all good things...

This is my last night in Canada.


I don't really know what to say, other than that. My whole world is about to change, in a very literal sense. And I still can't really get a grasp on what that means to me, even though it all happens tomorrow.

The thing is, I love being a Canadian. And I suppose that that in itself will not change. I will always be a Canadian even if, three years down the line, I pass the test for citizenship in my new chosen country.

But I also love living in Canada. The well-defined seasons have always been a way of marking the course of my life. And winter, here in Southern Manitoba - it is a thing to behold, and not for the faint of heart, or the easily chilled. I will miss the snow, the cold. Yes, even the days when it is -35 and you can feel the frosty air turn to crystals inside your nose. How will it ever be Christmas again if I can't look out the window Christmas morning to see three feet of snow on the ground?

I love how Canadians are regarded in the world. We may often be thought of with a bemused smile and a tolerant chuckle, the kind you have for your four-year old little sister wanting to tag along with the big boys. But who out there really thinks badly of us? Or even hates us? We may not be a big player in the grand scheme of things, but we hold our heads high (or, at least blush bashfully) at knowing that the world at large is indifferent towards us. And maybe even like us a little.

There are so many things I will miss here. Things that if you asked me two years ago, I may not have been able to contemplate living without.

So much has changed in these past two years.

My life has been one of very little change. I have lived with my parents my whole life. I have lived in the same house for 33 years. I have not had a career, a family, a life to really call my own. My job was to make it through each day, and the pain each new day brought, with my sanity and sense of humour intact. Most days I managed that. Many days I even managed it with a smile still on my face.

And then I met him. My Guy. And he changed everything. Absolutely everything.

I am leaving behind my friends, my family, my home, my country. Dropping everything to be where he is, to move across the world, adopt a whole new country, and soon a whole new name.

I expected to be nervous. To be scared of going into the unknown, moving to a country I have never even visited before. I expected to be sad at all the partings, saying goodbye to so many people that I have no real expectation of ever seeing again. I will go from seeing my parents every day for the past 36 years, to seeing them maybe once every couple of years.

But here's the thing. I am not scared. I am not nervous. I am not even particularly sad -certainly not as sad as my family seems to expect me to be. I can't be. Not any of it.

Because I know what I am going to. I may not know what strange foods I may find on the grocery store shelves in place of my familiar favourites. Or what it will be like to experience winter with more rain than snow. Or how I will manage to spend Christmas at someone else's mother's house. Or how odd it will feel to sit on the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road. Or any of the thousands of other changes and differences that I haven't even been able to imagine yet. But none of that matters.

I am going to be with My Guy. The man who finally brought love into my life. Someone who makes me feel beautiful when I am in his presence. A man with more patience, tolerance, compassion and caring than I ever knew existed in this world. Someone who loves me as much as I love him - and for whom I have more love than I ever thought it was possible for one human heart to hold. And that is enough for me to know. Everything else will come with time. But he is over there in England waiting for me. So that's where I'm going.

I'm coming home, sweetness. Be there soon.

itchy itchy scratchy scratchy

Last week I went to Toronto. Not because I had any strong urge to visit Toronto. At least, not for just one night, only to turn around and fly back home again the next day. It wasn't what you might call a vacation.

The trip was for my bioscan appointment with Worldbridge, the people who handle the UK immigration stuff here in Canada. I got a digital photo taken (which I didn't even ask to see, because I have seen my passport photo, and have decided it's just better not to know how I am going to be immortalized on my Visa.) Got my hand scans done. Gave them all my documentation. Yes, that three inches of accumulated paper that took us months to get together. It got some raised eyebrows I have to say. Turns out most people don't supply them with half a forest worth of paper. But they asked for proof of relationship. And boy did we give it to them. In short form, even. If we'd given them all of the proof of contact we had, it would have required clear-cutting about a thousand acres of old growth forest.

I was politely informed it could take up to three months for my application to be processed.

I'm sorry...WHAT? Three months. Seriously?

