NYE2010

It's New Year's Eve 2010, and today I'm making an exception from my frustrating tendency to continually grasp for the unattained. Today, the end of a year, the end of a decade, I'm instead swimming in recognition, not of how far I've yet to go, but how far I have come.

This time ten years ago, I was working at the Stanthorpe Border Post, excited and nervous about my move to the big time at the Warwick Daily News. Little did I anticipate that move would take me, step by occasionally-backwards-step, all the way to Canada and this life of perpetual hope.

In the last ten years I have built a career then lost it from my ambivalent grip, watched someone die, kissed my baby nephew, wrote good words and bad, won some awards and lost others, destroyed all respect for myself and painfully pieced it back together, and through it all yearned for something I couldn't name. My feet led my heart, my heart fought my head. I chased things I should have let go, and let go things I should have chased. Mistakes were myriad.

And then -- be it thanks to the wisdom of ageing, or simply the learning of lessons life kept dumping on my doorstep -- everything has come to this moment of perfection. Tonight, T. and I will celebrate the end of a decade, and the beginning of another with so many dawnings in our world I fear we will be dazzled to blindness.

A year ago, I was  scratching in the sand, busying myself filling bag after bag to hold back the flood of desperation I knew was rising all around us. Tonight, we step into a new world. T. is striding confidently in the direction of his dreams, grounded in the soil of goodness, reaching for a pure light. The boys are wonderfully close, and the ties are binding strong and gentle around us all. I am about to start a job so perfect I'd dared not imagine until now, beside a wonderful man, a dazzling love, and a life filled with good friends and family far and near.

Today, may you also let go of the to-do list, and take stock of this moment, your moment. All of that pain and struggle and love and laughter, the loss, discovery, and challenge of simply leading a good life, it is transcendent. 

Bring on the light.

I am finally ready to see.

A brave new frontier

The one, or maybe two, of you who consider this blog semi-essential reading get a reward today: You are the first to know that my life as a bum will officially come to an end in January when I start two -- count them, TWO -- jobs. 

I am to be the new managing editor of Alternatives Journal, a peer-reviewed journal about the environment and sustainability. It's absolutely my dream job, and I finally get to use my powers for good instead of evil! Pay=low BUT good karma=high. I'm good with that.

I will also be teaching a course at Conestoga College, in its new media convergence graduate diploma program.  I've never taught before, but these kids have never worked in a newsroom before, so they won't know the difference. Kidding! It's going to be great, and I'm busily preparing class plans, assignments, lectures and the like. It's a six-hour class each week - wish us all luck!

Right. I'd better go actually tell people now.

x

Happy snaps

It's snowy outside, I have fresh coffee by my elbow, and I thought I'd share some of the things making me happy of late.

There's this little guy, just bursting to flower in my lounge room. It's the first time I've had an Amaryllis, and I'm looking forward to the mucho-mucho-bloomage. There's, like, five wannabe-flowers in there!

Making easily-postable gifts to send to Australia is tough. Making them look good is even tougher. Thus, my hand-drawn looks-just-like-a-present envelopes, which I then put inside boring looks-just-like-a-normal-envelope envelopes. Here's a close up of my effort:

Hope the recipients like them!

Other things making me happy:

My friend's VERY pregnant belly. I got kicked almost across the room when I put my hand on her stomach. (Note: That is not me in the picture, putting a hand on her stomach.) Breeding is such a weird, weird thing.

My bathroom, stripped of wallpaper and lathered in Bavarian Cream paint. I'm tempted to paint our entire house based on the names of the colours now. Although, come to think of it, that'll just make me hungry all the time...

And this guy. Who now roasts his own coffee. Could a gal ask for any more?

Cards and Crafts by Ten

Hold on, people: We're crossing a new frontier. I've just launched what amounts to my first online shop. Yes, it's on Facebook, but don't let that dissuade you.
 

'Cards and Crafts by Ten' harnesses my love of photographing the everyday and showing it in new light, and getting crafty with scissors and glue. I've just started selling these at Rarefunk in downtown Kitchener, and will also be selling the Christmas cards -- along with the bows-that-will-not-die -- at my friend's house in Guelph this weekend as part of her annual pre-Christmas art sale.

If you take a peek, please let me know what you think. It's not nearly as fruitful as having an actual job, but until I nab me one of those, it's an awfully lovely way to fill the time.

In the meantime, here's a sampler:

Cards for the holidays...

... or for any time.

You can frame 'em,

Or stick them to the fridge with a cheesy magnet

Hope you like 'em. :)

On the eleventh

The convergence of loss: A tale in three acts.

I.

Their faces shuffle across my computer screen: save to desktop, import to iPhoto, crop, insert, repeat. One hundred-and-fifty-four of them. These are the people who have died in Afghanistan under Canada's flag since the military mission began in 2002. As each of these soldiers posed before a flag, shoulders back, jaw strong, their brows tanned, acne-scarred or age-lined, the occasional smile pulling at the edge of lips, did they ever imagine their image would cycle through my computer so I could affix it to a map of Canada marking their hometowns? Did the journalist and diplomat imagine that their bio-shots would be all that the world would see of them? So many names and faces, familiar from news stories and repatriations. So many home towns. So much life, relegated to a file on my computer that I cannot bring myself to delete.

