Hey mates,
Things all good over here. A lot of exciting projects forming in the nearby future. Updates soon! Have a great ol' day.
Elise x
Monday, June 30, 2014
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Entry #9: Reflections on this Quaint English Smalltown Life
I find it interesting that my first instinct in a new country is to flee the noise and the bustle to the sleepiness of small town life. I wouldn't call it regression, exactly; nevertheless, I spent sixteen years of my life living in a village the size of Sidmouth, and at least six of those counting down the years until I could escape to a bigger, more exhilarating venue. Yet, after five days in the crazy metropolis of London, I had my priorities sorted: I wanted to hike, I wanted to swim, wanted to purchase caffeinated drinks costing under two pounds and I wanted to work.
The expensive coffee is still an issue. They don't really do filtered coffee in Sidmouth. I'm working on it. As for the rest, it's coming together quite nicely.
I got a second job at a small ice cream café (perfect place for a lactose-restricted girl!). I start later today. I'm not excessively worried about it, because operating a cash register and serving coffee/pastries is something I can do blindfolded.
The hotel job is something else altogether.
Whenever I apply for waitressing jobs--which has been often--I try to embellish my Tim Hortons experience to make it sound like I was almost kind of mostly being a waitress for the year I worked there. As it turns out, the very first time I actually get a waitressing job, it entails tasks that old Tims did not prepare me for in the least.
What do I know about serving three-course meals which mandate 7+ utensils per person? About wearing a white blouse (which I believe I'd never done until Wednesday evening past) and sweeping in and out of the sunset-laden dining room to the sound of Haydn's vivacious six-string sonatas? About overflowing stemmed-bowls of trifle and suet pudding? Well, I knew just about nothing, to be frank.
Truth? I'm really enjoying it. I like the hustle and bustle of restaurants, and I really like my colleagues. The other evening waitress is from Poland, and we both have noticeable foreign accents and expressions despite our best efforts. The night before last, when catching me in the act of doing a Bad Thing (I was carrying a full tray of wine glasses over a cutlery divider), she clutched at her heart, relieved me of the glasses, and scolded me: "Never do this nevermore." It may be strange, but different dialects are some of the things I enjoy the most about meeting people from everywhere. She's great.
My boss said I was starting off "exceptionally well," which is a relief considering how my last hotel job ended (but he doesn't know I was the one responsible for the sticky syrup spot on the dining room carpet last night. Oops).
Living here makes me feel like a character straight out of a Katherine Mansfield short story: very sure of her convictions and simultaneously a little foolish; clumsy and too talkative but overall acting only upon an overwhelming urge to be kind. Maybe it's the English air. I'm on-site for many of my favorite stories and novels, and I think that has an effect on how I act.
My impression of Devon is mixed: it is overwhelmingly Anglo-Saxon (a non-white person walking down the street will turn heads), a land of clotted cream and pretty seaside cottages, of extreme luxury and delusion. It's very easy to live in a town like Sidmouth and sink into the ground: ergo, forget that poverty exists, that wars rage and global warming pervades, that children in the world walk barefooted on streets brimming with garbage. I think I can be happy here, for a time, but I could never stay.
Apologies for the digression. I'm really enjoying blogging and hope to hear more from my home folks. Let me know how you're doing! x
The expensive coffee is still an issue. They don't really do filtered coffee in Sidmouth. I'm working on it. As for the rest, it's coming together quite nicely.
I got a second job at a small ice cream café (perfect place for a lactose-restricted girl!). I start later today. I'm not excessively worried about it, because operating a cash register and serving coffee/pastries is something I can do blindfolded.
The hotel job is something else altogether.
Whenever I apply for waitressing jobs--which has been often--I try to embellish my Tim Hortons experience to make it sound like I was almost kind of mostly being a waitress for the year I worked there. As it turns out, the very first time I actually get a waitressing job, it entails tasks that old Tims did not prepare me for in the least.
