when we are already coping just to get through each day in a new, suspended state of normal. I have been writing about the earthquakes for what seems like ten lifetimes. I feel too old, I am tired of them, and I am tired of thinking about rebuilding when the demolitions have barely even begun. I have not yet made a decision about whether staying here and healing with the city would be of paramount value for my own healing also. Perhaps, but I am so empty of life that it seems too overwhelming to consider.

But all this aside, I meant only to say that it is autumn now, truly, and my last three forays outside with my feet traversing the pavement have shown that the cold has set in, and my fingers have returned to the icy state they reside in eight months of the year. I just got distracted, as seems to be the case these days, by the cracks that have formed.

I have used many words, but said nothing really. We'll just consider this practice; a first step towards the day when I can call myself a writer without feeling like a phony.

ten days ago

2010-05-18T18:16:00.007-04:00

I did it again.

I spent all of Friday snacking on pasta that I'd packed into tupperware containers for myself and the two fools I'd talked into joining me. I drank copious amounts of water that required us to stop at every small town on the 4 hour drive between here and there in order to use public toilets. I had a reasonably early night and suffered through nightmares about what was to happen next.

On Saturday morning I laced a timing chip to my running shoes and had some coffee and toast for breakfast. I pinned a number to my singlet and pulled my hair back off my face. With the two others, plus many more fools, I jumped on a bus that took us out to the vineyard where stalls were set up, nervous and excited faces stood around fidgeting, and the ominous FINISH sign waited. I chomped a few jelly beans, I deposited my hoodie and sunscreen and all other non-essential items in the gear tent, and I took my place behind the line.

After some instructions and spiels over the loud speaker, the bells rung and the crowd started moving. And there I was, slowly shuffling towards the start line for my second half marathon.

Seriously? I was actually doing it again? Even though I'd spent less time and had chalked up less kilometres in training for it than the previous attempt? Yes.

I find there are good running days, when my body picks it up right away and it feels effortless, like I could almost run for hours. And then there are bad running days, where I'm a little off kilter from the start, where my body feels heavy and my limbs unresponsive, and every step is a mountainous effort. Not even a minute in, I could feel that it was a bad running day. All the preparation in the world doesn't matter when your body just doesn't want to do it.

The cloud cover was thick, the sun hidden, the temperature cool. Perfect conditions. But right from the outset, in my head for the duration of the race I was on the verge of walking. It was a relief to reach the first drink station at 6km: walking through drink stations, and walking to consume energy supplements are the only excuse for me. In the first few kilometres I assumed that I wouldn't be able to run an unbroken race, that I would cave and end up walking in some points. I was afraid it was just a matter of time until I gave out. I told myself it would be okay, just as long as I secured a better time than my last half marathon.

But I kept jogging along. The long straights where the trail opened up ahead and the distance that had to be covered was clearly visible? That was hard. Every kilometre was hard. I lost my running buddy after the first drink station; I felt bad leaving her behind, but it's about running your own race. I figured she'd catch up again, anyway. I didn't care about the halfway mark when I finally reached it: I was too focused on the second drink station that I could see positioned a few hundred metres past it. Frustrated, I dodged the people who had just... stopped at the drinks tables. Stopped, standing still, right in the way. I actually enjoyed myself for about two minutes somewhere between kilometres twelve and thirteen, but that was the only time I felt happy about the whole deal.

I'd aggravated a muscle in my leg, what I think is my hip flexor, the previous week on a fast walk, but it hadn't bothered me too much since, especially not while running. I assumed that it would be fine for the race, as the motion between fast walking and running is slightly different, and my jogging stride is a lot shorter. Unfortunately, I felt it pulling after the first few kilometres and the pain, while not unbearable, certainly made itself known for the duration of the race. Likewise, because the terrain was over grass and dirt and twigs and stones and gravel, my shoes rubbed against the inside corner of the balls of my feet, and I could feel the blisters starting to surface at around the 4km mark. By 14km they were screaming at me whenever I stepped on a stone or bit of uneven ground that would press my shoes against them. I guess road running has a bigger appeal to me now than it did before. I endured that pain too, though, but was pretty scared to take my shoes and socks off to assess the damage after I'd finished (oh, the horror!).

