Category Archives: Cultural Experiences

Colours of Cartagena, Colombia

by

The first time I saw photos of Cartagena de Indias, the port city on Colombia’s Caribbean coast, I knew I wanted to visit one day. Although Colombia wasn’t initially in our honeymoon plans, a deal on flights convinced me to visit South America for the first time, and my husband was up for the adventure.

Previously considered one of the most important ports for trade during the Spanish imperial era, Cartagena declared independence from Spain on November 11th, 1811. It is most famous for its historic walled city, the picturesque architecture of which earned it its status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1984.

On every blog I had read about Cartagena, pretty much the same advice was given: October is part of the rainy season, so it’s best not to visit at that time of year. We went against this advice and arrived in mid-October. As we stepped off the plane at Rafael Núñez International Airport, bright sunshine made us cover our eyes and a blazing heat caused us to swiftly remove our sweaters. For the three nights we stayed in Cartagena, we wouldn’t see a drop of rain. Some would call this luck, others would call it climate change.

We caught a yellow taxi into the city centre. It’s about a 10-minute drive, with ocean views on the right. We watched, silenced with astonishment, as cars zoomed chaotically along the highway, narrowly avoiding mopeds that darted in between the lanes. Most of the mopeds carried female passengers on the back. They held on loosely, seemingly unworried as their driver sharply changed lanes without a glance over his shoulder. Signalling doesn’t seem to be a thing here; instead, drivers will frequently toot their horns as if to say, “Move it, I’m coming through.”

Approaching the history city walls, we passed Las Bóvedas, a former dungeon converted into a market. Entrance to the old town was through narrow archways. Traffic-wise, it was every man for himself. Cars from all directions bunched up, beeping incessantly, trying to be the first to go through. “Right of way” didn’t appear to be a concept!

We drove up narrow, cobbled streets, passing pastel-coloured houses with flowers draping around balusters and vine plants spreading along the walls. Our driver mumbled to himself as he tried to find our hotel, and then made a satisfied sound after recognizing the Hotel Casa del Curato on Carrera 7.

Taxis in Cartagena don’t have meters. Some drivers will let you know what the cost will be at the beginning; others seem to wait to see what is offered and then let you know if it’s enough. I handed our driver 25,000 pesos and he looked very happy, which made me wonder if I gave more than necessary…

As we retrieved our bags, a man approached my husband rapping a song. I had read about these artists on a few blogs, all of which had advised to avoid engaging with them because they would ask for money. I had shared this with hubby in advance, alas, this appeared to be forgotten as he shook the man’s hand with a smile and answered when asked which country we were from. Soon after came the man’s open hand and a request. I watched, half irritated, half amused, as a look of realization swept across hubby’s face. Thankfully, a sweet doorman from our hotel came to the rescue and gestured us up the steps inside.

We walked into a cool lobby dotted with various plants. A house cat peeked out curiously from behind a pot. After checking in, we walked up the wooden stairs past a beautiful painting of a Caribbean woman. Our room was bright and airy, with white walls and a balcony that looked onto the street below.

I chose Casa del Curato because it seemed to be located in a slightly quieter part of town, and I have a fondness for independent, boutique hotels. It certainly had a lovely character, and it was cheaper than many hotels in the city, but as a 3-star hotel I also didn’t feel it was quite worth the approximately $200 CAD a night. I reminded my frugal self that we were on honeymoon and let it go.

Freshly changed, we walked down the street, passing the Iglesia de Santo Toribio at a junction on our right. We quickly learned that vehicles were not inclined to give way to pedestrians. On Calle de la Tablada, we turned left and crossed a few blocks until we came to La Mulata. This Carribbean restaurant had been recommended on a blog I read, and we were keen to try to some local food. A sweet lady brought us a complimentary bowl of soup as we glugged water, sweating heavily after only seven minutes of walking. We ate delicious fried fish and coconut rice before bracing ourselves for the humidity of outside once more.

As we walked south down Carrera 7, we saw vendors frying empanadas and stalls selling mangoes, melons and bananas. This street leads to the Plaza de los Coches, in which stands the Monumento Torre del Reloj – a stone gateway with a spiral clocktower. The square was buzzing with tourists. A long arcade ran under a row of colourful buildings, with vendors hoping to tempt tourists with jewellery and crafts. We followed the street as it wound to the right and came to the quieter Plaza de la Aduana.

Continuing along Calle 32, the Santuario de San Pedro Claver caught our attention with its double steeple and old stone architecture. The church blended nicely with the bright yellow of the fancy Hotel Casa San Pedro.

We turned right up the Calle del Landrimal. The street thronged with people as we approached the Plaza de Bolívar. Buskers played in front of park walls painted with beautiful murals and street vendors walked around looking for customers. A Caribbean lady who looked to be in her late 70s smiled gently at the tourists, gesturing with weathered hands at her cart of paper fans. She was quieter than most of the vendors around her, but her presence stood out the strongest to me.

Some of the blogs I’d read about Cartagena had talked of feeling harassed by street vendors and vulnerable to mugging. We prepared for this through the standard travel practice of only carrying the money we needed and wearing money belts under our clothes, and used common sense in not having phones or cameras on show. Some might argue that having a strong man with me helped, but I can truthfully say that as a relatively good-looking woman with naturally very blonde hair, and having experienced a fair amount of street harassment (mostly while living in London), I did not feel unsafe nor harassed in Cartagena. (In fact, this was the case during my entire experience in Colombia.) Street vendors would approach with enthusiastic greetings trying to sell their items, but we found that a polite “Non, gracias” and a gently raised hand to wave them off was enough to prevent them persisting. I would describe the vendors as relentless in their attempts to earn a living, but respectful.

We turned left down the Calle de la Inquisición and then right up Carerra 3. The street led us to the Plaza de Santo Domingo in which we saw a monastery that dates back to the 17th Century.

Continuing along this street, we eventually came to the city wall. I climbed up and took in the ocean view. I knew it would be a great place to watch the sunset, but I wasn’t sure we’d be able to last that long; we had been sipping from a water bottle but the heat and humidity was giving us a light headache.

We joined the Calle de Don Sancho, grateful for the slight shade it offered. The stunning Catedral de Santa Catalina de Alejandría rose up ahead. Hearing hooves clip-clopping behind us, we stepped aside to let a carriage pass, led by a lean horse. Caribbean women wearing brightly patterned dresses sat relaxing in a patch of shade. They can be seen around the walled city selling fruit which they carry on baskets on their heads.

