Whilst walking down Cook Street today I realised just how fond of Victoria I've become. I assume walking was the method of locomotion I was employing on this journey at any rate; a vicious hangover had severed all communication between head and body, so I really am just guessing. So, whilst being propelled in some fashion, and quietly celebrating a clear sky, flowers in bloom and warm sunshine on my ragged face I saw the city a little more clearly. This tends to happen when you're about to leave a place.
Practicality -- old friend, relentless irritant -- dictates that the idyllic reverie I've been lost in over the past month must cease. Money must be earnt, laws abided. Sadly, sadly, neither of these things can be done here in my lovely home-town-of-one-month, it would seem. To merely apply for a work visa here is going to set me back close to $2000, and I'm not even sure that I meet the criteria. Damn! But I like it here! I can cross the driving-on-the-right roads with confidence now, and the sing-songy accent is friendly and familiar. I've been settling in easily and have no desire to leave.
So, readers, I'm now giving you the chance to make my decisions for me, in the Suburban Safari Shift Suzette Off The Sofa competition! Just like Sims, but with real, live consequences! Cool, huh?
Should Suzette:
a) Stay in Canada and rustle up illegal cash work as an artists' model/exploited kitchen worker?
b) Stay in Canda and invest $2000 -- most of my savings -- in applying for a visa and risk starvation?
c) Go to the UK, work, apply for Canadian visa whilst there, save up and return later?
d) Just get over the Canada thing and settle in the UK because, hey, what's so great about back bacon anyways? Or people who say "anyways"?
e) Just head back to Brisbane and defeat, because, frankly, this travel thing is wearing thin?
f) Head back to Australia, but move to Melbourne?
g) Move to New Zealand?
h) None of the above (specify)?
The truly shameful thing is that I'll probably do whichever of these things gets the most votes.
31 March 2005
24 March 2005
It's windy tonight.
The side of the house is shuddering against the gusts and a tree is scrape, scrape, scraping against the wall beside my bed. Yet another night staring sleepless into the darkness, it would seem.
I'm usually put into an irritable frame of mind by the wind, but not so here in Victoria, strangely. The way it's sweeping up the cherry blossom petals into fluttery cascades makes it a little more agreeable. The town looks as though a wedding party passed by recently. In fact, there is an air of restrained celebration all around town -- the weather is marvellously clear, the flowers are out, the trees are budding and the pale and delicate folk of Victoria are stoically shucking off their clothing. I sound like I'm mocking here, but in fact, no; it's a bare-shouldered whoop of joy at the sight of the dazzling sunshine, and I'm skipping right along with them... just with my jacket on.
Although I've only been here a few weeks, I have known North America forever. The accents, the foods and so on were mostly familiar in some way before I'd been barked at by Passport Control in Vancouver and earned a smudged blue stamp in my passport. Nonetheless, I've been pulled up short in a state of mild confusion more than once since arriving. Take coffee, for example. In the world I had inhabited until now, coffee is issued in 250mL cups, on a saucer and enjoyed hot, hot, hot. If a greater charge to the heart is desired then another trip to the barista's counter is the solution. Here in Canada, by contrast, the lovely bean brew is delivered in three sizes: "Bucket", "Ridiculous" and "That reminds me, I must bath the dog." As someone for whom coffee is only tolerable if it's hot enough to slough skin from the tongue, it's taking some getting used to. For some reason, though, I keep going through the motions on a daily basis.
Grocery shopping here involves an unanticipated level of frustration and effort, too. In familiar surrounds it's an activity which barely rates a thought beyond, "Hmmm, what will I have for dinner?", but for an Australian in Canada? No, no!! The Aussie lass must rethink her entire diet and lifestyle. Cheese has become a dirty, flamboyant indulgence, dissappointing given that I now realise that it was a dietary cornerstone whilst I was still a Brisbane resident. Tiropita -- feta, ricotta, egg in filo -- was a once-a-fortnight standard at Chez Suzette. Oh, happy days. I spotted 300g of feta here today for $8 -- the price for one kilo of the top-shelf stuff at home. So, a lovely slab of tiropita would come in at around the same price as several hours with a high-quality escort. And a pavlova extravaganza had to be abandoned due to an inability to locate greaseproof paper or passionfruit, even the tinned variety. Clearly, some things really just need to be let go if I'm to play Canadian.
No wonder I'm losing sleep.
The side of the house is shuddering against the gusts and a tree is scrape, scrape, scraping against the wall beside my bed. Yet another night staring sleepless into the darkness, it would seem.