Also because of the terrain (oh, did I mention? It was through vineyards, down rows of vines and gravel driveways and along stony stop banks overlooking a river - incredible scenery), a lot more energy was required to navigate the course, and it required constant attention to the ground in order not to roll an ankle. Leg muscles were put to the test to compensate for misstepping on uneven ground. My right foot caught on a branch at about 18km and I stumbled a little which caused my calf muscles to seize and cramp painfully like I haven't experienced before. I ran it out, fearful of it happening again and my legs actually giving out on me. At 19km I felt myself approaching The Wall and I sternly told myself it was almost over, that I just had to distract myself for the length of about three more songs, and I'd be home free. I couldn't have run so far in such a bad mental state, only to slow to a walk in the final few minutes. No way. I wasn't allowing that to happen.

I didn't even see the 20km marker, I was so intent on distracting myself from the fact that I was running. A lady I passed told me how great it was to be in the final kilometre and I was surprised, I almost didn't let myself believe it. I knew when I'd entered the final 300 metres because the map had shown a final trail down one more row of vines before a short stint on pavement. I'd hoped for a sprint finish and I still had a little energy to make it happen, but when I reached the tarseal and tried to open up my pace, my calves started cramping from the sudden change in the range of motion they'd had for the last 21km, so I had to pull back and just trot across the finish line.

Oh.

But I crossed it.

I pushed myself harder than I did in training runs, harder than I did in the previous half-marathon, and harder than I ever have before. I felt the pain of every kilometre. This course required so much more of me than the one I ran in February. My head was in a worse place and every step was an effort to just keep going. Physically, though, I felt I ran it better and with a little more energy. I felt a little more capable, despite all the aches and complaints and mental battles that were going on. I ran the entire way again, minus the drink stops and energy supplements - which were less than a minute of walking each. I ran it, even when I desperately wanted to fold my hand and take a breather and stop the movement for just a moment.

I didn't know my time as I didn't hear it announced and the results weren't posted at the after-race function. I knew it was somewhere between Fool Number One's time of 2:25, and Fool Number Two's 2:44. I desperately hoped for anything under my previous time of 2:39:07 but I wasn't holding my breath. It wasn't until I got home the next day that I searched, with anxious and trembling hands, and found it listed on the marathon website.

I came in at 2:35:13.

For real.

I didn't know the exact time we started the race, but I'd checked my watch at 8km and saw I was just under an hour, and then again at 16km to see I was just under two hours, so I was fairly happy that I'd been running at a solid 8km/hr pace. But of course, my speed slows drastically the longer I keep at it, so I wasn't expecting at all that I'd be able to maintain it for the final 5km. And when I finished I was too exhausted and relieved and distracted by the fact that I didn't have to run anymore that I didn't even think to check my watch.

So this was very unexpected. And wonderful.

Now you'll just have to excuse me for hobbling around over the next few days while I recover from all of my various aches. Everything hurts, but in that wonderfully accomplished way.

the start line

2010-02-18T00:47:00.003-05:00

To refresh memories:

Three years ago, I was 40 kilos overweight. I loved food too much, and I never exercised because being out of breath made me panic (that's only partly true; it would be more accurate to say I never exercised because I was lazy).

Something needed to change. I don't know why it stuck this time after other failed attempts, but I started eating healthy and exercising almost every day. Reaching my goal weight after a lifetime of being overweight felt like nothing else in this world. It was an amazing accomplishment.

But what I liked better than being slight(er) of frame? The new and fun active nature of my life. I developed a dirty little habit in the form of running. It was fun enough, but after a year of doing it half-heartedly, I realised I needed a goal to really work my way towards. A challenge to sink my teeth into. So.

The new pinnacle:

On Saturday, I ran my first half marathon.

I ran a half marathon.

I ran a freaking half marathon.

My flatmate Renee and I were supposed to spend ten solid weeks training for it, but with the holidays and our other various commitments, we only really got stuck in for the last five weeks. Her biggest pre-race run was 15km, mine was 18km. But it had been a slow, painful 18km with many walk breaks in the last 8km. Neither of us really expected to make it to the start line on Saturday.