After passing the cathedral, we lost our sense of direction. We never bother buying data plans for our phone when overseas, and the Google Maps on my phone was not in sync. After wandering around for 10 minutes with no luck and a decreasing amount of patience, we approached a group of male police officers. I greeted one of them in Spanish. He responded with a smile and pointed us in the right direction to our hotel. We walked up the steps of Casa del Curato drenched in sweat.

After a cold shower and quick nap, we headed out for dinner. Horses trotted briskly through the streets, leading carriages. Located just up from our hotel, La Cevichería was a seafood restaurant I’d read good things about. We took a seat outside, wanting to be away from the noise of indoors. It’s generally advised not to drink tap water in Cartagena, so I prepared to order two bottles. Looking at the menu, I noticed that a bottle of mineral water cost 1000 pesos more than a pint of beer.

As we waited for our food, a street entertainer dressed as Michael Jackson arrived and set up a small stage on the sidewalk in front of us. Hubby and I glanced at each other, wondering if we should have sat inside afterall. The opening to ‘Thriller’ started loudly, startling us in our seats. As the entertainer broke into dance, we looked down at our food, not wanting to get his attention as he hip-thrusted and shamoned away. Our waiter watched from the doorway and grinned at us, evidently expecting that we would enjoy the loud music and random shrieks of “hee-hee!” I wished he had given us a warning.

After finishing his performance, the impersonator approached the diners outside the restaurant and asked for money. I grimaced as he came to our table. My husband quietly shook his head and apologized. I felt awful because this man was just trying to earn a living, but we had not wanted nor asked for what was ultimately a distraction to our dinner.

Upon viewing our bill, my eyes widened with surprise. At 160,000 pesos, it was more than I expected. A tip had automatically been added, and it didn’t seem justified for a disrupted dinner of a dish that was too salty and seafood that tasted like it had just been heated up out of the freezer. Having anticipated paying 120,000 pesos maximum, I had to dash back to our hotel to get more cash from the safe. We left the restaurant disappointed, feeling like we had been ripped off.

After a great sleep, we got up early. Somehow understanding my jumbled Spanish, the ladies in the hotel kitchen kindly gave us a banana and refilled our water bottle, before we strolled down Carrera 7 to Muelle de la Bodeguita. Keen for a day of swimming in the ocean, we had booked a day tour to one of the Rosario Islands. An archipelago about 36 kilometres southwest of Cartagena, the Islas del Rosario consist of 27 small islands. For a fair price of $200, our tour included the return boat transportation to Islabela Eco Hotel on Isla Marina, plus a welcome cocktail, beach bed (no worrying about others taking yours!), and lunch.

After boarding the boat, we were given lifejackets and the captain gave a briefing in Spanish. As we slowly passed through the harbour, hubby observed with interest a navy ship that carried the Finnish flag. The boat began to pick up speed as we entered wide ocean. Soaring through the sky were slender dark birds with long wings that formed an interesting shape. Looking like pterodactyls from the dinosaur age, they were quite fascinating to watch.

During the one-hour journey, I watched the water hoping to catch sight of some dolphins. Flying fish sparkled in the air as they dove up from the surface. Eventually we came to a small bay with turquoise-blue water. Friendly staff greeted us as we walked towards a collection of rustic umbrellas standing over beach beds in front of a small sandy beach. We dove in the ocean as fast as we could, and it was delightful. For lunch we had fried red snapper and coconut rice with salad, accompanied by a large jug of delicious iced tea. Tour participants had the option to pay extra to go snorkelling with a guide, but we were conscious of funds and felt content with doing our own thing.

The day was so relaxing and a welcome change of pace to balance out the hustle and bustle of Cartagena’s walled city. We spent a lot of time in the ocean, wanting to make the most of the opportunity to experience the warm Caribbean Sea. I observed an American couple avoid the water, instead taking work calls on their beach bed as a waiter from the resort brought them a burger and fries. It seemed like such a waste.

At 3 p.m., a bell signalled that it was time for us to return to the boat. The sun was starting to lower in the sky as we made our way back to Cartagena. Hearing the word “propina” in his final comments, I gave the boat captain a small tip and we headed back to our hotel.

A stage had been set up in the Plaza de los Coches and a crowd was starting to form. As we walked up Carrera 7, we heard singing and drums beating. On approach to our hotel, a colourful procession came down the street, dancing and smiling as onlookers cheered and clapped. Our doorman was standing on the steps of the hotel, watching. I asked him what was happening. It was difficult to hear him above the noise, but I heard the word “carnaval.” I hurried upstairs to the balcony of our room and watched, entranced, as women wearing dresses with bold colours and vivid patterns danced in tandem, twirling in circles and swishing their skirts.

I had one of the best views in the house and I wasn’t even sure what it was for. But a quick bit of research told me that students from local colleges were participating in a cultural week – early festivities ahead of the official celebrations that take place each November to commemorate Cartagena’s declaration of independence from Spain. I felt so lucky to witness this special event, filled with vibrant colours and joyful faces. It was probably the highlight of my time in Cartagena!

The next day, we left Cartagena and travelled south-east to the small town of Santa Cruz de Mompox, before returning to Cartagena two days later. As we re-entered the city on a Sunday afternoon, I watched through my window as a lady around my age with crooked posture collected glass bottles and tin cans from a garbage bin and put them in a bag. Her son sat nearby, looking no older than five years old. He picked up an empty plastic Starbucks cup from the pavement and played with it in his hands, as if it were a toy. I looked away with a pulling in my chest, picturing children in Canada with their pretty dolls and shiny lego.

Our hotel for the third night of our stay in Cartagena was Hotel 3 Banderas, one block east from Casa del Curato. It stood on a pretty street of pastel-coloured houses and hanging blooms.

Wanting to avoid any overpriced restaurants, we went for tacos at Los Tacos del Gordo – a small, casual eatery on Carrera 7. We then wandered down to the Parque Centenario where we were fortunate to see several marmosets in the trees, scampering along branches playfully. Someone told us there were a couple of sloths in the park as well, but they are notoriously difficult to see without binoculars.

After spending several minutes admiring the monkeys, we walked out the opposite end of the park and down Calle 31. We were now in the neighbourhood of Getsemani, described on a few blogs I’d read as the somewhat grungier, more “hipster” part of the city. I went in with an open mind but did agree it had a slightly rougher feel to it, similar to looking at London, England, and comparing Peckham with Covent Garden.

A portion of Calle 31 is known as Calle de Las Sombrillas because of the canopy of umbrellas that hang above the street. There are a few of these streets in the neighbourhood, and as you can imagine, they are very popular with Instagram lovers.

Rappers made rhymes as we walked up streets showcasing colourful artwork. After taking a look at the Plaza de la Trinidad, we headed back down through the Parque Centenario (the monkeys were too cute to not see again!). The Torre del Reloj was still surrounded by tourists as we made our way back to our hotel.