What do I know about serving three-course meals which mandate 7+ utensils per person? About wearing a white blouse (which I believe I'd never done until Wednesday evening past) and sweeping in and out of the sunset-laden dining room to the sound of Haydn's vivacious six-string sonatas? About overflowing stemmed-bowls of trifle and suet pudding? Well, I knew just about nothing, to be frank.
Truth? I'm really enjoying it. I like the hustle and bustle of restaurants, and I really like my colleagues. The other evening waitress is from Poland, and we both have noticeable foreign accents and expressions despite our best efforts. The night before last, when catching me in the act of doing a Bad Thing (I was carrying a full tray of wine glasses over a cutlery divider), she clutched at her heart, relieved me of the glasses, and scolded me: "Never do this nevermore." It may be strange, but different dialects are some of the things I enjoy the most about meeting people from everywhere. She's great.
My boss said I was starting off "exceptionally well," which is a relief considering how my last hotel job ended (but he doesn't know I was the one responsible for the sticky syrup spot on the dining room carpet last night. Oops).
Living here makes me feel like a character straight out of a Katherine Mansfield short story: very sure of her convictions and simultaneously a little foolish; clumsy and too talkative but overall acting only upon an overwhelming urge to be kind. Maybe it's the English air. I'm on-site for many of my favorite stories and novels, and I think that has an effect on how I act.
My impression of Devon is mixed: it is overwhelmingly Anglo-Saxon (a non-white person walking down the street will turn heads), a land of clotted cream and pretty seaside cottages, of extreme luxury and delusion. It's very easy to live in a town like Sidmouth and sink into the ground: ergo, forget that poverty exists, that wars rage and global warming pervades, that children in the world walk barefooted on streets brimming with garbage. I think I can be happy here, for a time, but I could never stay.
Apologies for the digression. I'm really enjoying blogging and hope to hear more from my home folks. Let me know how you're doing! x
Friday, June 27, 2014
Entry #8: For Lack of a Better Post, Here are Some Pictures
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| tuuube station |
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| from the captain's seat (top deck front) |
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| I travelled 5000 km... to wound up at square 1 |
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| non britons unite |
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| still can't say loo with a straight face. loooooo |
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| I went to the queen's house |
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| woop pigeons |
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| woop ducks |
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| i was happy to see cows from the train |
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| Sidmouth on the afternoon of my arrival. |
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| When the tide comes up and it's a bit stormy the water erodes the sand from the cliffs and the water gets very red. |
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| This is my new bedroom! (bedsheets coming soon) |
Have a lovely day y'all. Longer post coming up soon! x
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Entry #7: Big Country, Small World
Greetings from the beautiful town of Sidmouth, Devon. The last few days have been quite wearing, but exciting to be sure.
Backtrack to Sunday: I was cranky and frustrated. I woke up at 4:30 without explanation and couldn't get back to sleep. I knew I had to find a proper blouse if I was ever to find work, so I travelled across London to Brick Lane Market, situated in the Indian diaspora of London, which apparently sold clothes as well as displayed an exciting array of local artware.
Allow me to specify : London is expensive. Very expensive. The pound currently costs around 1.8 CAD--so twice the Canadian dollar-- but the prices remain unaffected. A pair of plain black shoes which might cost 15$ back home will cost 15£ here. It's easy to forget how much you're spending.
Anyway, I'm a total cheapskate, so three hours later I trundled my rather disgruntled self back to the hostel with one blouse in my bag. It seemed somehow very difficult to find one that was at once appropriate and affordable.
It was time to face the facts:
1. I had nowhere to sleep Monday night, not in London nor anywhere else;
2. I couldn't afford to live in the city much longer without work;
3. I wanted to see some forests, some farm animals and some coastlines, not dodge buses and sit sweaty in the tube.
A friend I'd met at the previous hostel--a kiwi occupying the upper bunk--had told me about the beautiful county of Devon, about mountains (woo!) and ocean (eee!). I decided to look up jobs in the area to see if there was anything I could find.
I got a call back from the manager of the Mount Pleasant hotel almost immediately. They were situated in Sidmouth and were looking to hire waiting staff. So I decided to buy myself a train ticket and head southwest to the coast to see something new.