II.

The crowd drifted apart, slowly at first, then with intent, until we were divided - a Red Sea of small crimson poppies. At the source, the Canadian flag waved over a cenotaph and a group of men and women stood in tall, clear-eyed lines. At their helm was a young man, the only one in camouflages, a web of scarring from left eye to chin marking him as the latest incarnation of a tradition as old as humanity. Behind him, silvered, weathered, marched his predecessors. Such is the final bitter blow of war, I suppose: Those that know its horrors must then stand back and let their children into the fold.

As the veterans marched under a sapphire sky, we the onlookers clapped. It was all we could do, to bear witness in thanks for all they bore witness to. I thought of my grandfather being handed a gun and learning how to fire it. I thought of my uncle, barrel-chested and proud in his uniform, heading to a war no-one remembers. I thought of those young faces, plotted on a map, some so remarkably resembling my friends that it pains me to look at them.

As the marchers turned down King Street and I stood watching their reflections pass under bare-limbed trees, the marching band launched into Waltzing Matilda. That is when I cried.

III.

We await news today. A body has been found in the woods near Seaforth, 80 kilometres west of Kitchener-Waterloo. There is a strong likelihood it is a good friend of A.'s, missing since he walked away from a family dinner in August. His disappearance first caused anger -- it's not the first time the kid had just slipped off the radar, and as his absence dragged on his friends were understandably annoyed. But then it continued, and continued, turning into months of speculation that he ran away, or was hurt, or in hiding, or just gone.

Now one of two realities is bearing down on these 17-year-olds: Either their friend died alone in the woods many months ago; or it isn't their friend at all, and they're no closer to finding out what happened to him. It's hard to decide which is worse.

Everyone says Lest We Forget, but it isn't war we must strive to remember. It is life, every fragile, magic, aching shard of it.

---
Addendum, Nov. 12:
It was A.'s friend out there in the woods. No signs of foul play, as the police so delicately put it. The boys worked through so much grief in the abstract. I guess we're about to find out how it translates in reality.

Lessons for life

As the step-mum of two teenaged boys (an hilarious concept, still), it often transpires that some gem of wisdom pops into an everyday moment to create a wonderful learning opportunity. This isn't boring End-Of-The-Episode-Everybody-Say-'Awww' advice, but actually useful stuff, like: "If you're only going to dry a few things on the dish rack, do the cutlery because it's most likely to show water marks".
It's best, I find, to insert these sparkling moments of sage learnedness on the fly, with a hearty whiff of jocularity lest it come off as preaching and/or harping (both of which certainly have their place in family life but must be used judiciously, rather like the ultra-hot Paprika I accidentally purchased when intending to buy mild).

This weekend's advice for life? "Always make sure to regularly invite friends to your home, for it forces you to clean." 
Plus, those invitations mean you get to host wonderful dinner parties with great friends, involving much laughter, good wine, and the beautiful proof that leaving a city does not mean leaving a world.

And these things are what make life wonderful, no matter where you're living it. Lesson for life.

Wilkommen!

Why, hello there! Welcome to Waterloo, likely the only place in regional Canada where a smattering of high school German is more handy than the standard rusty French. If you're lucky, you'll know just enough to eavesdrop on the best Mennonite gossip at the farmer's market, while also looking knowledgeable enough to score free beer at Oktoberfest. Wunderbah!

Why don't I show you around a little? You've likely noticed the place is called Kitchener-Waterloo, but don't take that for a sign that it's all same-same-but-different. While Kitchener is the indefatigable older sibling who toils at the factory to bring in extra cash for the family, Waterloo is the upstart younger sibling who got a fancy degree, made a heap of cash and is now putting an addition on the house for an indoor pool and/or full sized ice rink. (Cambridge, the third and unmentioned part of the tri-city region, is kind of like a weird cousin who lives in the shed -- no-one's quite sure what Cambridge is doing, but it seems content enough to be pottering around on its own.)

You'll likely first notice that the two main cities in the tri-city region share a main street. Don't let that confuse you. King Street, Waterloo, is all fancy shops, resto-lounges and the occasional remnant puke of university students unleashed from parents for the first time. King Street, Kitchener, is funky art/craft stores (is that too obvious a plug for Rarefunk, where I sell some of my craftier wares?), gritty bars that look like they've ingested a great many hours of humanity's smaller woes, and artfully tattooed folk. 

Times are a'changing, though, and fast. What used to be Kitchener's staple factories and warehouses are being transformed into lofts and exposed-brick urban office space. The locally-vaunted Communitech Hub has opened for business, with aims to become a tech-salon of sorts. There's a Balzacs Coffee Shop. 'Nuff said.