But we packed up our gear and drove to the west coast, drinking water and snacking on pasta the whole way. We stayed with friends and tried to distract ourselves on Friday night. We were mostly successful; it still didn't feel quite real.

Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 5.30am. The sound of rain pouring down outside dampened our spirits. We nervously got our gear together and laced our timing chips to our shoes, pinned our race numbers on, pulled hoodies over our singlets to stay warm. We drove to the square in town where buses lined the dark streets, runners clamouring aboard in hushed excitement. We were driven 21km out of town into the gorge. It felt like our bus was taking us too far; surely we weren't expected to run that whole distance, surely 21km wasn't supposed to be that long!

All passengers were herded out of the bus so it could turn around and pick up another load. Every bus from the west coast must have been called in for the occasion. The rain was torrential, the river was swift and muddy, the wind was roaring. Our shoes and socks were soaked through within five minutes, and there wasn't a dry spot anywhere on my body. We huddled around for an hour, no shelter from the elements, before we finally took our places behind the start line. The wind whipped the rain against my bare skin and it felt like needles stabbing me. Renee yelled to me over the roar that it felt like she was being bruised.

The gun went off! We stood still, shivering and waiting for the pack to start moving. It was a good two minutes before we actually crossed the start line. And then we ran. And we ran. The first half hour was a battle against the elements, running with one hand across my number so the wind didn't rip it off, and the other hand shielding my eyes from the stinging, blinding rain. Somewhere after the first 5km it stopped and the weather was no longer an issue.

I’ll spare you from most of the details, but let me say this;

I didn't expect a great time. My mantra was: I'll be happy with anything under three hours. Honestly, I expected to end up walking for large portions near the end. I expected my motivation to flag. I expected many things.

What I did not expect was the grit and determination that came upon me for every single hill. I ran them all. I dug deep and was determined to take my dad's advice; just keep jogging up the hill at whatever reduced pace is necessary, and once at the top it's a cinch to keep going.

I did not expect to be a grinning idiot for most of it. But I was. Especially at about 8km when I realised that I was really doing this thing. And it was fun!

I did not expect to have any energy to spare on others. But I chatted with fellow runners, and I thanked race helpers, and I joked with a man at a drink station as I jogged by. Everyone was so friendly, and my mood was unlike any I've had before; I was so happy, so interactive, so alive. Everyone was there because they wanted to be, and I was one of them, and we were all doing this together.

I did not expect to run the whole thing. But, aside from walking through three drink stations (for no longer than 30 seconds each time) near the end so I could drink easily, and twice to consume energy supplements, I ran the whole thing. The whole thing. With 4km to go I was really struggling and there was no way I could keep it up. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't run any longer; I needed a break! So desperately! But I started telling myself, over and over, you can walk as much as you like afterwards, but you are here to run this race! So I jogged pitifully, I struggled along, my legs ached and my face burned. The rain had stopped after the first 10km and the sun was weakly trying to break through the clouds. I made promises to myself; just get to the next corner, get across the next bridge, make it to the next drink station, and maybe then you can walk for a bit, but I knew I wouldn't let myself stop. I ran the whole way, against my desperate desire to walk.

I did not expect to sprint across the finish line. The thought had seemed plausible earlier in the day, but by the last 4km I had dismissed the idea entirely. After the sign indicating there was only 2km left, I didn't see any more markers and I had no idea what distance I had to go. It was pretty rough, but now that we were running through town instead of the deserted open road, people lined the streets cheering and I couldn't walk. I had to keep running in the midst of all those whose energy had flagged. I'd had a few nightmares in the weeks leading up to it about getting lost, about running and not knowing what direction I was supposed to go in, and that almost came true. Luckily I was close behind someone and followed her lead around a corner, AND.

I saw the finishing chute! I saw the triangle flags in the distance, the orange cones indicating the last stretch, and my pace picked up. I didn't even realise what I was doing, but from somewhere deep inside came this surge of energy and I pumped my tired legs as fast as they would go. I stretched my stride and it felt like sprinting, but that was only in comparison to the crawling jog I was doing before then. Still, it felt good to give the last twenty metres everything I had.