Luck pelted at me from every angle. I am staying with a lovely couple for a few days. They also have a ukelele. The town is beautiful (I have some pictures that I'll upload when I can, but you should Google it). Furthermore, as soon as I got off the bus, I ran into my friend from the London hostel. He'd just gotten off a different bus from a different part of the UK.
I essentially know three people in the UK, and I happened to run into one of them in a tiny coast town. Let that sink in for a moment.
Turns out he lives and works here! We had ciders on the beach and went for a swim. The water was cold but paled in comparison to the frigid baie st-Laurent that I jumped into not two weeks ago.
My job interview was this morning. I got the job, but it is only 16 hours per week and does not offer live in accommodation. I spent the rest of the morning handing out my CV to other business, restaurants and hotels. I'm confident I can find something else. Two part time jobs would be ideal for me.
There's quite a noticeable social shift between England and Canada. I'm not sure what I expected; I feel as if I've always been told that English folks are cold and awkward, and I've found the reality to be quite different. Everyone is very chatty. Young men flirt quite outrageously (the BANK EMPLOYEE that set up my bank account gave me his phone number and invited me to his house in Greenwich. Thanks but no thanks, stranger). Old men are a lot more conservative. I sat opposite a man on the train to Devon that was appalled at the notion of sharing a room with strangers, of sugary drinks, of swimming in the ocean and of Britain's Got Talent. I encounter all kinds.
I haven't hung out with women that much yet, save for my host and her friends when I first arrived, but they seem much less likely to engage in conversation. Maybe I'm just more shy around them.
The weather is beautiful here. It's my seventh day and not a drop of rain. Wishing you a lovely Tuesday! x
Backtrack to Sunday: I was cranky and frustrated. I woke up at 4:30 without explanation and couldn't get back to sleep. I knew I had to find a proper blouse if I was ever to find work, so I travelled across London to Brick Lane Market, situated in the Indian diaspora of London, which apparently sold clothes as well as displayed an exciting array of local artware.
Allow me to specify : London is expensive. Very expensive. The pound currently costs around 1.8 CAD--so twice the Canadian dollar-- but the prices remain unaffected. A pair of plain black shoes which might cost 15$ back home will cost 15£ here. It's easy to forget how much you're spending.
Anyway, I'm a total cheapskate, so three hours later I trundled my rather disgruntled self back to the hostel with one blouse in my bag. It seemed somehow very difficult to find one that was at once appropriate and affordable.
It was time to face the facts:
1. I had nowhere to sleep Monday night, not in London nor anywhere else;
2. I couldn't afford to live in the city much longer without work;
3. I wanted to see some forests, some farm animals and some coastlines, not dodge buses and sit sweaty in the tube.
A friend I'd met at the previous hostel--a kiwi occupying the upper bunk--had told me about the beautiful county of Devon, about mountains (woo!) and ocean (eee!). I decided to look up jobs in the area to see if there was anything I could find.
I got a call back from the manager of the Mount Pleasant hotel almost immediately. They were situated in Sidmouth and were looking to hire waiting staff. So I decided to buy myself a train ticket and head southwest to the coast to see something new.
Luck pelted at me from every angle. I am staying with a lovely couple for a few days. They also have a ukelele. The town is beautiful (I have some pictures that I'll upload when I can, but you should Google it). Furthermore, as soon as I got off the bus, I ran into my friend from the London hostel. He'd just gotten off a different bus from a different part of the UK.
I essentially know three people in the UK, and I happened to run into one of them in a tiny coast town. Let that sink in for a moment.
Turns out he lives and works here! We had ciders on the beach and went for a swim. The water was cold but paled in comparison to the frigid baie st-Laurent that I jumped into not two weeks ago.
My job interview was this morning. I got the job, but it is only 16 hours per week and does not offer live in accommodation. I spent the rest of the morning handing out my CV to other business, restaurants and hotels. I'm confident I can find something else. Two part time jobs would be ideal for me.