Needless to say, we've arrived at a most interesting time, and all the more so because while the 500,000-strong region offers everything one would need in life, the area is still small enough to become involved in stuff. To wit: In the month since we arrived, I've been accepted as an artist contributor to a charity auction later this month, have made it into the 'post-workout-bagel' club with my fellow Rec Centre WaterFit class members (I'll explain that one later), and have infiltrated the University of Waterloo's international spouse gatherings as a sort of special-guest-member. 

Having an accent helps, but really, it just seems like being friendly, open and welcoming is  how KW-ites roll. 

So welcome to town! Grab a Brick brew, pick out a pretzel, and make yourself at home. Something tells me we'll be here for a while.

Apologies for this break in transmission

The author has been so busy living, she has neglected to chronicle the adventures of new home-ownership, the frustration of job searching, and the various successes or otherwise of bread baking, cellar filling, leaf raking and other such vagaries of happy living.

The author apologises profusely, and aims to rectify the situation shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy these humble offerings from my wanderings. Feel free to hum your own elevator muzak until regular transmission resumes.

Welcome to my new home town!

We totally know how to party.
(Don't be mistaken. This is the Oktoberfest Thanksgiving parade. If only the World Religions Conference also busted out Onkel Hans as a mascot.)

And while this isn't near home, it's pretty, so I'm sharing it with you.

For pumpkins and patios

It's Thanksgiving here tomorrow, so I shall (again) put off the daunting task of recounting to past wonderful, humbling week to instead simply do what the time demands: be deeply, truly thankful, for love, for family and friends, for sunshine and chipmunks in the front yard, for stepsons who smile and love and laugh, for soil that is rich, and time that is so elastic as to make it feel I've lived here forever already.

It's frightening sometimes to fully comprehend the richness and beauty of life. Lucky I am, as lucky as the teeming universe that only reveals itself in pricks of distant light, lest it dazzle us all into insanity.

Goodbye Toronto

Thanks for the drinks, the laughs, the sunshine and bright lights, the silly dancing, the globe-climbing, and four years of pure exploration inside and out. You really are a constant surprise. 

I'll be seeing ya.

x

By the numbers

Minutes we were in the house before we started pulling up carpet: 70. (We waited until the boys joined us after school - and the delay was agonizing!)

Night we chose to visit Canadian Tire: The second. (Yes, it was Saturday. Who said romance is dead?)

Scrapers destroyed trying to remove dried glue and underlay from the stairs: Two. One plastic, one razor.

Percentage of our direct neighbours who stopped for a chat while I was cutting the front bushes: 80 (four out of five).

Hours of fun ahead as we make this big, beautiful place our own? Countless.

The Mill Street breakdown

Two flights of beer, one palate-cleansing quesadilla. Welcome to Nat and Ten's guide to the offerings at The Mill Street Brew Pub in the Distillery District of Toronto.

First: pop into the gift shop as you enter, and sample some of the four main brews. We opted for the Stock Ale and Coffee Porter, having consumed the Organic Lager at home the night before. (Verdicts: Stock Ale is a bit lacklustre, and is beaten by the Organic. The Coffee Porter, however, is delicious! Likely best in smallish glasses in the middle of winter - rich, heavy, but not cloying. A grand brew.)

Next: Head into the brewpub and snag a small high-table beside the beer vats. Consider getting a Fruit Beer and Ginger Beer respectively, but instead order said tasting flights and Mexican-themed snack. Ask for water, then wonder throughout rest of visit why it didn't arrive.

I ordered the 4 Seasons beer sampler, N. went for the Baron's Picks. Four small glasses on each (one of which was on both of our lists), so seven beers in total.

Raspberry Fruit Beer

Server and tasting notes say: It's tart, not sweet. The tasting notes say the pale beer allows 'the wonderful flavour and colour of the fruit to dominate the taste, look and aroma'.

We say: Has a honeyed-amber colour and candied apple smell. First bite of fruit blows you away, then it settles to a more beer-dominated taste. Fruit is sour and tarty, and actually does taste like fruit as opposed to fruit-flavouring. A good pint to share with friends as a novelty. "Visit fruit beer town, but it's not a place to live."

Belgian Wit (with a slice of orange)

They say: Soft texture and colour, fruity flavours from coriander, orange peel and a special yeast. 

We say: Hazy wheat colour (or, according to N., 'pee'). Smells kind of sweet. N. gets hints of guest soap. Zingy taste to start, dwindling to minimal aftertaste. N. now tastes soap, and deems this not good. This beer is all up-front, like an ageing woman in a low cut top, it's giving too much away with nothing to follow. "Bathe in it, maybe. Don't drink it."

* Did not finish tasting glass.

India Pale Ale

They say: Copper brew with roasted note and strong hop bitterness.

We say: Golden amber colour, tastes like pot pouri. It has more body than Stella though, so that's a good sign. It's a beer for beer's sake. Drink it if it's free, but don't go our of your way. "Myeah?"

Pilsner Lager

They say: German-style lager, deep golden hue with malty nose. First tastes sweet with dry, hoppy bitter finish.