Official results were posted later that afternoon. I came in at 2:39:07. Though there is much room for improvement, and though it was slower than my average pace in training runs, I am very happy with my time.

Renee, who I'd planned to run the whole thing with, started lagging after the first few kilometres, and the man I was running alongside encouraged me to just run my own race. We still ran in sight of each other for the first half, but eventually I lost sight of her and stopped turning around to check on her progress. She later told me that she walked in a few places due to injury issues, but she basically sprinted the last 2km and clocked in at 2:40:20. Very impressive!

(I know. I said I would skip most of the details. But trust me when I say that I really, truly did.)

Photo was taken the day after, as we drove home and counted down the kilometres, realising again just how far we freaking ran. There are a few of me from the actual race that reside on the cameras of friends, but I am yet to be in possession of them, and they are bound to be terribly unflattering and full of pained expressions. (It doesn’t matter though, because I’m kind of a star. See?)

To summarise:

I ran a half marathon, and I ran it well. I am happiest about the second part of that statement; it is the icing on an already delicious cake. I even did it well despite the elements at the beginning, despite running the whole thing with dripping clothes and wet shoes and prune-like feet. I did well despite the hills. I did well despite having done all my training on trails instead of tarmac. I did well despite my history.

I can't stop thinking to myself, I did this! I did this. I did this. I did this. Over and over, the emphasis on words switching each time.

I have come so far.

(And I am totally hooked. My next is in May.)

emo racer

2010-01-23T17:55:00.002-05:00

At one point during my run yesterday, I almost cried.

I had just finished the 10km loop track through the forest, complete with hills and tree roots and long stretches of sand. It's a pretty technical trail at some points and can be slow going at times.

I had started off again in search of the 4km marker. I was determined to run 18km. And a few kilometres into my second stretch I just suddenly thought, man. This is what I'm doing. This is my body, running. This is my body which used to be so out of shape. A body which never exercised, which was overweight and unhealthy, which felt the strain of just walking a few blocks. And I am running. I am flying through a forest and I am sweating and I am puffing and I am in pain and I am exhilarated and my back is dripping and my face is hot and there is music in my ears and I am doing this.

I have a feeling this is something I'm going to keep coming back to every time I increase my distance, every time I run a race, every time I push my boundaries.

I mean, given where I've come from? I honestly believe sometimes, as I'm running, as I'm running - something I dismissed a long time ago as an activity I would never consider attempting - that I can do anything.

It's similar to the feeling I had when I first started dancing. When I first learnt enough moves that I could dance an entire song with a partner; I could allow him to lead me around the dance floor, and I could follow, and this goofy grin would break out onto my face because I was dancing. Me! Me!

But 18km wasn't enough. I ran another 10km this morning which brings the weekend's total to 28km. I am astounded sometimes at where I am now. At where I am, given where I used to be.

The reality of what I'm doing keeps hitting me with every new goal that I achieve. And I am overwhelmed.

banishing the grinch

2010-01-10T22:19:00.004-05:00

How am I kicking off another year of being alive?

For two nights in a row my girlish tendencies were allowed to flourish; Saturday night I had plans for dinner with wonderful old friends, and Sunday found me on a double non-date with someone I'm not actually interested in romantically. Both nights I departed the house in a flurry of activity, leaving a pile of tried-and-failed dresses on the floor in my wake, makeup still fresh and perfume trailing its scent behind me.

I relish evenings like that. They were a good end to 25; a year which brought more heartache and crushed dreams and closed chapters than I would have liked, than I could almost deal with. But 25 didn't break me completely and I am beginning to live again.

26 started with slothfulness, but only in the early hours of the morning. Midnight saw me quietly ushering in my birthday by watching old episodes of One Tree Hill online, in my absent flatmate's bed. I still don't have a room after returning from my working holiday of fail, but that is okay. A solution is pending, maybe, perhaps, possibly.

Defying the late night, come 10am I was pulling on my Mizunos and a few minutes later I was running energetically through my favourite forest. I took it gently, gently, not pushing myself too much, being kind to my body and just taking some time out to enjoy the scenery. I'm gearing up for another week of running followed by a 15km attempt this Saturday which is going to take all the strength and determination I possess, and then some. This half-marathon training is really calling on stores of energy and motivation that I didn't know existed within me.