There's quite a noticeable social shift between England and Canada. I'm not sure what I expected; I feel as if I've always been told that English folks are cold and awkward, and I've found the reality to be quite different. Everyone is very chatty. Young men flirt quite outrageously (the BANK EMPLOYEE that set up my bank account gave me his phone number and invited me to his house in Greenwich. Thanks but no thanks, stranger). Old men are a lot more conservative. I sat opposite a man on the train to Devon that was appalled at the notion of sharing a room with strangers, of sugary drinks, of swimming in the ocean and of Britain's Got Talent. I encounter all kinds.
I haven't hung out with women that much yet, save for my host and her friends when I first arrived, but they seem much less likely to engage in conversation. Maybe I'm just more shy around them.
The weather is beautiful here. It's my seventh day and not a drop of rain. Wishing you a lovely Tuesday! x
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Entry #6: The Hostel Life (Experiences in Cheap Youth Accommodation)
Out of all the uncertainties I face on this
wild fling with the UK, the most significant is probably accommodation insecurity.
Today is my fifth morning in London, and last night I stayed in my third bed. I’m staying there again tonight, but then the
hunt begins again when I board the train for Devon tomorrow night. The main
inhibitor to advanced preparation is my lack of credit card; most rooms can’t
be booked in advance without one, particularly at a distance. Luckily, that
problem should be solved by tomorrow morning.
All this meant my tramping around London on
Friday morning with my 30-pound suitcase and backpack, knocking at hostels and begging
asking for a bed. I was pretty lucky, striking luck on the third attempt: the
first hostel, in Bayswater, was fully booked; the second hostel, adjacent to
the Earl’s Court Station, didn’t even exist; finally, I hauled my weary self
into the Balmy Badgers Backpackers whereupon I learned that there was exactly
one bed available, atop five flights of stairs, and that I could stay there for
a night if I paid upfront. Relief.
Less reassuring was the realization that I was the
only female in a mixed dorm with three other men. But I took it in stride.
It can sound dangerous or silly to be an 18
year-old staying in a co-ed dorm; however, I did remind myself that the notion
of gender-separate dorms is quite a heteronormative one (assuming that all
humans operate by a two-gender binary and heterosexual lifestyle); besides, I was
staying in an institution with 64+ other boarders and several staff members,
and if something were to go wrong or should I be made uncomfortable, assistance
was available.
In the end, my brief stay in Room #16 of the
BBB was very enjoyable.
Yesterday, I regretfully checked out of Balmy
Badgers and rolled my things two doors down to Saint James. My nights were
pricier here, but the hostel is cleaner, the rooms more spacious, and I got the
only available bed, which was in a female-only dorm. I only met four of the
seven girls sharing my room, but two of them were very friendly (the other two
came in sporting identical Bishops University buns*, applied concealer while
staring appraisingly at my not-pristinely-hairless legs, and whined to leave
the lights on after 11 so they could read their Harlequins).
In all seriousness, I have no grudge against
girls my age, but personality clashes are recurring and expected. Those I do
befriend, I do so very selectively.
After I got settled, I went for a long run to
see what was in the vicinity. I’m staying in the Royal Borough of Kensington
and Chelsea, but I had no virtually what was around.
What I saw:
-Natural History Museum (sooooo big)
-About nine churches of various faiths
-Kensington Park
-Kensington Palace
-Places to buy running shoes and a towel (two
things I need to procure for myself)
I had a good few days. I went to my orientation
session and met other Canadians (even other Quebeckers) living in London. I
went exploring with a friend and wound up at Buckingham Palace. It’s surrounded
by a beautiful park, whereupon I was jubilant to take pictures of many pigeons
(I have my priorities). Today I’m thinking of visiting a wetland, buying my
train ticket to Devon and perhaps going to Brick Lane Market—I hear it’s nice.
I’m thinking of all you beautiful folks back
home! Don’t forget to love yourself and enjoy the long days.
*Bishop’s University Buns are a hairstyle commonly
sported by most girls at Bishop’s University. These girls were from Australia.
But it was just as disconcerting.