We say: Looks and smells like a beer that is comfortable with being beer. This is not dressing in florals, although it has slight hints of that in its background. An easy-drinking beer, likely a barbecue crowd-pleaser. Can take anywhere - "the dressy t-shirt of beers" according to N. I see it as the immigrant of beers. It has some fruitiness in its background, perhaps the trace of an accent, but is happily ensconced in BeerVille.

Thumbs up.

Helles Bock

They say: Pale, strong German lager has a frothy white head which gives way to sweet malty flavour with hints of currants and oranges.

We say: Look and smells like straight-up beer, but not nearly as pungent as the VBs of the world. Tasty, with a tangy aftertaste. I like it: It's more like a beer with wheat-beer notes as opposed to liquid bread dough. "It's friends with wheat beer, but it hasn't moved in with it, and quite happily so."

N.'s less of a fan. It's not a girlie beer at all. "It's not Gucci," she says.

E.S.B. (Extra Special Bitter)

They say: This copper coloured ale has a malty body with hints of chocolate and black currants. 
We say: Yum! Dark amber beer with a solid body and dark-ish aftertaste. I smell dark honey, N. smells 'a buffet of non-sweet desserts. Cinnamony, caramelly pastry.' Sadly, beer has gone flat while tasting other brews. Has a burnt toffee aftertaste. "A mealy Christmas Day beer."

Cobblestone Stout
They say: Traditional Irish style stout with creamy pour, roasted malt favour and hint of roasted walnuts and chocolate.
We say: Looks dark and rich. Smells like caramelly stout with coffee to me. N. just gets chemicals. New carpet, perhaps? Doesn't smell as rustic and country as it looks.
Soft to start, followed by an avalanche of texture. A bit watery after food (hello quesadilla!), so could definitely do with a bit more up-front. N. is not a huge fan, but then again, she's not a fan of stouts.  "Definitely a destination beer. One doesn't land here accidentally"
Sadly, was undone by the fact we tried the Coffee Porter on the way into the restaurant. The Coffee Porter is the suave adults that this beer likely one day wants to become.

The verdict?
Winner of the day, by consensus, was the E.S.B. That was a bit if a surprise choice, but a well earned win all-round. The Coffee Porter, had it been on our tasting flight trays, would have also been a solid contender.

Two discerning ladies and a whole lotta beer

The day dawned grey and misty, the city a hazy monochrome as we two discerning ladies headed out for a day on the town. Wearing colourful autumn frocks, tights and scarfs, and practical walking shoes, Toronto was ours for the day!

So what is a pair of dapper damsels to do to while away the hours? Toronto has too much to offer for a short trip. Kensington market? One of the three Chinatowns? A stop in Little Italy/Korea/Brazil/Portugal/Jamaica/the other Little Italy? Faced with such a dilemma, we decided to order the degustation menu instead, and have lots of little bites, leaving the bulk for another time.

First stop: Yorkville, chi-chi home to the renovated Royal Ontario Museum and its crazy crystal addition, high end stores and the Shoe Museum. N. debated buying some Jimmy Choos in Holt Renfrew; I debated buying a wonderful dragonfly brooch at the Ontario Craft Council's guild shop (until N. swept over and grabbed it to buy it on my behalf. Cheeky thing!) We browsed the Bata Shoe Museum and deemed it less enthralling than its name would suggest. One level is devoted to the history and construction of shoes, one level to 'superstar' shoes, and another to... the history and construction of shoes. Hmmm. Perhaps they missed something? Like the art, vanity, pain and devotion these objects can often inspire (or inflict)? We left a little disappointed.

1930s Perugias, I covet thee

From there we jumped on the subway and headed to the Distillery District. Apparently it used to be home to Gooderham and Worts Distillery, which indeed sounds like a tasty beverage. Apparently the remaining nook of Victorian Industrial buildings is the largest such stand in North America. Impressive, perhaps, if Europe weren't full of entire towns like this. These days the place is a tourist and arts haven, its cobblestone streets regularly hosting music festivals and art shows like the one we stumbled upon.

Intending to go to Balzacs for a glass of wine and a snack before browsing (it's the upstairs cafe used in the television show Being Erica, for those who watch it), we instead found a big line-up and darted around the corner to the Mill Street Brew Pub. Yep, the distillery district now only makes beer. We opted for a tasting plate of house brews each, and a quesadilla to share. Our tasting notes are below, and can also be found on N.'s blog, which incidentally is a rollicking good read of her classic American adventure. Check it out.

Mmmm. Beery beer. Full review HERE.

Slightly happy, we devoured some artisanal chocolates containing balsamic vinegar truffle (delicious!) and fir truffle (piney!), went shopping and then trundled back to downtown for a spot of Brazil Day festivities at Yonge-Dundas Square, and a quiet cocktail and highbrow chat at legendary Peter Pan's on Queen West, safe in the knowledge that T. was at hope cooking up a delicious feast for our return. Beautiful!