After cooling down and showering I was straight back out the door for my next task. I downed some water, I gathered my thoughts, I filled out some forms, I answered probing questions, I had my finger stabbed. And suddenly I found myself in a familiar old chair, a pressure cuff around my arm and a squishy red ball in my hand, a nurse poking at my veins and frowning at their evasiveness. But we pushed through together and my body complied just enough to deliver another 488mls of blood into their care.

Though it's not the only day I donate blood, it has become my birthday thing.

The rest of the afternoon has been quiet but productive so far. If you consider purchasing large quantities of t-shirts online to be a productive thing. But there were also more important achievements amidst all the consumerism! Such as filling out an application to study, an application for a student loan, and scheduling a School of Engineering tour for tomorrow morning.

Yes. I am contemplating study. I joke about how I don't think I can stand the thought of becoming a student again, especially at 26, but it only requires a year to be qualified for an entry level position, and besides, after the disaster that was my last year I figure that I can handle almost anything these days.

My obligations for the afternoon have been tended to, so all that's left is fun. I never plan celebrations or events; I typically like to let the day slide by as unobtrusively as possible. I'll spend some quality time in the kitchen to create a culinary masterpiece (or rather, meat and three veg meal) for my flatmates for dinner, and in the evening I'll be found at Ceroc to dance the rest of the night away.

I imagine a well-deserved beer will be on the cards when I get home.

Not too bad a day for a birthday grinch, huh?

in the orange glow

2009-11-17T20:53:00.005-05:00

There was a moment this weekend. I was a back seat passenger in a car driving down the open road. My sunglasses on, head resting against the back of the seat. We were heading towards the low evening sun and everything was cast in a bright orange glow. There was conversation punctuated by laughter, there were arms resting casually on doorframes, music on the radio, trees passing by out the window, the sound of tires on tarseal. With everything lit up orange, the world instantly felt serene and perfect.

Right then, life was exactly what it was meant to be. I could have lived in that moment forever.

-

So, I came back to New Zealand when being in Canada stopped making sense.

It was a hard decision, and it was a hard transition.

It is a hard transition.

But after being back for two weeks now - though I am homeless and carless and jobless - I am absolutely certain that this is the place for me right now.

It helps, being surrounded by a plethora of amazing people. I've ended up with plans every single night since being back, which is welcome relief after five months of near silence.

At first, yeah, I felt like a failure. Big time. I felt weak for not having the courage to stick it out, for not being able to make it work. I thought I could have tried harder, I could have put in more effort, I could have endured it for longer.

But now I can see I made the right decision at every juncture. Moving there - I had to see about possibilities; deciding to stay for that one extra month - I needed time to acclimatise to either outcome; and finally deciding to come home, leaving behind the life I'd been slowly moving towards for the last three years.

I joke about my Working Holiday of Fail, but actually, I'm coming to terms. On paper my life looks laughable right now, but I feel alive again. I am full of warmth. I am mostly happy and healthy; my mind is no longer the dark and scary place it frequently was over in Canada.

-

Now I just have to figure out how I want the rest of my days to look.

Maybe I'll start by baking another loaf of beer bread.

balancing the scales

2009-10-21T17:56:00.031-04:00

Another update of goodness?

Sure.

Let me at least try to average out these posts. So far I'm at a 4:1 ratio for unhappiness. I've got a fair way to go to level the field.

After some rummaging around, I have found more images of life in Canada. Here.

Fruit platters. Yes, they get a mention. They are amazing. The grocery stores here really are all about convenience, and I have occasionally succumbed. This was my favourite purchase ever:

Aggressive storm clouds with chilly temperatures announced the arrival of fall:

Don't hate me, but I think North America has really got the market on celebrating the seasons. Fall is all about orange, about pumpkins and costumes and leaves and corn mazes and hay rides and apple cider. It is an exciting time of year, in contrast to autumn in New Zealand which is greeted with hesitation; it means a long winter with nothing to look forward to is on its way. It's so different here, the way the seasons are embraced:

I have been informed (and it has been demonstrated more than once) that I am cheek-pinchingly cute. I was not entirely impressed:

We visited the closed gates of a magical, fairy tale, story book garden and had fun anyway:

I met a chipmunk that was cuter than anything I'd seen to date:

And who knew that a place with "Bog" in its name could be so beautiful?