We woke early on our final morning in Cartagena, prepared for an upcoming flight to Panama City. A decision to take a final stroll of the hotspots turned out to be an excellent choice, because at 7 a.m., the city was empty. No tourists, no vendors. We revisited some of the places we had passed by previously, this time able to take a longer look. With no disruptions and a more tolerable temperature, we could greater appreciate the beauty of the architecure and art work inside this walled city.

Grateful for an unexpected 30 minutes of peaceful exploring, we returned to our hotel to pack up our things before heading to the airport. I left Cartagena glad that I got to see it for my own eyes, but reminded that there is always more to a city than what the photos show.

Cartagena was a vibrant city painted with various colours. The walled city was abundant with rich, happy tones – sights that most tourists would see and remember. But it was also speckled with muddy spots – small details that some tourists wouldn’t notice, but that caught my eye and were hard to forget. And on the outskirts of this tourist haven was a greyer canvas that illustrated scenes of struggle and misfortune.

Price-wise, Cartagena was a city that seemed to take advantage of its popularity with tourists. This left me conflicted – in some ways frustrated; in others, mindful that the residents here don’t have much. The prevalence of street vendors caused a complex array of emotions – sometimes sympathy, sometimes annoyance, sometimes sadness. But the strongest emotion was probably admiration, for their tenacity to keep doing what they could to provide for themselves and their families.

A few bloggers I’d read had said Cartagena was not their favourite place to visit in Colombia, and after my own experience, I can say I feel the same. I do not regret visiting it at all; it’s a vibrant city with a Caribbean culture that permeates through the streets, and overall I enjoyed witnessing the different customs and ways of life. The architecture within the walled city is beautiful and certainly worth seeing, and a trip (ideally an extended one) to the lovely Rosario Islands is a must if in the area. However, in any country, the most touristic cities generally do not give the most authentic representation of a country’s culture. To get a better glimpse of the “real” Colombia, it would be wise to combine a visit to Cartagena with time in smaller, quieter towns and communities.

*

Did you find this article useful? Click here if you’d like to download a GPS-coordinated version from the GPSMyCity app for reference during your visit to Cartagena.

Santiago de Compostela – A City of Culture & Connection

by

September 2022 brought me and my fiancé to Lugo, Spain, for my friend’s wedding. We decided to make a trip out of this occasion by first exploring some of the other highlights of the north-western region called Galicia. I knew of the Camino de Santiago hike, a historic pilgrimage route that ends at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where Saint James the Great is said to be buried. While we wouldn’t have time to complete the trek, I jumped at the chance to visit the revered old town that is recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Our flight landed at Santiago’s small airport late on a Tuesday evening. A cab driver drove us to the heart of the city in 15 minutes, at a fixed rate of 21 Euros. I was impressed by how well he knew the location – many taxi drivers these days end up asking their customer for directions!

We had booked three nights at Hotel Oxford Suites on Calle de San Francisco. Its close location to the Cathedral and photos of the traditional stone walls in its rooms had caught my interest. The website had said check-in was open until 11pm. It was almost midnight when we arrived. I had emailed earlier in the day to ask if there were special instructions for arriving late, but received no response. We approached the front door only to find it was locked. A sign translated to English said to WhatsApp call the number provided to gain access. We had our Canadian phones with us and no data. Uh oh.

Fortunately, the street was still quite busy with locals returning from the bars (or more likely, making their way to them!). I spotted a man who seemed similar to our age and asked him in my best Spanish if he spoke English. Thankfully he did, and he kindly called the number for us and told us the code to the hotel, our room number, and room code. The kindness of strangers strikes again!

When I went down to reception the next morning to pay, it became clear that English is less spoken in this autonomous region of Spain, but I liked this. It made the experience feel more authentic and was an incentive to practise the language. Galician is a language of its own here, and I would later be told by a native that many people from other parts of Spain can’t understand it. Probably the easiest thing for foreigners to remember is that in this region, “thank you” is pronounced “grath-ias” and not “gras-ias.”

Hotel Oxford Suites was more like a hostel, with a café bar downstairs that sold coffee for 2 Euros. My fiancé had pledged to have less coffee during this trip but he couldn’t resist the cheap prices! The room was comfortable but it was a little loud (inside and outside the hotel) so I would probably book a different place to stay if returning again. (Hotel Costa Vella looked lovely but was fully booked on our dates!)

The forecast had said there would be showers for the duration of our stay. Cloudy skies looked down on us as we walked towards the Cathedral, from where an instrument that sounded like a mix of the clarinet and bagpipes played throughout the day. Throngs of people filled the main square (Praza do Obradoiro), many of them hikers that had just finished the long trek. Cheering in celebration, they lay on the ground with their legs in the air in what seemed like both a demonstration of their fatigue and a sign of their respect to the symbolic building that stood before them. I’m not religious myself, but you don’t have to be to appreciate the beauty and significance of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

We walked down the cobbled streets of Rúa do Franco, passing restaurant windows with small octopus on display (a Galician tradition I didn’t feel compelled to try!) Other windows showed lobsters in tanks, awaiting their fate. On the more commercial street of Rúa da Caldeirería, we came across a small, unpretentious bakery called Pastelaría Tentación that sold empanadas, sandwiches, and pastries. The lady listened patiently as I tried to pronounce our choices. We would end up coming here again the next day.

We next made our way to Rúa das Ameas and passed through the Mercado de Abastos where various vendor stalls sold fruit, cheese, meats, and seafood. We bought some fresh peaches for 2 Euros and wandered back to the square, where even more hikers were celebrating the completion of their hike.

By now, the sun had broken through the clouds. We walked down Rúa das Hortas before taking a left up Rúa do Pombal and entering Parque da Alameda. And what a lovely park this was! People jogged along the tree-lined promenade while others sat reading or chatting on benches beside pretty flowerbeds. A calming sound of trickling water came from a fountain, in front of which there was a beautiful vista of orange roofs, church spires, and the Cathedral towers.

As we stood having a cuddle in front of this view, a same-sex couple came behind us and showed us a photo they’d taken of the town, with us included in the image. We offered to take their photo in return. We were amazed (but glad!) that there weren’t many other tourists in the park. It definitely provided what I would imagine are some of the best views in Santiago de Compostela. Looking outwards from the city, we saw rolling green hills in the distance.

As we made our way back to our hotel for a siesta, the sun decided to do the same. We felt even more lucky that we went to Paque da Alameda when we did!