Apparently so. Which kind of makes completely useless all of my lovely plans to travel on the sixth of November. Or even the assumption that I will be with My Guy before Christmas. Trying very hard not to think of that right now. Although, I may get to visit the pleasant man with the John Denver wig at the airport again when I am forced to change my flight. That'll be nice.

It all went terribly smoothly and blah, blah blah. Nothing much exciting about the whole thing. The plane trip both ways was smooth as glass, no turbulence. Mom and I made it through the flight with no motion sickness, not a batted eyelash from either of us. And then we both managed to almost pass out on the elevator ride up to the 25th floor of the Eaton Centre for my appointment. And no, I don't understand that any more than you do.

Most of our time in the big city was spent walking Yonge street. Mostly because it is very hard to get at all lost if you stick to one street. And there was a whole lot to see on Yonge Street and it's immediate cross streets. We poked our way through a lot of interesting little shops, until I got so tired I lost interest in exploring even such wonders as the Roots store. So we made our way back to the hotel by way of the biggest bookstore I have ever seen, to spend our remaining hours in T.O. curled up on couches in the hotel lobby.

Ahhhh, yes. The hotel. That little gem our travel agent found for us, only blocks away from the Eaton Centre and what passes for affordable in downtown Toronto at only $179 a night for a one bed room.

We should have known, eh?

Now, as far as first impressions go, it made a fairly good one. The lobby was impressive, with shiny floors and comfy couches and uniformed bellmen waiting to take your baggage to your room. It was a bit confusing with several different desk areas and no really clear signs telling you where to go. But once we actually found the place to check in, things seemed nicely on their way to a pleasant stay.

I opened the door to the room and immediately decided it was a very good thing I am not claustrophobic. It was tiny, with just enough room for the bed, wardrobe, desk, and two chairs that took up every available inch of wall space and then some. Mom and I were sharing a bed, our budget being somewhat minimal for this little excursion and Toronto being not so friendly to the frugal. The bed was not huge, but was the central feature of the room, with just enough space to walk around it.

Now, my mother is....hmmm. A bit OCD when it comes to cleanliness. And not one to bite her tongue when it comes to critical comments. I'm not saying she didn't mention the dubious hygiene of the coffee maker, which looked like it had been wiped down with a smeared dust cloth at best, and had likely never been actually washed. Or that she didn't wrinkle her nose at the state of the bathtub and sink, both of which I am pretty sure were hastily swiped with the same cloth that had left those charming streaks all over the not-so-shiny metal coffee pot. Or that she didn't point out that there was no possible doubt that the splotchy green bedspread had been used and abused by (possibly centuries worth of) guests before us without the benefit of a trip to the washing machine. Or that we didn't both cringe just a bit at the filthy carpet, which looked like it had never seen the business end of a vacuum cleaner and had mysterious staining throughout, including under the bed.

But here's where I was left with my mouth hanging open. She just decided not to use the coffee pot, and to buy coffee in the cafeteria-style restaurant in the morning instead. She volunteered to take a long hot shower before I ran my bath for the night so that it would be clean enough for me to actually lie in for a soak. She folded the bedspread back so that it still covered our legs to keep us warm, but didn't actually touch any part of our skin. She decided to keep her socks on to avoid touching the carpet.

Are you all standing there with your mouths agape like I was? You should be.

I was so thrilled with my mom's attitude. She had obviously decided to make the best of our little jaunt to the big city, and I was proud of her for it. I found myself biting my tongue to not complain as much as the room deserved. And there were plenty of things to gripe about, even beyond the cleanliness issue.

Like the fact that the door to the bathroom was impossible to actually close. The door had swollen up in size and no longer fit into the doorjamb. It was obviously working out at night, getting itself beefed up to impress the fancy door to the hall, with it's sexy green light and alluring keycard slot. I suspect steroids.

It was also impossible to plug the tub for a bath. It had a metal plug with one of those levers you turn to move the plug up and down. Between the combined efforts of the two of us we managed to budge that thing about a quarter inch from where it started. Which means I alternated between having my heel smashed down on the plug to keep it closed while trying to soak in a hot bath with my book, and actually lying comfortably while listening to water rush down the drain and constantly turning the tap back on to refill. Relaxing.