Song of the Day: Bright Eyes--A Bowl of Oranges
Heard this song yesterday and it summed up everything that is good about staying in hostels.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Entry #5: First Few Days in London
Life is 100 miles an hour here in London--and in the wrong lane, too. I have to say I've yet to get accustomed to the inverse driving. On my way to my host's house, while crossing the road, I looked left instead of right and almost got flattened by a two story bus. This won't surprise anyone who's crossed the street with me before, I'm sure.
Anyway, I've been lucky with my first couple of days. I took the tube from Heathrow for about an hour and a bit to get to M's house. All in the flat were relieved that I spoke French and quickly converted. She was extremely hospitable, allowed me to shower, fed me, and invited me to a party.
Except that I fell asleep, then had to navigate to the other side of London to get there. What was supposed to take about fifty minutes took me over two hours, disembarking at various wrong stops along the way due to some faulty, if well-intentioned, advice from strangers.
I believe the primary issue is that many people seem to have problems dissecting my French Canadian accent. I asked the bus driver to drop me off at 'Parkgate' Street, and he made me repeat at least five times.
"Parkgate."
"Packington?"
"Parkgate."
"Paddington?"
Parkgate."
"No such stop."
A kindly lady recommended I get off the bus and take the tube. It was my turn to misunderstand: the way she pronounced it resembled the way a Canadian would say "cheap" (tchibe). What do I know about the London transport system? I followed her advice.
Turns out I was on the right bus, but I got on and off three times.
Likewise with my French. M's flatmate, a french-speaking Italian, had a lot of difficulty understanding my broken Québecois jargon. We traded expressions; they think that "Tire-toi une bûche" is just the funniest thing. I still can't get over the fact that some people call their friends "Mon potte" in real life. I thought it was only drunkards in French films.
On the bright side, I got to see a lot of London above ground. And ride a double decker. On the top.
M left for Iceland this morning, so I'm staying at Balmy Badgers Backpackers tonight and St James Backpackers tomorrow and the following night. Then, I believe I will take the train to Brighton. I want to see the coast (and find some work)!
I have taken some pictures, but can't upload them from my phone. I'll do a photo post once I have access to a computer. Farewell!
Anyway, I've been lucky with my first couple of days. I took the tube from Heathrow for about an hour and a bit to get to M's house. All in the flat were relieved that I spoke French and quickly converted. She was extremely hospitable, allowed me to shower, fed me, and invited me to a party.
Except that I fell asleep, then had to navigate to the other side of London to get there. What was supposed to take about fifty minutes took me over two hours, disembarking at various wrong stops along the way due to some faulty, if well-intentioned, advice from strangers.
I believe the primary issue is that many people seem to have problems dissecting my French Canadian accent. I asked the bus driver to drop me off at 'Parkgate' Street, and he made me repeat at least five times.
"Parkgate."
"Packington?"
"Parkgate."
"Paddington?"
Parkgate."
"No such stop."
A kindly lady recommended I get off the bus and take the tube. It was my turn to misunderstand: the way she pronounced it resembled the way a Canadian would say "cheap" (tchibe). What do I know about the London transport system? I followed her advice.
Turns out I was on the right bus, but I got on and off three times.
Likewise with my French. M's flatmate, a french-speaking Italian, had a lot of difficulty understanding my broken Québecois jargon. We traded expressions; they think that "Tire-toi une bûche" is just the funniest thing. I still can't get over the fact that some people call their friends "Mon potte" in real life. I thought it was only drunkards in French films.
On the bright side, I got to see a lot of London above ground. And ride a double decker. On the top.
M left for Iceland this morning, so I'm staying at Balmy Badgers Backpackers tonight and St James Backpackers tomorrow and the following night. Then, I believe I will take the train to Brighton. I want to see the coast (and find some work)!
I have taken some pictures, but can't upload them from my phone. I'll do a photo post once I have access to a computer. Farewell!
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Entry #4: Raw and Unedited Nonsense Musings from a Deadbeat Airplane Passenger
There was a mini baroque orchestra at gate 52. They were a sound for sore ears. Can you say that?