My friend had recommended a tapas bar called El Papatorio for dinner. Evening meals are eaten later in Spain, with many restaurants not opening until 8 p.m. We sat in the Praza do Obradoiro trying to guess what all the different flags on surrounding buildings symbolized before making our way down Rúa do Franco again. A group of women who looked to be in their early twenties were walking up the street, smiling and cheering as they neared the end of the Camino hike. Upon hearing them, a group of elderly ladies that were sat on a restaurant terrace proceeded to applaud them.

There was a line-up outside El Papatorio, and of course, the view in front of me of the opposite restaurant included the window of lobsters in the tank. As we waited, one of the kitchen staff proceeded to pluck a lobster from the water. The lobster’s comrades proceeded to rush towards the other side of the tank, frantically climbing over each other in an attempt to hide themselves. It was actually quite uncomfortable to witness this behaviour and realize how aware they were of what was happening to their friend…and what would eventually happen to them!

As I pulled my eyes away with a newfound sympathy for lobsters, the couple next to us made a joke about the scene. They were an Australian couple in their 60s and had just finished the Camino hike. We ended up sitting next to them in the restaurant. They said they did the hike every year, but this was their first one since the pandemic began, now that they were finally allowed to leave Australia. This year was the busiest hike they’d ever experienced, with thousands more participants than usual. The couple’s kids were of similar age to us, and they shared empathy about the challenges our generation faces with rising inflation and house prices. The man advised us to plan financially for the future “so that in 30 years you can come back to lovely places like this.”

It was 50 Euros for two drinks and a large and delicious selection of tapas. As we paid our bill, I was reminded how nice it is not to have a tipping culture in Europe. The waiter brought back our exact change; there was no question of “Would you like change?” as I’ve noticed happen in some restaurants in Canada. His approach actually made me more inclined to leave a tip.

We walked back to our hotel with full bellies and warm hearts. The Cathedral stood luminous under a dark sky, like a lighthouse to the hikers seeking its welcome.

The next day, we took a day trip by train to the coastal town of Pontevedra, known for its charming medieval squares and many bridges. The journey took around 30 minutes and it was only 20 Euros for both return tickets. Views from the window showed lush green land. Galicia truly seems to be like the British Columbia of Spain!

On return to our hotel in Santiago de Compostela that evening, we would learn that the Queen had passed away. I suppose I felt a little more indifferent to this news than some Brits, but what’s for sure is that we will always think of Santiago de Compostela whenever we remember hearing this historic news!

We had dinner on the leafy terrace of a laid-back restaurant inside Casa Felisa hostel on Rúa da Porta da Pena. It was 40 Euros for two drinks and two meals that included sea bass and beef. The downside for people that aren’t used to eating dinner so late is that it’s hard to fall asleep when it feels like your stomach is still full to the brim…

On the Friday, we were leaving for Lugo in the afternoon. We spent the morning sitting in the square with our luggage, relaxing under the sun. For breakfast we chose to dine at Café Carrilana on Rúa de San Paio de Antealtares. A more modern and youthful café, it served yummy eggs bennies and fresh orange juice that was actually freshly juiced and not from a carton. A large group of people comprising of individuals from all around the world were sat at a table nearby. It seemed that they had met during the hike and, having formed strong bonds, were having a final meal together before everyone went their separate ways. After a German man said his goodbyes to everyone, an Irish woman quietly left the table to walk out of sight with him and say a more personal goodbye. Maybe they will see each other again, maybe not.

There was something truly joyful and uplifting about our time in Santiago de Compostela. We encountered so many friendly people – locals and fellow tourists. With all the hostile events going on around the world, we all need some amiable connections to remind us of the goodness in others. If you’re interested in visiting Spain and experiencing authentic culture, choose Santiago!

*

Interested in downloading this article for reference on your trip? You can using find it here on the GPSMyCity app!

My 10-Year Anniversary with Canada

by

August 2nd, 2021 marked ten years since I first stepped foot in Canada.

I remember the teary goodbye with my mum at Gatwick Airport and sitting on the plane next to a mother and daughter from Quebec, smiling to conceal my nerves. As I walked into the the arrival lounge at Toronto Pearson International Airport, I clutched my backpack as if holding onto the only friend I had. When I stepped off the bus in downtown Toronto and gazed around at the tall buildings, I felt tiny. For a moment, the sound of traffic blurred out as I took in my new surroundings. The hustle and bustle of the city was quite overwhelming, and I quickly got lost. The sight of drivers turning right on a red light confused me, and I was thrown off in a shop when I learned tax was added to a product’s price at the till.

With some inner pep talks, I began to find my feet. I pushed through the nerves to approach a group of people sat on my hostel’s patio. The next morning, I smiled with relief when two Italian girls on the same Niagara Falls tour as me invited me to join them for the day. When we approached their stop on the way home, I held a scrap of paper in my hand with my name on it, only to smile with relief once again when they turned and asked the question that seemed so common in those days of, “Do you have Facebook?” A couple of days later, I shared a cab with a stranger after both of us missed the bus to the airport.

It was when I flew west to the Rockies and bussed through BC that I realized this country would remain special to me for all the memories made. But I definitely didn’t expect that ten years later, I’d be a permanent resident soon to be applying for dual citizenship, with a book published about my experience of moving here.

In reflecting on that first visit to Canada, I feel a corny sense of pride because I realize just how much I kept putting myself out of my comfort zone. Finding my way around unfamiliar places, introducing myself to a room full of chatting people, asking strangers on the street for directions, reacting to unexpected changes, moving forward after losing my backpack.

I always think of that time in Canada as the time when “life really became fun.” It was definitely fun before then, but that experience spawned a more confident and adventurous me – someone who saw the world as her oyster, who realized that we’re just tiny specks of dust in a huge galaxy and there are so many bigger issues than a few minutes of us feeling awkward or embarrassed. I began to approach new experiences with less worry and more faith that “things will work out.”

When I consider the increased rates of anxiety among younger generations today, I sometimes wonder if some of these cases stem fom these individuals having been too sheltered and having not put themselves out of comfort enough. I think back to the time I was fourteen years old and my mum drove me to a school friend’s party in the nearest town. We arrived late because it had been snowing, and when we pulled up outside the town hall, I heard loud music and laughing from inside. For some reason that I still don’t understand, I was suddenly overcome by nerves and asked mum to drive me home.

I could have done the very same thing at Gatwick Airport when I caught my mum crying, but instead, I swallowed the emotional feelings and turned around to walk towards departures. How different my life would be if I hadn’t turned around that day.

I truly believe that making progress towards a more fulfilling life (however you personally define that) comes from challenging yourself and putting yourself out of your comfort zone. At first it feels daunting and awkward and uncomfortable, but when you take the plunge and make those little steps, you start to realize that the world isn’t as scary as you might have once thought. Sometimes you need to push aside your ego and push through your anxiety and take the opportunities before you. Progress won’t be achieved without taking some risks and navigating some challenges. It’s these experiences that build character and make you a more confident, competent person.