Next day was Niagara Falls and Niagara-On-The-Lake, and sadly, the last day of the visit. We thought we had one last city day up our sleeve, but a belated check of the itinerary ruled that out. Instead of slurping coffee in the local cafe, we were instead heading to the airport at an ungodly hour. 

My little heart sank as I watched N's white trilby disappear into the maw of Pearson International. Tis wonderful to have time with old friends on new turf. Until next time, my lovely!

Itty bitty fun

A little bit of Brisbane has landed in my Toronto midst. The lovely Nat used to live literally down the hill -- a veritable marble toss -- from me in Brissy, and for the week is inhabiting our front room on Indian Rd. Naturally, this means we're in for some touristy goodness!
So far, Nat has been treated to: bucketing summer rain a-la BrisVegas as we got groceries on her first night here; being rained on while sauntering the Roncesvalles shopping strip; watching the delightful golden sunset suddenly turn to a dark downpour as we watched Romeo & Juliet in High Park; delighting in endless grey drizzle at Bobcaygeon, Ont.; and today, wandering through occasional showers as we explored the streets of Toronto.  Such is life at the end of an Ontario summer.

SJ, N, me and T, snaking our way to relative shelter at the rained-out Shakespeare In The Park

It's not all been wet and woeful. (Although, when it is, that simply gives us a good reason to duck inside for a wee spot of something tasty. Or, as would have it in Bobcaygeon, a hamlet in the Kawartha Lakes region, enough rye and ginger to get us elbowing our way into the karaoke action. We showed those kids a thing or two...)

We got to go walking in the wilderness at Dorset, Ontario:

And today we not only shopped in Yorkville, visited the Shoe Museum and partook in the Brazil Day festivities, we also conducted a thorough sampling and review of the Mill Street BrewPub offerings at the Distillery District. Full review to come!

Last day

Strange, it is, to be facing my last day working at The Globe and Mail. Given my absence from the place for a year, one would assume this moment would barely register. After all, I cut that cord earlier this year after months of introspection, didn't I? 
Apparently not, for this moment registers deeply, as it is now my choice to leave.


For those who haven't been inside it, The Globe is a pretty cool place. I was kind of star-struck when I first went in. Windows! In a newsroom! Functioning printers! Colour on the wall that is not just remnant cigarette smoke! 
Each reporter has a huge cubicle that provides two desk spaces -- enough to build a small journalistic empire, unless you are the wonderful, eccentric Colin Freeze, in which case your possessions seem to grow and multiply until their tentacles pry into every space around you, prompting your neighbours to construct protective barriers using outdated government reports and underused dictionaries. 
Sure, it doesn't have the free coffee making facilities, creekside dining area and occasional celebratory beer of the Sunny Coast Daily, but by golly it veritably oozes journalistic endeavour. And that's before I found out I'd be sitting spitting distance from institutions like Ian Brown and Kirk Makin, and of course the wonderful Anthony Reinhart.


That star-struck respect still lingers inside me -- who wouldn't think it's cool to be in that building, with those people? -- yet it's now partnered with a tinge of sadness. I've not become what I imagined there. I didn't scale the heights to become one of the anointed. I am a good journalist, and a better writer, yet I feel as if those aspects of myself were never fully tested.Inside that building, it seems as if they don't see my potential; that they don't see me. Perhaps this is the way of things for all workers, or perhaps I simply didn't show them, but I am now choosing another option.

Like a petulant -- or, some may say, neglected -- child, I'm packing up my bat and ball and heading to greener pastures! Up ahead, distant and hazy but still recognizable, is my future self, and she's not walking on the same rutted path I've been running along for 11 years. Somewhere, she's taken a surprising turn and has ended up in brilliant sunshine. 
I'm not exactly sure where she went astray, but it's going to be bloody fun finding out.

Stay tuned.

Aussie election

Fifty-six months ago, I decided to voluntarily withdraw the voting rights that many people, over the ages, had fought to gain.
At the time, I thought it prudent. I was leaving for 18 months, or maybe more, and didn't need the hassle of international registration. Also, as a journalist who avidly believes in living in the community on which one is reporting, I didn't feel right casting a vote when I was not living in the nation at the time. I'm an astute follower of politics, but the real impact, the full understanding, cannot be fully gained from outside a nation.
Thus I willingly removed myself from the electoral role. I was fully cognisant of the battle women fought to gain the right to vote (Australia was one of the first nations to grant women that right), yet it felt only just and right.
Then, in 2007, Kevin Rudd ran for Prime Minister and I felt I was truly missing am moment of greatness in Australian history. Perhaps I was. Now, three years later, KRudd has been deposed and Julia Guillard is running for Labor. 
I'm not partisan, although I do harbour particular ideals that match more with the left of spectrum. That guarantees no-one my vote, though. I am hard-headed yet idealistic in my voting patterns.
And yet, I've not been able to cast a vote in five years, and will still be unable for many years to come, until I am a Canadian citizen, or Canada gives residents a right to vote, or I move back to Australia.