After my bath, which used up enough water to drain half of Lake Erie, I tried to settle in to watch a movie with my mother. I prepared to get comfy in bed, sitting down on the edge of it ... only to have it go scooting out from under me! I got up, looked at it with my head tilted, and tried again. Only to have it slide away once again. Good thing that room was tiny and the bed didn't have very far it could go, or I might have been seriously injured in its attempt to escape. Obviously not a bed that was going to graciously allow us to nestle in it's rock hard comforts for the night without first putting up a fight. I did have a eureka moment, though, in the midst of wrangling the bed back into position. I suddenly understood all the mysterious stains and footprints under the bed. They were no doubt scuffs and drag marks made by other guests digging their heels in when the bed went shooting across the room in yet another bid for freedom. Obviously this mattress had not been properly slaughtered and dried before being shipped off for luxury hotel use. It was desperately trying to gallumph it's way back to the swamps of Squornshellous Zeta. And who can blame it, really?

All in all, mom and I weren't exactly sad to leave our little hotel room the next morning. I was achy and tired and feeling slightly dirtier than when I'd arrived. And psychosomatically itchy.

Or so I thought.

Until I went to the doctor yesterday and casually mentioned the red splodge on my belly that had been there since the day we left the hotel. It is irritating, and growing slowly, day by day. I jokingly told my mom that I had probably caught a fungus from that green bedspread and would be slowly consumed by it. Ha haha ha, funny right?

Only....not so much.

Because the first thing the doctor asked me was if it was possible that I had been exposed to bed bugs.

Oh, yeah. It's possible. Definitely possible.

Almost inevitable, really.

Score one for the wily mattress. I knew that thing was out to get me.





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And how about you people? What's the worst experience you've had in a motel, hotel or guestroom?

it's in! finally!

I am so excited!

...


...and I feel a little sick.


But mostly SO excited!


The oh-so-important, much-talked-about Visa Application has finally been submitted. I can't even tell you how many times over the past six months I have said "...once the application is in..." Well, now it is. In.


Yikes.


I spent four and a half hours worth of my day yesterday filling it in online, after finally receiving all the papers I needed from my fiancé. Well, almost all. There was one bank statement that just never came, so he sent off the packet without it, and we crossed our fingers that a screen print of the account online would be enough. So you already know what arrived in his mailbox yesterday, don't you? *sigh* On the bright side, if he spends another five pounds he can get it to me before I have to physically hand in my application and the massive stack of paper that goes with it. Many, many trees have died in the attempt to get me to England.

Now I get to go plan a trip to Toronto next week. I think I get to go to the British Consulate there. Or something. I should probably find that out. Well, wherever it is I'm going they want to "collect biometric data".

*cue the discordant violins*

Does that sound as creepy and ominous to everyone else as it does to me? And, yes, I know that it only means they are going to take a digital photo of me and do some sort of scan of my handprint. But I can't help getting hazy visions of me strapped to a cold metal table in a dark room, the only light coming from behind the beings looming over me, shadow-people with enormous heads and shiny metal implements in their long-fingered hands, clicking and screeing in their alien tongue, all set to collect my biometric data...

Gah! I haven't had enough sleep. Obviously. Or I've watched too many episodes of X-Files. One of those.

So, I am off to the big city. Spending yet more money before I actually even know if I am going to be allowed to go to England in the end. I shudder to think how much has been spent on this process so far. Let's see...


Birth certificate $25
Passport $90
Postage $100
Application fee $1100
ticket to England $1000
ticket to Toronto $600
hotel stay in Toronto $200
passport photos $15

actually getting to go to England? priceless...and SO worth it!

it's a date

November sixth. That's the date. The day I move out of my home, my country, my old life. Which is pretty....well, BIG. And the airline really did their best to make the magnitude of the occasion hit home. I mean, if the length of time it took to actually book the tickets is any indication, this is the most monumental of all moves in the history of the world.

