This wicked out of control feeling...

Yep, I did it. Miss neurosis made the surprising quick flight back to the East Coast, smoothly crossed the border, and made it to bed without a single thought in my often overrun head. Oh that first night back in Canada couldn`t have gone more smoothly. That`s why, I suppose, that all hell seemed to break loose after that point in time. Moving in wasn`t as bed as moving out mind you, but that wicked out of control feeling wasn`t helped by the boxes piled up in the corner. 

Montreal is a beautiful, wonderful, marvelous city inhabited by a multitude of rambunctious, well, inhabitants. But bearings aside, I can`t help but feel like this is a conquer or be conquered type of situation. I've heard immigration horror stories, wrapped my mind around their likelihood, took a deep breath, and resolved to go with the flow. I just wish that calm and cool facade was a legitimate element of my personality. Instead, I am canard-ing my way through the week. Faced with the likelihood of no job soon, no money even sooner, and no computer to boot.

How I get myself into these predicaments is one question; how I get myself out is another.

Swap-scotch: Veesy Peesy!

I've been staring at the SWAP  working holiday visa application sitting on my side table for over a month now. It seems as though every time I go to mail it off, I reread the requirements and realize that I have come up short on one item or another. In all actuality, the application itself has been complete for nearly five months now. That was the easy part; name, date of arrival, city, address, blah, blah,blah. It was the gathering of other obscure materials that required a bit more finesse. Official transcripts, copy of passport and proof of student status, insurance waiver with attached proof of benefits, oh and money, of course.

The money for the visa ($400) took about two months to gather after scheming and bucket scrapping on rent and utilities, but I gathered it all up into a nice little package currently sitting in my checking account. Now, I just have to get my life together!

Slowly but surely I'll have to part with this mass amalgamation of crap, stuff, belongings that seems to tie me to this city. Thinking back on how ridiculous it seemed for Carrie Bradshaw to cling to her rent control apartment ( which in real life would probably be half the size), I can say that I kind of get it now. Who are we without our home? As a bit of a hermit, my apartment is like a glove that I've broken in to fit me just right, so much so that I can't remember what it looked like before I took possession of the space. When every piece of my furniture, dirt, art, and smell is taken out of this home of mine, it will become foreign once again. This place empty will be no more me than as if I had never been here. And there is the rub.

I'm packing up my bags with this knowledge in hand. Most of us who brim with wanderlust know this fact all to well. We settle in, squish our feet in the wet sand of our dwelling, only to wash off and move on. Too many beaches for one lifetime. Without time to contemplate the what-ifs, don't most doubts become inaudible.

So with a smidge over a month left until departure, I hope I can keep the world abreast with all of my relocation adventures, and really get into the nitty gritty of my new life. Feet first, dutifully.

Montreal Week 2: Bonsoir et Bonne Chance

It was only fitting that I left Montreal around the same time of day as I arrived. Unlike two weeks ago, the sun was out and beaming over a city dusted with a couple months worth of snow. Peaking bits of light from the horizon turning the Christmas sky into fluffy layers of pink, orange, blue, and white. No sooner than turning away, can you forget where you are. Caught up, submerged, immersed in a life that isn't quite your own no matter how much you wish it to be. Staying feels selfish, and to go feels like a cop out. Yes, my life in Seattle is easy and cushy, wet but warm, full of friends who I adore to the point that they are family, but when I write the screenplay of my life, Seattle will be apart of my past and not necessarily my future.
The warm and fuzzies I get from walking along the lower mall of Seattle U campus, past the Lynn Building, and the Chapel and our lovely library to C-street will never fade. I hope that at 65 I feel the same way about my undergraduate experience as I do now. Not bitter, but appreciative. Now, I bet you're wondering I thought this post was about Montreal. Well, you aren't wholly incorrect, and I suppose I should get to it.
My second week in Montreal was a week of existential crises, or linguistic crises. It's almost funny the way not knowing a language is like not having a voice. As if suddenly, I'd been rendered mute and everything I said came out in inaudible squawks on the lowest possible decibel level.  As I frantically urged, " English?", "Merci", " I'm Sorry, I mean Pardon", I couldn't help but be reminded of the brief time in life when I couldn't read. I taught myself how to read at 3 out of pure frustration with not understanding the world around me. What does that billboard say, or this book, or that magazine, "Ahh...someone teach me." Unfortunately, I had plenty of time to learn how to read so when I begged and pleaded I was written off. Obviously, time was not a factor and I taught myself.Now, I'm looking around at billboards and magazines in a language that I can't understand and get the same feeling.
It is in Montreal that I feel the most challenged, the most humbled, and the most intrigued. Of course, my insecurities abound: Will I ever really learn French or am I really ready at 21 to be an immigrant? Not to mention developing a new idea as to what I should spend my days doing or how I will make money? But like many of the dark tunnels in  life, there is a light. A gleaming, beautiful light in which all of the scarier demons that cat call you from inside and tug on your sense of self seem to be drowned out. I found that light in Montreal, bundled up and offering a way out of the cold.
And on that note, I suppose that I should inform everyone that instead of dismantling this blog now that it has served my travel purposes, it will become my immigration blog. So stay tuned. 