There was an attempt to convince me that there would come a time when I would enjoy life again:

I chased Canadian Geese which amounted to, well, nothing:

I baked cupcakes which were met with rave reviews:

This blue shame was endured...

...to provide access to this:

Niagara Falls was stunning, breath taking, mesmerising:

Look, a genuine laugh! Proof that I am still alive:

Clifton Hill in Niagara Falls was certainly an experience. Lights and sounds and smells everywhere. There was a visit to a haunted house where I screamed like a little girl, many many times.

Overall, the falls and surrounding attractions were a success. As you can see:

A picnic in the bitterly cold wind filled us up the next day...

...and gave us strength to create masterpieces later that evening. It was my first time and I was nervous, I was shy, I was scared of making a mistake...

...but after the first incision, I stopped worrying and really got stuck into it:

And finally! Michael's on the left (o_O) and mine on the right (grr).

Again, these are reminders that I am having a very little bit of fun here amidst all the not-fun.

But, it's just not enough.

the smiles amid the fails

2009-10-06T22:59:00.040-04:00

It occurs to me (well, it's blatantly obvious really) that I haven't taken the opportunity to write about the positive.

Don't be surprised. There are - and have been - a few good things amongst the Cloud of Fail that has been my life over the last third of a year. Yes, it's been that long. No, I can't believe I'm still sticking it out. Yes, I have more determination than I thought possible, considering that I first wanted to fold my hand after week one.

I have to look back and consult some photos to properly remember the good. Bear with me and you may see some smiles.

Michael and I took a trip to London (but not the real one) a few months ago. I was introduced to the terror of batting cages:

At one stage on our journey I declared that I was craving an oatmeal and raisin cookie from Subway, and I demanded to know what he was going to do about it. Ten minutes later he took an exit off the highway. I looked at him, confused, until I saw a sign for Subway. I had long since forgotten my desperate need, but he hadn't. Sweet:

We stopped at an old fashioned diner in the middle of nowhere for milkshakes and hot dogs:

It had a second-hand-junk store attached:

Another weekend we got caught in a torrential downpour on our way back into Sarnia. The streets were flooded and groups of children leapt around on the sidewalks, dressed in their swimsuits and begging cars to speed through puddles to soak them. We did. Fun:

The summer storms were incredible; rolling in suddenly and drowning the landscape before quickly moving away again. That same weekend I accepted a dare to jump out of the car and run to a power pole a few metres away:

I saw the Counting Crows in concert (not that you can identify them), and there was a rib festival with messy results:

We had beer and important conversations at our favourite hotel:

We found a deserted spot of beach to call our own and visited it a few times near the end of summer:

We almost got struck by lightning in one particularly epic storm. We'd jumped out of the car in a parking lot to run around in the torrential rain and whipping wind, thinking the heart of the storm was still a safe distance away. Then a fork of lightning struck a lamp post in the corner of the parking lot where the car was. Sparks flew, the crack was deafening, and one or both of us swore as we ran for cover.

We celebrated our survival of the near death experience with pizza (some more than others):

I tried to befriend a toad that wanted nothing to do with me:

We raided a vending machine and started working our way through the first season of Veronica Mars:

There was a camping trip in a tiny tent:

Marshmallows and AMAZING pizza concotions over a bonfire:

More junk stores, a beach at sunset, and campground visitors:

Michael has given me an excuse to exercise my dormant culinary skills. And when I say 'excuse', it's actually just that he's demanding proof of my long-standing claims that I can cook:

These are just a few of the moments that have kept me sane throughout the months. Without them, I wouldn't have made it. I have been living for the weekends, and I'll continue to do so until something breaks, one way or the other.