It’s because of the associations with increased independence and confidence that I have such a soft spot for Canada. I grew up a lot during those five weeks in the country, and I’ve continued to grow up since moving here almost five years ago.

I write this post with an awareness of the privileges I have as a resident of Canada. I can love and appreciate this country for my own reasons while also knowing it needs to do better for others. I respectfully acknowledge the Indigenous peoples, on whose unceded territories I am fortunate to live and explore. I wish for more harmony and less hostility in the ongoing process of reconciliation.

Age & Assumptions | Working Overseas as a Millennial Woman

by

A few people have asked me what the most challenging thing is about living in another country. As you’d expect, one of the hardest things is being away from family and friends for long periods. The pandemic has really added to that challenge, with my flights this summer cancelled and no real certainty of when I’ll next be going home.

As a blonde and softly spoken immigrant woman from the millennial generation, the other challenging thing about living overseas for me personally has been having to occasionally deal with underestimating assumptions about my abilities from people I’ve met, whether in a personal or professional setting.

I write the above with a firm acknowledgment that I have benefited from white privilege through my life. I haven’t had assumptions made about me regarding criminal status. Restrictions on the schools I could attend or areas I could live in were not influenced by my race. I was able to move to North America free from expectation I’d face discrimination because of my skin colour, and I recognize how fortunate I am for that.

In this post I’m addressing societal attitudes towards young women, specifically assumptions about their abilities that appear to be influenced by a mixture of general stereotypes and unconscious biases.

I’m 28 years old, and three years ago shortly after I moved to Canada, I decided to stop wearing mascara to work. Make-up was already something I didn’t wear much of, but I was sick of getting styes and realized I didn’t care how I looked without it. Given my naturally fair facial features, an understandable effect of this is that people tend to assume I’m younger than I am. When I was 25, I went through security at Victoria International Airport and the female searcher said “So, you’re probably around 18, right?” I laughed it off, but afterwards I wondered why she couldn’t have just asked me to tell her my age, instead of telling me how old she thought I was.

When corrected on age, people will often tell you to “take it as a compliment” that they mistook you for younger. There comes a point when saying this just becomes annoying. It’s okay if people guess my age incorrectly; what isn’t okay is when people associate this assumed age with my abilities.

At a recent small barbecue, I met a man with a foreign accent who appeared to be in his late 60s. After he brought up New Zealand a couple of times, I asked where in the country he was from, and he reciprocated by asking me where I was from.  After I told him, he said, “So, do you have family here?”

When I returned home I felt irritated, and I realized it was because of the man’s question. This is a question I’ve received several times since I moved to Canada. Although part of me knew it was a reasonable question to ask, and although I knew the man meant well, I found it frustrating that his initial assumption had to be that I had moved to Canada with or to be with family. What’s wrong with simply asking “Why did you move to Canada?”? Why must there be the assumption that I couldn’t have immigrated by or for myself?

A few months after moving to Canada, I met with a recruiter to discuss the local job market for HR and recruitment roles. The woman implied my chances of being hired for a permanent job in my field were low because I was on a two-year working holiday visa. I left the meeting with my confidence dealt a blow, the woman’s skeptical expression and fake smile etched in my mind. I felt like her opinion of me had been formed at first glance, and she hadn’t really given me a chance.

That same afternoon, I attended another interview and was offered the job there and then. I work as a Staffing Consultant, connecting job-seekers with employers. My role involves interviewing people on a daily basis, and often these people are older than me. Before COVID-19 led to remote working and phone interviews, it wasn’t uncommon for me to introduce myself to a candidate and receive a blank or confused look in return. Sometimes I would even notice a brief look of disapproval. During interviews, some of these people would make faces at the way I pronounced certain words with my accent.

What’s important to note is that it wasn’t just men giving me this reception. There aren’t enough fingers on my hands to count how many times women have called me “sweetie”, “honey”, or “dear”. People from all genders have said “Oh, you’re so young!” in surprise. They have remarked with embarrassed faces that their son/daughter is “probably your age”. Others have scoffed when asked a question about a job on their resume and said “I think I worked at that company before you were even born”.

While some of these comments and terms of address are used innocently without the intention of causing offence, they are inappropriate and often come across as patronizing. For those with a sensitive ego, their implication in referencing my age is that I am not competent or experienced enough to help them, or that I do not deserve to be the person with authority in this working relationship.

What’s ironic is that we would never say the above comments to someone who appears to be over 60, because society tells us it’s rude to do so. While it’s always nice to feel I’ve changed someone’s initial opinion about me, it’s just a shame the assumption has to exist in the first place. With workers retiring later and Gen Z’s entering the workforce, different generations are working side by side more than ever, and I know I am not the only millennial woman who has been condescended or underestimated by older colleagues.

Having grown up in a society where blondes are still stereotyped as bimbos whose main skills are shopping and posing on the cover of lads’ mags, being underestimated is not new to me, but moving overseas has brought a new dimension to it. It’s not uncommon for someone to assume that I’m a student, or to look surprised when they learn I have a job that isn’t related to hospitality, tourism or retail. Of course there is nothing wrong with working these jobs; I just wish it didn’t have to be the assumption that they would be my only option as a young female immigrant.

A positive of this experience is that it’s given me a tougher skin. I’m getting better at not taking reactions or comments personally, and more confident at (politely) letting the person know they are inappropriate. I try to see such moments as an opportunity to change someone’s perspective towards younger women.

Another positive has been that it’s made me more mindful of my own stereotypes. There’s no denying the reality that everyone has their unconscious biases or believes in irrational stereotypes, whether inspired by society and the media, their upbringing, or other sources. I try to practise being open-minded in everyday life, which is only beneficial for my job. As someone who has been underestimated, it feels good to be in a position where I can endorse those young women (and others) who have been underestimated and overlooked as well.

If this post does anything, I hope it makes readers think about and perhaps reconsider a) their assumptions about the motivations of female immigrants, b) their assumptions about the capabilities of young female immigrants, and c) the way they address and speak to younger females in the workplace.

 

A Brit’s Guide to Living in British Columbia, Canada

by

As a former colony and a current member of the Commonwealth, you might assume that there are many similarities with the UK when it comes to Canada’s culture, education system, and provision of community services. If you’re planning to move to Canada’s western province, below is a large compilation of some of the main differences I’ve discovered as a Brit living in British Columbia.

Before we start, it’s important to make it clear that there are more than 200 distinct First Nations in British Columbia, each with their own unique traditions and history. This post was written on the unceded territories of the Esquimalt and Songhees Nations. 