I'm usually put into an irritable frame of mind by the wind, but not so here in Victoria, strangely. The way it's sweeping up the cherry blossom petals into fluttery cascades makes it a little more agreeable. The town looks as though a wedding party passed by recently. In fact, there is an air of restrained celebration all around town -- the weather is marvellously clear, the flowers are out, the trees are budding and the pale and delicate folk of Victoria are stoically shucking off their clothing. I sound like I'm mocking here, but in fact, no; it's a bare-shouldered whoop of joy at the sight of the dazzling sunshine, and I'm skipping right along with them... just with my jacket on.
Although I've only been here a few weeks, I have known North America forever. The accents, the foods and so on were mostly familiar in some way before I'd been barked at by Passport Control in Vancouver and earned a smudged blue stamp in my passport. Nonetheless, I've been pulled up short in a state of mild confusion more than once since arriving. Take coffee, for example. In the world I had inhabited until now, coffee is issued in 250mL cups, on a saucer and enjoyed hot, hot, hot. If a greater charge to the heart is desired then another trip to the barista's counter is the solution. Here in Canada, by contrast, the lovely bean brew is delivered in three sizes: "Bucket", "Ridiculous" and "That reminds me, I must bath the dog." As someone for whom coffee is only tolerable if it's hot enough to slough skin from the tongue, it's taking some getting used to. For some reason, though, I keep going through the motions on a daily basis.
Grocery shopping here involves an unanticipated level of frustration and effort, too. In familiar surrounds it's an activity which barely rates a thought beyond, "Hmmm, what will I have for dinner?", but for an Australian in Canada? No, no!! The Aussie lass must rethink her entire diet and lifestyle. Cheese has become a dirty, flamboyant indulgence, dissappointing given that I now realise that it was a dietary cornerstone whilst I was still a Brisbane resident. Tiropita -- feta, ricotta, egg in filo -- was a once-a-fortnight standard at Chez Suzette. Oh, happy days. I spotted 300g of feta here today for $8 -- the price for one kilo of the top-shelf stuff at home. So, a lovely slab of tiropita would come in at around the same price as several hours with a high-quality escort. And a pavlova extravaganza had to be abandoned due to an inability to locate greaseproof paper or passionfruit, even the tinned variety. Clearly, some things really just need to be let go if I'm to play Canadian.
No wonder I'm losing sleep.
12 March 2005
You Should Sit Down Before Reading On
Hey, Australia -- I spent last night in a pub and this morning my hair still smells fresh! And I can wear the same clothes again without gagging! How can this possibly be, you scratch your head and ask? Well, here in wacky old Canada people don't smoke in pubs!! That's right, no smoking inside... at all! Anywhere!!
It's a crazy idea but, you know, there just might be something in it.
It's a crazy idea but, you know, there just might be something in it.
11 March 2005
Turn, turn, turn.
At any given moment on any day we have the ability to make a choice that is life-changing. Sometimes the act bringing about that change may only be a small one, but one that alters the course of our lives forever. That's absolutely how life is : choice > turn > choice > turn > choice > turn.
How do we make these choices? How do we know which is the right course? When is the risk of disaster too great for a particular option to be reasonable?
There can be a great and terrible tension leading up to the decision to act or not, a tortuous rolling over and over and over of the scenario, the act, the outcome, the repercussions, the delirious rush that marks success, the eye-prickling, cheek-burning, chest-caving crush delivered by appalling judgment and failure.
So how to predict?
How do we make these choices? How do we know which is the right course? When is the risk of disaster too great for a particular option to be reasonable?
There can be a great and terrible tension leading up to the decision to act or not, a tortuous rolling over and over and over of the scenario, the act, the outcome, the repercussions, the delirious rush that marks success, the eye-prickling, cheek-burning, chest-caving crush delivered by appalling judgment and failure.
So how to predict?
7 March 2005
Postcard from Victoria
Orange cheese
Grey sky
Green grass
White skin
Blue tourist
Green bananas
Brown outfall
Red wine
Grey sky
Green grass
White skin
Blue tourist
Green bananas
Brown outfall
Red wine
3 March 2005
Communication Breakdown
I've had a number of Canadian friends over the years, and have never had much trouble understanding what they say. This lead me into the false expectation that I would be able to communicate readily with their compatriots once I arrived.
If my staying here is dependant on my pronouncing "R" and "T" then all bets are off.
*sigh*
(And I haven't had a flat white in over a month.)
If my staying here is dependant on my pronouncing "R" and "T" then all bets are off.
*sigh*
(And I haven't had a flat white in over a month.)
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