Montreal: Week One

[...],and then there was Montreal.

Within six hours of departing from the bus terminal, I had traded the fierce soggy winds of Toronto with the snow lined streets of Montreal. I feel at a loss to thoroughly describe Montreal and the people who occupy the island. 

I've heard it described as the love child of New York and Paris, and of course my imagination leads me to describe what their one night stand may have looked like. I like to think that it happened on a late summer night, when the 'City of Lights' and the 'City that Never Sleeps' met. It wasn't quite love at first sight because New York was drunk and pissing in an alleyway, and Paris was stumbling out bar with a broken heel and a skanky dress.

New York bummed a cigarette, and they got to chatting. And after a long night of just perverse happenings, Paris took the walk of shame, and nine months later Montreal arrived.

Okay, so maybe it didn't happen that way. But the moral of the story is that a predominantly French province in an English commonwealth is going to be angsty, rebellious, and just plain fun.

Necessary Accessory #1: Snow Boots. Not the sexy stiletto boots you got from the tranny swap meet, but actually something that will keep your feet warm, dry, and keep your body in an upright and locked position. Also don't make the mistake I did, make sure they actually fit!

So far I've done a fairly good job experiencing what Montreal has to offer in terms of food. St. Viateur bagels, poutine, and booze. That's all they eat here, right?! I don't want to sound like a broken record of anyone who has ever blogged about Montreal, but poutine is either something that Jesus makes for all his angels in heaven or a special treat that the devil eats off the back us one of his many sex slaves. Either way, the shit is damn good! 

 Thanks to my Montreal companion and romantic interest, Hannah B., I have also experienced the magical word of second hand and anarchist bookstores, Eva B's, and Grande Bibliotheque.

Another must-see for the queer East Canadian traveler is Le Drugstore. Now, I'm a gay of modest means when the three stories of R 'Place' are what I call swank. Le Drugstore is audacious in it's size, and I don't think I've ever seen so many lesbians in my two plus decades of life. And as if it couldn't get any better, we arrived just in time for a gang of drag queens to perform a repertoire of songs.

Travel Warning: If you're American, and specifically if you consider yourself a modest or even intermediate drinker, be f**Kin careful. My 24hr hangover was proof enough that 'my shit is weak'.

My first week in Montreal ended with an exhilarating slide down an iced over hill on a plastic saucer. Yes, Canadians call this Tobogganing, and it is awesome. I screamed like a little girl even on the fourth or fifth run down the hill. Well, I think that might even be an insult to little girls because the kids going down the hill were very zen like in their excitement. Crazy kids!

Toronto: The Final Days

Saturday was my last full day in Toronto, and on the suggestion of a friend of mine I went to visit Queen Street West. I wish someone had warned me that once you start down this long stretch of East Canadian roadway, you really won't be able to stop. Storefront after storefront, large chains and indie boutiques, Starbucks and handcrafted coffee, not to mention shoes, shoes, and more shoes! This street alone makes Toronto the shopping destination, now if only I had money to spend! ;)

Sunday was a drawn out farewell as I rekindled flames from places I'd been as well as finally stopping in at places I was hoping to find. One of which being Bulldog Coffee which is off of Church Street. Name by Eyeweekly as the best coffee shop in the city, I figured I had to try it. First of all, great atmosphere and great service, the espresso in my Americano was to die for. My only qualm and this may be apart of my American need to always constantly be busy doing something with smartphones, laptops, and the like was that they didn't have WiFi. Now being a true Seattle girl at heart, I had mixed feelings about it. Sure it sucks for people who want to get some work done and enjoy a great coffee or two, but on the other hand maybe we are always "getting some work done" that we never really enjoy anything. Besides you can't notice if the coffee is burned if you are on your computer watching the latest Perez Hilton video.
My next stop was to the Ryerson University library for internet access, but that ended up being a bust.I read a good deal of Eat,Pray, Love in the meantime, which is a book that is slowly growing on me for a lack of anything better to read.
Lastly, I ended up at Woody's yet again. This time I spotted a slightly lit corner in the back of the bar and with backpack in tow and beer in hand, I approached the table and took a seat. Two hours, two beers, and a few chapters of E,P,L later I figured I was tipsy enough to brave the cold.  