Either way, I am mourning my absence from the often mundane process of democracy. It is a beautiful thing.

The big buy

There I go again, all teasing snippets of information and allusions to mortgages, without actually telling you the biggest news of an already-huge year.

T. and I have bought a house! It's big(ish) and beautiful, and in Waterloo, Ont., a rockin' place full of science and tech nerds, arty writer types, and -- come October -- us! 

We hadn't intended on this so soon, but opportunity more than knocked. It barrelled down our door and stood in our hallway, stomping its boots and glaring at us without pause.

It all began during My Year of Enforced Respite. The government took away my ability to work, and in doing so broke my bonds with Toronto. I didn't notice at the time, but it is strange indeed to spend a year in this city without disposable income, without a place to go each day, without after-work-drinks and informal networking catch-ups. We got through largely oblivious to the break, then I stepped back into The Globe for this two-month contract and it's becoming glaringly apparent that I'm no longer a part of the cycle here. I'm a spinning cog, desperately wheeling away in the hope of locking on to something that fits.

This is a town for both a certain stage of life -- drinking and travelling and other filling of funnels -- and a certain level of income. And I suspect I've moved out of both. I used to be on top of the latest bars, bands, and all that jazz, not because I went out that much but because I was still paying attention. In the past year, I stopped paying attention and the city has moved on without me. Plus, I have been increasingly itchy for my own piece of space. Our own home. I'm 32. It's probably time I could paint my own walls with abandon. In this town, we'd be lucky to afford a shoebox.

Which all leads me to the idea of Kitchener-Waterloo, twin cities 100km west of Toronto. T. is from there, his boys live there, and we stay there every second weekend. We started looking at open houses a few months ago, partly to fill in the time when the boys are busy, and partly "just to get an idea of the market".  We looked mostly in Kitchener -- the grittier, hard-working big brother to shiny, popular Waterloo -- because it's eminently more affordable.

And then, last month, we happened to drive by a private sale in the best neighbourhood in Waterloo. The house was big but largely unadorned; a blank canvas. It stood solid and dark, but with a welcoming air, as if it was the only immovable thing in a swirling world. There was a man on the landing. He waved, led us through, chatting all the while about the house. His name is John and this is his childhood home, built in 1926, he said. His 93-year-old mother moved in to the house in 1949 and has now had to go to a nursing home.

She had some shocking taste in wallpaper. Her husband lovingly maintained the original woodwork until his death. They've never used pesticides on the huge back yard. It is perfect.

We dropped the boys off that Sunday night and started the drive back to Toronto. Our conversation was a tap dance, all staccato bursts and perky silence. When we left KW, we were hesitantly ruminating on crazy possibility. By the time we got to TO, we had decided to make an offer.

Tuesday morning, as we were sat at the bank getting pre-approval for a home loan, someone else made an offer on the house. The old lady accepted it.

We let it go. A couple of days later, as we walked through our lovely near-downtown neighbourhood to get some dinner, T. and I were laughing about how we had almost bought a house. Crazy timing, we laughed. Nothing arranged. Too soon. At least we know we're game.

And then, two weeks later, opportunity came storming back into our lives to see if we were more than just talk. That other deal fell through. If we were still interested, the house was available.

We sat silent in the kitchen for a while,  looking at each other. I wasn't  game to put my thoughts into words, partly because I wasn't quite sure what would come spilling out of my mouth. It felt like a dare. Were we going to do this?  This was a test of my most fundamental life belief: Plan enough so you can be ready to grab the unexpected. If it comes, be ready to jump. If it frightens you, that's all the more reason to do it.

Finally, after repeatedly soliciting each other's opinion and skirting anything definitive, I said "I think we should do this."

"So do I," T. replied. 

We grinned crazy grins.

An hour later, the forms were printed up (thank you, High Park Library) and we were sitting in The Film Buff, drinking coffee, filling out the offer of purchase. 

T. drove it to Waterloo that afternoon, en route to pick up the boys for the weekend. The family said they'd get back to us Saturday. I worked that night, tense and excited and giddy, and was brutally tense when T. came back to get me Saturday morning. I couldn't sit still for long, had packed hours early, flitted from one task to another. In the car, I distracted myself with lengthy analyses of media. I probably looked pale.

We got to KW and went to a Tim's to await our 1:45 p.m. meet-up at the house. Coffee and a bagel. Mum and Dad would have been proud.

Got to the house, received the counter-offer from John and his sister. The mum wanted $8,000 more than we'd offered. It was starting to drizzle as we took the papers out to the car and sat at the kerb. We looked out at the house, watching it, wondering what price to put on our possible future there.

We went up $3,000 and hoped for the best. The neighbour, Julian, signed as our witness. John and his sister drove off to see their mum.

We stayed at the house, walking from room to room, actually paying attention to what we were seeing. The house has flaws for which I'd automatically discounted other properties: bedrooms too small, not enough closets, will need a new kitchen eventually. But for some reason, that didn't matter with this house. Even the random toilet in the corner of the laundry didn't bother me. It all just felt good, and right, and full of potential. 