Stawamus Chief in Squamish, BC

Driving

You probably all know that in Canada, you drive on the right side of the road. It makes sense to have the same system as the neighbouring USA, since a lot of trade between the countries is delivered via road. In terms of speed and distance, the metric system of kilometres is used, which differs from both the UK and USA.

Getting a driver’s license as a new driver is also a different process. Upon turning 17, people in the UK are eligible to get their provisional license, which allows them to drive on the road with a supervisor with L plates attached to the vehicle. Most drivers will learn the basics from a family member, before taking driving lessons from a qualified instructor. After a learner has passed the theory test, the instructor will ultimately determine when they are ready to take the road test. This will typically be after 40 hours of lessons.

In British Columbia, it is less common for new drivers to take formal lessons from an instructor. Before doing any driving, they must acquire their learner’s license by passing a knowledge test and vision test. This can be done on or after their 16th birthday. After a year of practice with an eligible supervisor (someone 25 or older with a Class 5 license), they can then take their first road test. Passing this gives them their Class 7 or “N” license. Certain restrictions come with this. N plates (which stand for “novice”) must be displayed on the vehicle, and they can only carry one passenger at a time (with the exception of immediate family members), unless one of the passengers is 25+ and has a full license.  After two years of safe driving with no tickets or prohibitions, they can take another road test. Passing this would give them their full Class 5 license.

Note that if you move to BC with a clean UK licence, you can switch it over to a Class 5 for free within 90 days, without having to take a road test.

When it comes to actual driving, there are some interesting differences. The ‘turn-right-on-red’ rule means drivers can make a right turn when the walking man light is on for pedestrians, so long as no pedestrians are crossing at the time. I personally don’t like this rule because of the risks it can pose to pedestrians if a driver shoots around the corner due to not seeing the pedestrian or simply not caring.

Another difference is 4-way stops. When drivers approach this type of junction, they must all come to a halt, even if the roads appear clear. The vehicle that arrives first is entitled to proceed first, and so on. If two vehicles arrive at the same time, the driver on the right has right of way. I find that when two cars from opposite directions arrive at the same time and want to turn instead of going straight, a silent interaction between drivers takes place through gestures. It goes something like this: “Oh, after you.”…”No no, you first.”…”No, please, I insist.” …”Are you sure?”… “Oh, quite sure!” ….”Okay, thank you! And sorry.”

With regards to insurance, UK insurance companies insure the driver. In BC, the vehicle is insured. This means you are more likely to see friends lending their cars to each other in BC. BC’s government-owned insurance corporation now requests that a second driver be listed on the policy if they will be using the vehicle on a regular basis.

Drinking

Each province in Canada sets its own regulations for determining legal drinking ages. In British Columbia, it’s 19. Bear this in mind if you’re visiting from the UK aged 18; you won’t be able to buy alcohol or go to clubs. Skip over a province to Alberta however and you would be fine.

Although the province of Ontario is now allowing beer to be sold in some supermarkets, in most cases alcohol can only be purchased in provincially owned or private liquor stores, or from a brewery. Anyone who looks under 30 can expect to be asked to show ID.

While there are a few differences between the countries in terms of the laws that apply to people operating a vehicle, the rule regarding drinking is one Brits should be aware of. Last summer, I was in the backseat of a car with friends driving back from a camping weekend in Hope. I asked my boyfriend to open the cooler and get me a Radler drink. He looked at me in confusion and asked why. “Because it’s hot and I’d like a refreshing drink,” I replied with an innocent shrug. I then learned that in BC, passengers are prohibited from consuming alcohol in a vehicle. The idea is that they might distract or influence the driver. No refreshing lager for me.

Banking

I quickly noticed that Visa debit cards can be used for fewer transactions in Canada than they can in the UK. I never had a credit card in England, but for the aforementioned reason I got one when I moved to BC. My chequing account (what we in the UK would call a “current account”) has a monthly fee based on how many transactions I make. It gets waived if I maintain a certain balance. My UK account doesn’t charge such fees. Something to consider if you plan to set up a Canadian bank account.

Salt Spring Island, BC

Education

In the UK, the word “school” is typically associated with primary school (elementary) and secondary school (high school). If we do A-Levels (from age 16-18) or a vocational diploma, we say we’re going to “college” or “sixth form”. If we do a degree, we tell people that we go to “university” (or “uni”). In Canada, the term “school” is used for all levels of education. I first learned this in Toronto airport several years ago, when an elderly couple queuing for check-in behind me started chatting. “Are you heading back to school?” the man asked. “To university,” I said, to indicate my age. “So, back to school?” he replied with a cheeky smile.

Indeed, it’s very common to hear someone in their thirties say “I’m going back to school.” This is because the higher (or “post-secondary”) education system of both countries is very different. In the UK, we essentially choose our major by the time we apply to university aged 17 or 18. For example, I chose to study a Bachelor of Arts in History. Such a degree is automatically considered an honours degree, meaning students must submit a dissertation (or “thesis” as North Americans call it) in their final year. Unless they are studying Medicine or another vocational profession, students must complete their undergraduate degree in three years. They have to take a certain number of courses per semester, and will automatically graduate after those three years. Anyone who requests to suspend their studies and take a semester off due to personal reasons will likely have to re-take that year. A Master’s degree is completed in one year.

Students in Canada apply to university in or after their final year of high school. Instead of applying to major in a specific subject, they can choose a general direct entry program, such as Humanities, Engineering, or Science. In their first year, they have the option of taking a few different courses from within the program and a few electives from outside it, before then deciding the subject within that program they wish to major in. Although there are differences in universities across Canada, students in BC can typically choose the number of courses they take per semester, and have more flexibility in the years they take to graduate. Most people I know here graduated after five years. Some may take six years or longer. This is because the university system allows students to take off semesters, either to work or travel. Classes can also be taken in the summer term from May to September, unlike in the UK.

There are also more structured programs available within Canadian institutions to support students with finding paid co-ops (or “internships” as we’d call them in the UK). Students must pay to be involved in this program, but it’s a useful resource I wish I’d had at my university. Some programs, such as a business program, require students to complete a minimum number of co-ops in order to graduate. If a student wishes to graduate with honours, they must apply for the program. One would typically do this if he/she intended to apply for grad school, as writing a thesis could strengthen an application. In order to graduate with a degree, students must apply and provide proof they have met the minimum criteria. It’s common for a Master degree to be completed in two years.