As a dragged my suitcase through the streets of Downtown Toronto, specifically down Adelaide and up Bay  until I reached Dundas, I was hit with an all too familiar feeling. With freezing rain beating against my already depleted skin, I thought " Why am I here?". Now obviously after months of planning and saving, this should be the last thought on my mind, but I couldn't help thinking that this rain, this cold, this effing suitcase was nothing more than a Seattle mirage. My shoulder at this point hates me. I carried half as much luggage for twice as long in India, so why did I all of a sudden pack as if I were Carrie Bradshaw? Once I'm done criticizing myself for poor packing skills, I made my way back to my original query.
Why do I always have to be moving somewhere or thinking of moving somewhere? Can't I just settle down for a bit, plant my feet firmly in some fertile ground and hope to grow? Well unlike a rose bush or a lime tree, sunlight and a few carbon molecules aren't always enough. In all honesty, I learned more about the kind of person I can be in the four weeks that I spent in India three summers ago than I have learned in the past four years of higher education. The six moves in Seattle in the past three years have proved that I willing to go after as my back, bones, and legs can take me. So to myself I answer, " Why do you think you here? Because other wise you'd rot on the vine. And with that I seat waiting on my bus to Montreal that leaves 00:30 and in a matter of hours will be one step closer to making a decision and another step closer to finding what's right for me.

Toronto Day Two: Stumblin' into Canada's Times Square

, and how I quickly booked it out of there.

But I suppose it would be wise to completely backtrack to the beginning of my day. Which started around 12:30PM! I know this isn't supposed to be a vacation so much as a job hunting expedition, but damn It feels great to stay up too late and sleep in past noon. It didn't feel so good today because I actually had to get things done. I didn't luck out with setting up interviews before I left for Seattle, so today was my "hand deliver resumes along Church Street and hopefully bump into an editor" day. No editor bumping, but I did got to see another great deal of the city while I was at it.

In my lurkings, I visited Priape ( which in my head sounds like pre-op, as in trannies), but no it was the gay men's store to end all gay men's stores. I tried to appear cool and unphased by the bowling ball sized butt plugs and gas masks hanging on the wall. Let's just say, Seattle didn't adequately prepare me for what I saw.

My next, not so frightening, stop was at Morningstar. This emporium of Indian and Middle Eastern home furnishing that I instantly charged with providing the furnishing for  my Canadian apartment when I finally get one. I saw little gold statues of Buddha, and instantly thought of Martha and Doris discussing the 'Buddhist Jesus' hanging on Doris's wall. I was squeezing a deep purple floor poof, when I thought to myself is this place called "Morningwood" because that would just be unfortunate.Thank goodness,it's not!

In all of this window shopping, I ended up at Yonge  and Dundas. There is nothing like a huge arena sized television screen in the middle of the city playing a soap opera with subtitles. I nearly ran back to Church Street, oh sweet relief.

I made my way to an oldy, but goody for dinner, The Old Spaghetti Factory. Now I realize that going to OSF when in Toronto is like going to McDonald's when you're in India,  but I'm no Anthony Bourdain. And I did go to McDonald's when I was in Delhi because I really wanted a McFlurry! :) The meal was rather so-so, but I can blame the pasta craving on watching 'Eat,Pray,Love' on the flight over. Best part of the meal however was the Big Wheel Deluxe, which the waiter told me was less then popular considering it was made in Toronto. Of course, I had to investigate and there was a distinct tangy bite to it but very crisp and it didn't sit in my mouth like some over done ales I've had in the past.

So on that note, I will avoid overdoing it.

Toronto Day One: M. Night Schlong's " The Gay Village"

Hey, guess what? Canada is cold!  Stepping out of the airport and into the crisp Canadian air felt more like stepping from the modern era to the last ice age. I quickly bundled up, and waited for my express bus to downtown Toronto to arrive.

Travel Suggestion #1: Purchase a express bus ticket from the Toronto Pearson Intl. Airport to Downtown Toronto on your flight, especially if you are staying downtown. Discount tickets for students are about $17, and are more than worth it. 

Staying at the HI-Toronto, which is very clean and the staff is really nice. Especially the women! :) My first and I suppose only goal for the evening was to find the gays! Well, after a half an hour walk in -20 degree wind chill, I found them!! A couple blocks of flashy signage make up the Church-Wellesley Village, and then it occured to me that I was walking on gay holy ground. Toronto was the backdrop for Showtime's Queer As Folk for five season's and many of the bars those guys frequented are bars on Church Street. One of which being Woody's.

I fell in love when the bartender called me "baby", and I was allowed to enjoy a beer and read the Now Toronto interview with Natalie Portman! 

Travel Suggestion #2: Canadian beer is strong, especially if you're tired. So be careful! :)