About 20 minutes later, John and his sister got back. We heard them climb the stairs, then come to the front door. John poked his head in. "Better take my shoes off in your house," he said with a grin.

I couldn't speak for ages. My head just froze in shock as T. and I signed the papers. She'd accepted the offer, after making sure from her children that we were "a nice couple". It was ours. 

As we stood on the front footpath afterwards, me having partially regained the ability to speak, T. and I wrapped each other in a long, close hug. I started to cry. 

"Thanks for coming on this crazy adventure with me," T. said.

We held each other, shared a teary, smiley kiss, and then stood gazing at the house as the light rain drizzled down.

Let the adventures begin!

Befuddled

The other night I had a flashback so vivid, my heart still aches a little. It was a fraction of a fraction of a moment --  my hand reaching into my open backpack to rifle through the collection of travel clothes that got me through four months in Europe -- but it's set my little heart a-flutter.

It's so long since I travelled in any real sense of the term, and I'm surrounded by people adventuring: Nat's coming to visit, friends from work are flitting about the globe. And here I am, saddling myself up with a mortgage. I want to get somewhere new, and I have no work lined up for September. We move in October. Can I ... should I direct much-needed downpayment funds towards a frivolous self-adventure?

I'm torn. Truly torn. 

I want hostels and pensions and cheap roadside food and the blankness of utter language deficiency. The best option open to me is a solo road trip through the northern States. Is that going to be enough?

One mighty shopping spree...

On my favourites bar, just at the top of my browser screen, I have a tab titled 'KW Search'. I pop different websites there -- house searches, job boards, interesting community groups -- with an eye to our little dream of one day, eventually, if we're lucky, moving out there to the fabled place where houses are still affordable and T.'s boys can come and visit any time they way.

I don't need it any more.

At least, not the house-search bit. ;)

(Pics and deets to come as soon as financing is all squared away. I don't want to jinx this.....)

Sneaky sneaky sneak

My return to the workforce has been swift and brutal, at least in its impact on my once-peaceful life. I hope to update you soon, should I manage to get some free minutes at home. Too much to do! Too much.
All is well, though. Mostly. For now.
Isn't that always the way?

I'm standing at the crossroads and a figure is a'coming

My head is spinning. How did I ever maintain this pace of life? Or, more to the point, how did I ever sustain this lack of peace?

I am about to finish my first week of web-work, and I am in a mild state of shock. I have so much buzzing through my mind, so much to contemplate and dissect, and yet no time to actually ponder it properly, let alone muse about it on my wee blog. It's disheartening, at the least, to be so abruptly shown my life as I used to lead it.
Thankfully we have next week off, as we'd already booked family holidays and the paper was kind enough to oblige (knowing, perhaps, that I would have turned down the contract if they didn't).

It's all wrong. Everything about this is wrong. The past year was filled with uncertainty, frustration, freedom and -- in the end -- boredom, and somehow during that time I made my way from a frantic pursuit of achievement (any achievement), to a broad, deep and contemplative peace. I could see my world at depth, with texture, and allowed time to let its quiet beauties be heard.

This greedy consumption of mental energy, this flurry of tentacled demands winding its way around my life, is unhealthy.
What had I given up, when I used to live like this without knowing anything different? What have we all given up?

 After rainfall: A plant at the bottom of my front steps, 
so simple and lovely, yet so often overlooked

And so it is

Almost 12 months to the day of being told to leave the country, I've finally gained my Canadian residency.

The year of crazy housewifery is over. I'm already back at the national newspaper (albeit temporarily). I don't know if I'm ready to let go of this yet. 

I have to get to work right now, but am doing a lot of internal exploration on the meaning of work, the joys of escape, and the reality of, well, reality.

Expect a full recount and ensuring ruminations soon.

Great news pending...

I can't tell you yet, because I need to see it all happen before I believe it, but stay tuned for a reason to P-A-R-T-Y!!!


(As if we ever really need one.)

G20 aftermath

This was Queen Street West in downtown Toronto early Sunday afternoon.

Mostly empty streets, about a dozen boarded up storefronts, and police on every corner, usually rifling through the backpacks of pedestrians and cyclists.
This follows yesterday's protests during which dozens of black-clad 'anarchists' (more accurately, 'idiots') smashed storefronts, set police cars on fire, and threatened people who tried to stop them. Meanwhile, the police were performing illegal searches of people, strong-arming non-violent protesters, and shooting people with rubber bullets.

Today, while police massed outside the Eaton Centre (recent busloads pictured above), neighbouring Nathan Phillips Square wasn't giving in. The Toronto Jazz Festival is on, and a sizable crowd gathered to enjoy awesome tunes, and basically give the disruptive protesters a communal, figurative middle-finger.

Following the groovy tunes, I cycled around the downtown for a couple of hours. I was not questioned by police, even when I was standing opposite the fencing that surrounds the G20 security zone (below), but that could also be due to my genial demeanour, ready smile for police, and Aussie accent. 