I`m flying over Newfoundland and I can`t sleep. I can`t see a duuurned thing
It`s -50 degrees out where I am, some eleven kilometres aloft. Too cool for school
It`s queer to think that I share my exact coordinates with the waves and the ecosystems deep under the ocean. They seem worlds away. I would totally swim right now
If I left the plane on foot right now, it would take me about two hours to walk back to earth
but only about a minute to fall through the air
I`m trying to remember how to calculate the speed of the fall of an object based on mass and velocity, but high school physics feel very distant presently
I`m flying over Newfoundland and I can`t sleep. I can`t see a duuurned thing
It`s -50 degrees out where I am, some eleven kilometres aloft. Too cool for school
It`s queer to think that I share my exact coordinates with the waves and the ecosystems deep under the ocean. They seem worlds away. I would totally swim right now
If I left the plane on foot right now, it would take me about two hours to walk back to earth
but only about a minute to fall through the air
I`m trying to remember how to calculate the speed of the fall of an object based on mass and velocity, but high school physics feel very distant presently
I don`t party with metal birds
Up all night
Can`t see a durned thing
Ask for my boarding pass watch me
Sweat demand my passport see me
Tremble I
Am a nervous flier
I am a nervous flyer
A scuttle old grocery flyer
Buy my cantaloupes
Purchase these Little Debbie cakes
zzzzzzzzzzzz
Monday, June 16, 2014
Entry #3: Pre-Brit (How to Fit Your Life into Less Than 23kg)
Over the course of the last month, I've trashed, recycled or donated about 90% of my stuff. My closet suffered the most purging. Remind me why I need more than seven t-shirts, again (instead of ±46)?
After moving out of my apartment, the next step is to pack a suitcase. British Airlines has a weight limit of 50 pounds for any suitcase and I'm only allowed one. I doubt I would have used much more than that, but the constraint is definitely challenging.
After moving out of my apartment, the next step is to pack a suitcase. British Airlines has a weight limit of 50 pounds for any suitcase and I'm only allowed one. I doubt I would have used much more than that, but the constraint is definitely challenging.
I'm not terribly afraid I'll forget something, because other than my important documents, I feel as if there's little I won't be able to procure myself there. Besides, there's little doubt in my mind that I am going to forget something, so I'm just going to pack as much important stuff as I can think to bring and then just roll with it.
I leave in a little under 40 hours. I feel as if I should be more nervous or excited, but as per usual, I just trundle along carelessly until I get on the plane, whereupon I get the sweats. Is that normal? When I was a kid, I'd be sleepless with excitements on the nights preceding a big event (such as Christmas, my birthday, or a field trip to the Vachon cake factory we took in the third grade. Yeah. That last one was a big deal). Now, the idea of leaving is a kind of restricted area in my mind, as if truly thinking about it would result in incapacitating anxiety or enthusiasm.
Tonight I graduate from college! That's kind of exciting.
Sorry for the short/boring post--just thought to check in before I jet off tomorrow night!
Theme song of the week: This cover of Free fallin'
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Entry #2: Pre-Brit (En Route pour le Bout du Monde!)
When I was young, I had a big collection of children's books under the name of Passe-Partout (based off the famous 80's television show). They followed the adventures of Pruneau and Canelle, brother and sister, through various tribulations. In one particular story, they traveled to Gaspé to visit their grandfather and hear the folktales and myths surrounding Le Rocher Percé.
It's a long drive out to Gaspé from Sherbrooke--roughly ten hours of driving from Sherbrooke. After staying on the TransNational for awhile, the road begins to snake along the bay. I've never been so far out east before. It's beautiful.
Visiting places you've seen or heard about in books can only really bring about two outcomes: disappointment and general frigidity; or amazement and a sense of syncretism. In my case, it was the latter. It's hard to believe that this "p'tit bout du bout du monde" is part of my home province. I've traveled quite a lot already, but so far this journey is touching in a way I hadn't expected.
It's a long drive out to Gaspé from Sherbrooke--roughly ten hours of driving from Sherbrooke. After staying on the TransNational for awhile, the road begins to snake along the bay. I've never been so far out east before. It's beautiful.