The weekends are what I'm really here for. There are more to come, and more stories to be told. Fall is an exciting time of year over here, after all:

I'll get there.

inky pinky ponky

2009-09-30T15:22:00.005-04:00

As far as I'm aware, as far as I can remember, I've always found it relatively easy to make decisions. The choices have been fairly easy; the options always stacked for me to favour one over the other.

This has not been so for the last three, three and a half, almost four months. It's no secret that I have been plagued with choice anxiety at every turn. Some of it has been the object of eye-rolling smirks - which flavour of ice cream to buy, which meal to order, how to dress for the day. But then there have been the more serious - where to live, what job to accept, when to admit defeat.

This indecision - and my life in general - is spiralling out of control.

I've been asked which job I took: the answer is neither. Although, I suppose that's not quite accurate. I did accept one.

(Oh, here, here is some more drama for you: the driver testing places all over Ontario have been on strike for weeks. I am unable to get an Ontario drivers licence which many jobs require. This has cost me a number of positions now. Even though I have both an International and New Zealand licence. I was offered two jobs in one week: one I had to turn down because of the lack of licence, so I accepted the other subpar position. Four hours later I was re-offered the first job with a plan to sort out the licence issue at a later date. After much consideration, I reneged on my acceptance of Job B and accepted Job A. And subsequently got the run around (more drama, I will spare you), and then, well, here the story continues...)

I accepted one job. But then melt-downs happened, ties were severed, and I gave up. I couldn't take it anymore, I couldn't stand being here anymore, so I spent an entire day corresponding with my travel agent (more drama) in an attempt to secure a return ticket. I was set to fly out of Canada today. I emailed a select few friends back home quietly to arrange plans on the other end, to cushion my fall back to New Zealand.

Honestly, it felt good. It felt so good to have done something decisive. I'd been unhappy here for so long and it was a relief to see the end. My heart was heavy at the dreams I would be leaving behind, but the relief was overwhelming. Letting go of the struggling and the striving that just hadn't been working was what I needed to do.

I started to write my fourth post, admitting that I was returning home while my blog was still in its first blush of new romance.

But. The week progressed. I found my thoughts shifting once again.

How could I go home? I thought I had come to terms with all I would be passing up on - the very real chance to have a permanent future and potential family on this side of the world. How could I really go home without seeing this to the end? How could I be so weak? How could I give up so soon? How would I live with the regret once I was home? What if I was about to make the worst mistake in my life; the one that would irrevocably change my future and ruin something that could have been amazing?

It was all happening so fast. After three months of what felt like slow underwater movement with no progress, suddenly I had exploded to the surface and was moving rapidly towards an open door that was due to slam shut. I didn't know which side to be on when it closed.

I wanted desperately to stay. I wanted desperately to leave. I second guessed every thought, every feeling, every decision.

I cancelled my rescheduled flights. I stepped backwards. I spent a day - a week - hibernating. Trying to regenerate. I decided to give Canada one more chance. A month.

And then things were better. For a week I felt grounded and zen-like. I came to terms with either outcome. I decided to let go; I had been struggling so hard for so long to stay here, and this time I decided I wouldn't. I wouldn't struggle. I would still apply for jobs and I would still attempt to make a life here, but if it was still determined not to stick then I wouldn't fight it. I would have my answer. The anxiety and stress had been killing me, so I let it go. I decided that every day here from this point forward was an unexpected bonus. I would just enjoy the month and see where it led. It would give me a little more time to either figure out a way to stay, or to become accustomed to going home.

It worked for a few days. It was a relief to feel slightly normal again, rather than the miserable shell of my former self that I've become. Unfortunately, my fresh, new, light outlook wasn't to stay.

I am back to uncertainty. To desperation. To swinging violently from one exteme to the other.

Yesterday, I wanted more than anything to stay here and see how things would play out. To see if love and life here was in my future. To see if I was going to thrive and flourish with the help of my favourite person in the world (barring family).

Today, I am weary and my outlook is dark. I am done, I am done, I am done.

This is the biggest decision I have had to make for myself, and I can't. I can't. I don't know what I want or need. From where I'm standing at this intersection, my two options are as equally unappealing.

I can stay in Canada, broke and miserable and bereft of joy, but with the chance of love.