Taking all the above into consideration, it means that a student in BC might not finish their undergrad degree until aged 25 or older, whereas in the UK the standard age of graduates is 21 or 22. I think there are pros and cons to both systems. People with a British education will have specialized more in one subject area, and will typically have a head start in the professional workforce. However, Canadian students are likely to have less tuition debt, have had more chances to gain paid experience and try out different roles while studying, and also have more time to actually enjoy their studies. In comparison, strict timelines for completing courses and graduating sometimes made me feel I hadn’t had a chance to properly explore and understand a course I was taking.

While there are options for people in the UK older than 18/19 to enrol in university degrees, it is still a less common practice; most will attend university from their late teens to early twenties. It seems to be a more culturally accepted thing in Canada for people to either start their first post-secondary program or take a second program in their mid-twenties and above. Some people might complete an undergraduate arts degree and then later take a post-degree diploma to specialize in a specific area, such as HR. Others might work right after they finish high school, and then enrol in a post-secondary program a few years later when they have saved up to pay the tuition fees. And others might be in their early thirties but go back to school because they want to change their career.

The system for tuition fees also differs between the countries. In England, Wales and Northern Ireland, there are home and international tuition fees. Currently in the UK, home tuition fees for an undergraduate degree are around 9000 GBP per year. (Scottish students studying in Scotland don’t have to pay!) These fees are general and not based on the degree you are studying. This means that as a History student with only 8 hours of contact with teachers per week, I paid the same as someone studying Mechanical Engineering who had more contact hours. In Canada, however, tuition fees are based on the program you take. Someone in the Humanities program will pay less for tuition than someone in Business or Engineering.

Mt. Finlayson on Vancouver Island, BC

Healthcare

Each province in Canada has its own publicly funded health insurance plan. In British Columbia it’s called the Medical Services Plan (MSP). It used to be the case that recipients were charged premiums, with employers often offering to pay the costs. In January 2020, the fees were scrapped. However, eligible residents must still enrol for the plan in order to receive free or subsidized medical assistance. Enrolled residents must get a Services Card with their photo and Personal Health Number, to prove their eligibility to access these services. This card can also be used as a form of government-issued ID for accessing other services, like opening a bank account. If you’re not registered for MSP, you must pay out of pocket for any medical assistance.

One thing to note if moving to BC from the UK is that, regardless of having MSP coverage, some medical-related services in BC incur fees that would not apply in the UK. For example, if someone in BC calls 911 and is taken to a hospital by ground or air ambulance, they will be billed $80. If an ambulance is requested and then declined, they will receive a bill for $50…so making a prank call would be even more stupid. In the UK, the National Health Service (NHS) is funded by tax payers and there are fewer charged services. Say a Brit suddenly develops chest pains and calls 999 for an ambulance to take them to A&E (or “ER”), they won’t pay a penny.

For this reason, I’ve always found it funny when I hear Canadians commend the country’s “free healthcare system”. For sure, the system is much more generous than that of its southern neighbour, but not as generous as the UK. Again, there are pros and cons to both systems. The NHS has strained resources and as a result, some are calling for patients to start paying for certain services. To avoid burdening the Canadian healthcare system, anyone coming to Canada on a working holiday visa is required to show proof that they have purchased medical insurance.

Something for Brits to take note of is the differences with dentistry. In the UK it’s part of the NHS, but in Canada it falls under the category of extended health. This means it’s not covered by the provincial medical services plan. For this reason, having a job that includes benefits is ideal, as these will be used to cover most of the costs of each dental visit. However, even with benefits, it’s typically still slightly cheaper to go the dentist in the UK.

In the UK, the dentist pretty much does everything, and the dental assistant helps with paperwork and equipment prep. In Canada there is a dental hygienist who does the initial assessment, x-rays and cleaning, and then the dentist will do an exam and any necessary surgery.

Marijuana

The growth, sale and use of marijuana for recreational purposes became legalized in Canada in 2018. Any cannabis shops or pharmacies must be licensed and follow certain regulations. Consumers are allowed to grow up to four plants in their house. Of course, Canadians were smoking weed for a long time before it became legal. Marijuana shops are now a normal sight, and it’s not unusual to catch a whiff of weed while walking down a street. Over the past decade, use of marijuana for medical purposes has also become more common in Canada. CBD and THC (chemicals within the plant) have been used to relieve muscle spasms and treat conditions including MS and PTSD.

Sombrio Beach, Vancouver Island

Tipping

While tipping bartenders or servers (aka what the UK would call “waiters/waitresses”) is not required in Canada, it basically feels like it is. A minimum tip of 15% is pretty much expected. Even if you go to a deli (also a more commonly used word in Canada, I’ve noticed) and simply order a sandwich, the option to tip will come up when you pay by card. In such cases, I don’t bother. Why would I if all the person has done is pick up a pre-made, pre-wrapped sandwich from the counter and hand it to me??

I was reminded just how different this custom is from the UK and Europe in general when my parents visited a couple of summers ago. My dad, never one afraid to be honest and express himself, asked our server how much she’d like for a tip. “That’s up to you,” she said politely while I put my head in my hands. As if thinking a negotiation was required, he asked her, “How about 10%?”. At this point I ran away to the ice cream counter. Of course, UK restaurants will now typically add a service charge to the bill in order to get around the cultural reluctance to tip.

On that note, Canadians also ask for the “bill”, and not the “check” like some people assume.

Sports

In the UK, girls in secondary school will often play hockey on grass or turf. In Canada, hockey means “ice” hockey. The less popular UK game would be referred to as “field hockey”. I still struggle not to say “ice hockey” in full, and it always seems to make people smile. If you’re watching a baseball game, prepare to hear lots of people shouting “good hustle” to players. It basically means “good effort”.

Holidays

In England and Wales, there are eight bank holidays: New Year’s Day, Good Friday, Easter Monday, the two in May, one in August, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day. In Canada, public holidays are called “statutory holidays”, five of which are nationwide. The remaining holidays are determined by province. In BC there are 11 holidays: New Year’s Day, Family Day (February), Good Friday, Victoria Day (May), Canada Day (July), Civic Day (August), Labour Day (September), National Day for Truth and Reconciliation (September), Thanksgiving (October), Remembrance Day (November), and Christmas Day. I appreciate the even distribution!

When it comes to annual vacation leave provided by employers, this is probably the most disappointing thing about Canada. Annual vacation allowance in North America is much lower than in Europe, where 25-35 days of annual leave is standard. Most employers in Canada offer two weeks of paid leave to start, increasing to three weeks after you’ve worked a certain number of years. After moving from the UK, this feels like nothing! With a growing demand from employees for better work-life balance, some companies are offering three or four weeks to start, and a few companies are even offering unlimited vacation time. Hopefully the move for more annual leave will continue with success!

Language 

Now we come to my favourite part. As a native English speaker in a country where English is one of the official languages, I expected I’d be pretty well understood by Canadians. Not the case.