Visiting places you've seen or heard about in books can only really bring about two outcomes: disappointment and general frigidity; or amazement and a sense of syncretism. In my case, it was the latter. It's hard to believe that this "p'tit bout du bout du monde" is part of my home province. I've traveled quite a lot already, but so far this journey is touching in a way I hadn't expected.
Britain preparation has somewhat fallen to the wayside right for now, but as soon as I get home Thursday morning I'll finish up the important tasks (renew my driver's license, pack my suitcase, graduate, blablabla). I'm enjoying the salt water scenery for now (which doesn't quite stall the airport nightmares I've had for two consecutive nights. That flight is going to be challenging one for this knucklehead).
You can also go on whale cruises here. I'm always shocked to learn that whales can live so close to the shore. In my mind, they dwell deep in the dark sea, spiralling gracefully far from human action. I know that's silly though; I've been on a whale cruise before, in the Saguenay when I was seven or eight, but I'm afraid I spent most of that opportunity describing my plastic sea animals to the (very patient) tour guide. I would love to go again.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Entry #1: Pre-Brit (Leaving Home)
This week, I've been giving some thought as to what it is that makes new places and people appealing. It's recurring: in high school, we're essentially dying to escape the grind and to finally break out into whatever post-secondary endeavour we've chosen; we want to explore new towns, want to go to a city and just walk on the street; we want new friends, whose perception of us is not frozen at some retrograde version we shed months or years ago. This is all swell, but what's concerning is the growing disdain or indifference for what we already have.
I've been living in Lennoxville/Sherbrooke for two years now, and in 11 days, I'll be leaving it behind. That's a conscious decision that I made, but I think it's necessary for me to question why I always choose--have always chosen--to jump into exciting but potentially uncomfortable ventures. In my head, I often justify it by reasoning that we cannot ever be the best version of ourselves without first challenging the person we are, but between you and me, that's probably bull. There's something reassuring about first impressions. Not only with people, but with places, too. I've never set foot in England, so I know nothing and have seen nothing, but there's hardly a place in Lennoxville that is not already tainted, or affected by some past memory. I can't walk into Provigo without being unconsciously affected by how I've felt when I was there, or who I was there with. Anyway, I feel as if I'm rambling, but that essentially sums it up. Seeking the new seems to basically be seeking for a refresh in the perception of the self. In a new place, with new people, I can be someone that is not impaired by the person I was before.
Preparation is going smoothly--well, as smoothly as anything pertaining to organization might go with me. I have a suitcase now. I'mma put some things in it. I've been spending my days looking for places to sleep or a place to work, but I've had very minimal success thus far. I'm secretly happy about that because I relish not having a plan (cut to future me reading this and wanting to stab present me in the spleen).
I realize a disproportionate amount of this entry was not about anything concrete, but I've not gone anywhere yet, so bear with me.
I've been living in Lennoxville/Sherbrooke for two years now, and in 11 days, I'll be leaving it behind. That's a conscious decision that I made, but I think it's necessary for me to question why I always choose--have always chosen--to jump into exciting but potentially uncomfortable ventures. In my head, I often justify it by reasoning that we cannot ever be the best version of ourselves without first challenging the person we are, but between you and me, that's probably bull. There's something reassuring about first impressions. Not only with people, but with places, too. I've never set foot in England, so I know nothing and have seen nothing, but there's hardly a place in Lennoxville that is not already tainted, or affected by some past memory. I can't walk into Provigo without being unconsciously affected by how I've felt when I was there, or who I was there with. Anyway, I feel as if I'm rambling, but that essentially sums it up. Seeking the new seems to basically be seeking for a refresh in the perception of the self. In a new place, with new people, I can be someone that is not impaired by the person I was before.
Preparation is going smoothly--well, as smoothly as anything pertaining to organization might go with me. I have a suitcase now. I'mma put some things in it. I've been spending my days looking for places to sleep or a place to work, but I've had very minimal success thus far. I'm secretly happy about that because I relish not having a plan (cut to future me reading this and wanting to stab present me in the spleen).
I realize a disproportionate amount of this entry was not about anything concrete, but I've not gone anywhere yet, so bear with me.
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