The only time I was stopped was while I was being a good samaritan, trying to find out for a couple of tourists if airport shuttles were running (they were, but no idea where the usual pick-up points were behind wire fences). The police were largely friendly, and the only officer who was being brusque brightened considerably when I explained I was doing a favour for random strangers. He still wouldn't let me cycle north on Bay Street though, despite the fact people were still coming south. I had to go over to Yonge, head north for a number of blocks, then go west and back south on Bay. Make sense of that, eh?

As the hapless tourists headed to the subway, I went back to Yonge Street, where I then somehow got involved in a bicycle protest. I was happy enough to go along with it for a bit, as it seemed they were protesting the G20 goons as much as they were protesting any worldly wrongs. But then some of them started mouthing off at attending media, and I got out of there. I'm all for peaceful rebukes of violent protest. I'm dead against blatant idiocy and the lambasting of the people whose attention such protests are meant to attract.

Idiots.

As I waited for the straggling cyclists to go past, I overheard a police scanner message mentioning rubber bullets being fired. Sounded like a good time to get out of dodge. Turning homewards, I was overtaken by a flurry of unmarked police vans, a busload of more cops, and the rolling out of the horsey squad.

 

Once out of the downtown, the town was pretty much back to normal. Soccer fans cheered, brunchers munched, and sparse but cheerful crowds browsed through shops. In my neighbourhood, children laughed and played on the virtually derelict streets.

It's a beautiful Sunday in Toronto. If only the G20 delegates had been able to see it.

One Year Wonderful

When people ask me what it's like to be married -- it happens on fairly regular occasion -- I tell them the secret no-one told me: It's amazing. The deepening love and happiness that greets T. and I each day is a true wonder, and something I hoped for but never really expected.
We celebrated our first anniversary on Sunday, a week after our 'earlyversary' weekend escape to Collingwood, Ont. It was beautiful and simple and good and true, like our love has proven to be. 
It must seem sickeningly sweet, or naively optimistic, but being married has changed our lives. I would still love T. just as much if we were not married, our life would be as lovely and joyous, but there is something special about making this bond with another human. My heart is safely in his care, and his in mine, and we can meet each day holding hands and gazing at the beautiful horizon.
Blessed, we are.
I hope you are too.

In the treetops during our eco-earlyversary adventure

PS: We created an anniversary tradition! Each year, we're going to choose a celebratory scotch or whiskey, to savour on the day (and however many other days it lasts... ;)
This years is The Balvenie. There's something impressive about a scotch that insists on a definite article. The Balvenie 12yo Signature. Delicious!

Sunshine and lollipops

Big news! It's with much excitement and some trepidation that I can now report my residency application is in its final stages. My passport is en route to Sydney as I type, in order to get my papers. Eleven months after this stupid life-shock began, we are almost at the end of the road.
I have no idea what to make of it! It feels like the past year has barely existed -- all that frustration, dashed hope, endless budgeting and angst-ridden analysis of my place in this beautiful, beautiful world has simply disappeared. 
Looking at T. and thinking of all we've been through, I couldn't help but tear up and be so thankful for everything we have, and everything we've built during this crazy, wonderful, maddening year. Yes, I've learned that the government is stupid, feckless and intrinsically non-sensical, but what bureaucracy took away shortly after our wedding, the world has returned ten-fold for our first anniversary.


Expect one heck of a celebration once I get my Permanent Resident card!!!
Yeehaa!!!

This is how I'm feeling!!

An explosive morning

The house on the corner exploded this morning. Literally.
There was a huge boom about 3 a.m. and our apartment shook. I know this because T. told me. I slept through it, drowsily waking when T. went to the window and came back reporting massive flames. Bleary-eyed, he called 911 while I tried to work out if I needed to start gathering up our wedding pics. In the end, we donned our shoes and ran onto the street to see if anyone needed help.
If they did, there was nothing we could do. The place was an utter fireball, the inferno reaching high into the sky and sending embers floating over the neighbouring homes. 

The remaining wall, several hours later

Windows blasted out of their frames lay on the street, glass littered the road, and one car parked nearby had a shattered window from the blast. Within about 20 minutes, the roof collapsed and the whole thing disintegrated.

T. was on his blackberry, filing a short hit for the newspaper's website. I momentarily wondered if I should get my camera, then decided against it. It just seemed so voyeuristic, especially as we didn't yet know if anyone was inside. (The house was empty, thankfully.) Of course, now I wish I had taken pics because it was just so damned strange and freaky an occurrence. Oh well.
Here's a photo of the smouldering debris, taken about 10 a.m. today. What had been a handsome 100+ year old home is now ruins, the immediate neighbours likely thanking their very lucky stars.

Firefighters hose the smoldering ruins of the house five-doors down, its window blown onto the footpath.

No word as yet on what caused the explosion, but a few people in the neighbourhood did smell gas yesterday morning. All we know for sure is that even the seemingly indestructible can disappear before your eyes.