Or I can go home, broke and miserable but in familiar surroundings, at home, and start to rebuild my life. Minus my best friend.

I cannot bear the thought of staying here. And I cannot bear the thought of going home, empty.

I've been told numerous times to just make a decision and stick to it. See how well that's worked for me so far? The stakes are too high, one way or the other. No matter how many different angles I try to approach this problem from, I cannot find the answer. What I once found easy has now become an impossible feat. I am completely unable to make a decision, and the ones that I do eventually make, I renege on. I have become flighty, unstable, and unpredictable.

I do not know what my next move is, and moreso, I do not know how to decide what it will be.

eff em ell

2009-09-02T19:37:00.001-04:00

I recently moved into a house without an internet connection.

I signed a lease that will take me through to next May. I needed to make a commitment to being here, to not folding my hand and crawling home prematurely.

I like the house. I like the roommates. I adore the kitchen. But the internet thing? Not so much.

I steal it from the neighbours. In my more noble moments I feel guilty about it, but I have no other options.

No, you do not understand. I really have no other options.

The weak connections are sporadic at best. Sometimes I’ll hook onto a network that will give me five minutes of spotty internet access. Just enough time to check and write emails, but by the time I hit send the connection has dried up.

Other days I can get on for hours at a time, but by then the emails and updates have piled up and I can’t bear to face it all.

My laptop broke a few weeks before I left New Zealand. I would dearly love to hike down to the nearest Starbucks (or rather, Tim Horton’s) and sit with a coffee and donut while I browse the web at leisure, however because of its condition my laptop needs to be permanently plugged in to a large desktop monitor.

So, I don’t reply. I barely update. I am isolated and I miss the people who know me.

Also, there is no home phone.

No home phone, and no stable internet connection that will give me access to skype or similar.

My cellphone? I have no credit rating in this country yet, so cannot be approved for cellphone plans. I am on prepay. The phone I bought? Though I asked for a Sarnia number I was given something unfamiliar, something that – I’m told time and again when I give it out – is long distance. I didn’t know until it was too late.

I am charged exorbitant amounts to make calls. And to receive calls. I chew through my credit at an alarming pace, and I barely use the thing.

I called to see what my options were. I am not likely to have a credit history until about December, but even then it has been damaged by phone companies performing credit checks that have been denied due to the lack of history. Including companies that claim no credit checks are needed for a plan.

I cannot have my number changed to be local, because aside from my email address, it is the only contact information listed on my resume which has been distributed to hundreds of stores and companies and offices.

I recently stumbled upon – and became addicted to – a website, FML. Sometimes I think I should submit my last three months to it.

I have only leaked out depressing updates so far. This is unfortunate, but – here I shrug helplessly – accurate. These are all I have in me right now. I do not have pleasant news. I am struggling. I am at risk of drowning in sadness and disappointment. Every Monday-through-Friday feels uncomfortable, like a lifetime passes me by in a slow-motion flurry of failure and missed opportunities. I am utterly miserable (what a drastic pairing of words), and never before have I cried with such frequency and intensity. Not even close.

I can’t fold. I can’t, for reasons I am not brave enough to divulge publicly. I can’t go home yet. I have to see this through. But I have to admit that staying here is slowly killing my spirit.

I have no choice. The alternative is more unbearable than this, as incomprehensible as that is on a Monday.

It has been a long time since I have felt like myself. I used to know what I liked, what I wanted, where I stood, and what I could do. I used to be quietly confident, though shy (it’s a combination that works, I promise, despite its seeming contradiction). Now I find myself riddled with insecurities and choice anxiety, with doubts and fears whispering away at me even on the sunniest of days.

Michael brought to my attention that I’m four months out from my birthday. I feel like my life has stalled and is in the process of rolling backwards. I’m regressing in my worldly accomplishments. I have nothing to show for my (almost) 26 years. I work seven hours a week if I’m lucky, and I am broke. I have one friend in the vicinity, 100 miles away. On weekdays I am friendless and desperately lonely. I am homesick.

I’m sorry. I’ll cheer up soon, I promise.

street walking, sweet talking

2009-08-19T17:18:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-14T21:55:00.005-04:00

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.

-

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.

-

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