Let me take you back in time:

Last March My Guy was out to visit, and on the day of his departure my sister nicely offered to lug us and his suitcases to the airport. Only to have to lug us back again the next day after the airline offered My Guy a stay at a four star hotel and a voucher for future air travel if he would only consent to go through the hassle of staying an extra day. Well, let's see... we get a free night in an incredible hotel, free food for My Guy, an extra whole day together...

Sure, I think we can make the sacrifice. Just so long as you realize how much you're putting us out.

So, a trip to the Imax, dinner and movies in our room and some giant King-sized bed fun later, we were once again in the airport saying goodbye. Mollified slightly in our parting by the $200 travel voucher sitting warmly in my pocket, we made our tearful farewells.

Fast forward several months, and I am on the phone with the airline armed with a list of questions and every intention of booking my one-way flight to the first day of the rest of my life. I had a moment of tongue-swallowing hysteria a few minutes in when I found out my one-way ticket would cost twice as much as big sis's round trip ticket. (She is accompanying me to England, sleeping in an airport hotel, then turning around and flying back to Canada the next day. Cuz that's what sisters are for. Also, I am not getting any birthday, Christmas or anniversary gifts for the next thirty seven years or so.) Now the woman I was speaking with was abrupt, kept interrupting, and had no patience for my clearly idiotic questions. I could hear her rolling her eyes at me. This woman was obviously having a "hormonal" day. Either that or she was a bitch. One of those. Anyway, pre-menstrual ticket agents aside, and keeping in mind this phone call had already taken up fifteen minutes of my precious life, the whole thing came to a screeching halt when I was informed I could only use that wonderful travel voucher if I actually went to the airport and purchased the ticket at the airline's ticket counter. Okay then. Click.

So big sis once again hauled me to the airport so we could buy our tickets in person. We waited our turn then went up to see the very friendly man at the counter who looked remarkably like John Denver. In a wig. Only worse than you're imagining. Trust me.

I handed over my precious voucher then had another moment of tongue-swallowing panic when he asked me for photo ID. Now, the only photo ID I posses is my passport. Which I only got a few months ago for the express purpose of getting my Visa and moving to England. It had never been used. It had never been needed. It didn't occur to me I would need it now. It was 45 minutes away, tucked safely in an envelope at home. Great. I had visions of having to brave the airport a second time. Luckily, Mr.Denver accepted big sis's driver's license as proof of ID. Even though the voucher had been signed over to me, not her. But I was not about to argue the point.

In the end I wound up with not the one-way ticket of my dreams. I couldn't afford it! So I had to go for the return ticket, even though that leaves me with a ticket back to Canada that a) I have no use for and b) leaves me feeling a little nervous. I don't want to tempt the Fates. Or worse, the British Immigration people when it comes time to get my next Visa six months after I arrive there.

"Well, it says here this TeDiouS girl wants to stay for another two years."

"She does have that ticket back to Canada, though. No sense that going to waste."

"True. And how badly can she want to stay if she came with her getaway already planned?"

And then the big red stamp comes crashing down: DENIED.

But I'm trying not to think about that.

By the time the tickets were purchased, the seats were reserved, help was arranged to get to my connecting flight, and the counter guy had sung us a stirring rendition of Leaving on a Jetplane, almost an hour had passed! An hour of standing in a sweltering hot airport on a thursday night in August, watching John-Denver-wannabe's hair tilt a little more to the left. Fun.

And then came the kicker. The one that literally made me want to kick something. Or, more to the point, someone. Our friendly and pleasant counter guy with the interesting taste in hairdos suddenly says " You do know you could have done all this by phone, right? They could have gotten all this info from you, saved it, then you could just have come down here with the voucher to finish up. Would have taken five minutes."

Thunk.

Sorry, that was me dropping my purse. And my jaw.

Now, if you all will excuse me, there is a woman somewhere in an Air Canada headset with a bottle of Midol on her desk that I need to go have strong words with. Or beat around the head with blunt objects. One of those.