The main issue I have is the enunciation of R’s. In England we don’t emphasize them. “Water” is “wawtuh”. “Work” is “wuuuk”. “Art” is “aaat”, and so forth. I once ordered a turkey sandwich from a deli and it took five attempts for the person to understand me. As a result, I’ve found that adapting my accent at certain times in the workplace has been necessary, particularly when speaking with people over the phone.

There are also differences in full pronunciation of words. Some common words I say that incite giggles among my peers are “yoghurt”, “vitamin”, “basil”, “tomato”, “oregano”, and “aluminium”. Meanwhile, I find the way some Canadians say “bagel”, “route”, “thorough” and “details” very odd.

Another issue is different words being to describe the same noun. Here is a non-exhaustive list of examples:
“Jumper” = “sweater”
“Trousers” = “pants”
“Trainers” = “runners” or “sneakers”
“Wellies” =”rubber boots”
“Biscuit” =”cookie”
“Handbag” =”purse”
“Purse” =”wallet”
“Cinema” =”theatre”
“Boot” =”trunk”
“Bonnet” =”hood”
“Nappy” = “diaper”
“Soother” = “dummy”
“Aubergine” =”eggplant”
“Courgette” = “zucchini”
“Rocket” = “arugula”
“Spring onion” = “scallion”

And if you say “brolly”, most will have no idea what you’re talking about. Who knew there would be such a language barrier?!

*

If you’re planning to move to British Columbia for a while, I hope this article is useful resource to help you prepare yourself for the political and cultural differences you can expect to find!

Relations & Realizations | An Expat’s Summer in Canada

by

It’s been ten months since I left the UK for Vancouver Island, Canada. Summer with its droughts and wildfires has now passed, and I still have no desire to return back to England. Not only do I have a permanent job doing something I love, but my time in Victoria has opened my eyes to a lifestyle I was missing before when I lived in London.

In the first house I lived in upon moving to Victoria, I’d wake up for work in the morning and open the blinds to see a deer just hanging out in my front yard. He became known as ‘Stanley’. On the walk to the bus stop I would pass runners and dog-walkers who would smile and let me pet their pooch. I would recognize people on the bus who were open to the concept of smiling and engaging in brief conversation. I admired and participated in the culture of saying “thank you” to the driver upon exiting the bus. I established that my favourite driver was a former pilot called Dan who provided weather updates, scenic commentary and probably even birthday shout-outs if requested.

I learned through my interviewing of various people at work that a lot of Canadians can’t decipher between an English and Australian/Kiwi accent. I made friends with a Persian family who started a new restaurant a few steps away from my office, to the extent that they wave at me whenever I pass by and look in.

I learned (and soon forgot) the rules of softball and that “good hustle” and “you got this” are a quintessential feature of Canadian vocabulary.  I experienced how wonderful it is to spend evenings after work on the beach, in a park or doing exercise, as opposed to being in a culture that seems to promote spending the evenings in a pub. I learned of various locally owned bakeries and cafes that made such a refreshing change from the large corporate chains such as Starbucks, Pret and Costa Coffee that can be seen on every street in London. I realized just how fame-obsessed and media-mobbed life in London was in comparison to the easy-going, outdoor-loving West Coast lifestyle. I also learned that I’m addicted to thrift stores.

With regards to self-esteem, I stopped wearing mascara in late April after suddenly feeling more comfortable in my skin and realizing I no longer cared about looking younger or less attractive with my naturally fair features. And at the end of the summer, I went to an open mic night at a small pub up island attended by a handful of locals, and ended up singing on stage with a bunch of old boys playing guitars.

The kindness of Vancouver Islanders in comparison to Londoners really came to light during a bus journey on a sweltering Saturday in June, when I fainted after having a vasovagal episode. I opened my eyes to see a few strangers peering down at me uncertainly, with one of them casually holding my raised legs by the ankles. A lady placed a damp flannel on my forehead and asked me a series of questions, before deciding that my apparently ghostly white face warranted calling an ambulance, (even though I had had vasovagal episodes like this before and was pretty confident all was fine). The lady continued to ask me a series of questions, including: “Where are your parents?” Suddenly I had one of those stirring moments of realization I’ll occasionally get where I remember where I am and how far away I am from home.

This same lady would later text me to ask how I was feeling. To my grateful response she replied, “Don’t thank me, just pay it forwards.”

So I did.

A few weeks later, I was reading at the beach minutes from my house when a little girl ran over to her mum to inform her that reckless Sally had taken a tumble at the playground and cut her toe open. “Oh God, oh God,” gabbled the mum like an alarmed chicken. “Is she okay? Is it broken? Is there blood? You know I can’t handle blood, Lucy!” And so Lucy ran back to assess the extent of damage further before returning with a report. “Oh God oh God,” began the chicken-momma again. “Why would she do this to me? Does she need an ambulance?”

I impulsively offered to help, and without hesitation, the woman accepted. Little Sally sat calmly on a bench and rolled her eyes at me as if acknowledging her mother’s flappy ways. I cleaned up and covered the 1-inch cut on the top of her toe and then her mum approached, only to shrink back at the sight of a slightly-bloodied wet wipe. “Thank you so much! I just can’t deal with blood when it’s on my kids; with anything else it’s fine, but not my kids.” I decided not to ask what she would do if her child was in a life or death situation, but did insist she shouldn’t need to take her daughter to the doctor.

All in all it was a great summer, and the best thing was that I got to show my life here (and some humpbacks!) to my mum when she came out to visit for a week.

The worst thing about the summer was the part where my boyfriend and I decided to call time on our 3-year relationship.

No relationship is perfect – there will always be struggles, and for a while you will rightfully try to work through them. Then comes the time when you have that highly needed yet highly unsettling moment of realization that someone you have loved and cared about for a long time just isn’t right for you anymore and vice versa.  Your personalities, interests and goals no longer align, and you no longer recognize them as the person you felt an instant attraction for upon meeting. No matter how much you try to compromise and persevere, you cannot find the sense of content you are looking for, and it’s time to concede defeat. But it’s terrifying to leave the comfort of something that has always seemed so simple, natural and ideal in so many ways. As an expat far from home, questions of, “Why am I really here? Do I actually want to be here?” arose in my mind. The future seemed unclear and scary.

Then I thought long and hard about all the big things I had experienced in Canada since December, like new friendships and a fulfilling job. And then I considered all the little things I had experienced just over the summer – the run clubs, the beach days, the outdoor adventures, the friendly interactions, the pleasant sights. Things that made being here so much more appealing than returning to London and England. Why would I give up all these things I’m lucky to have in my life? Why would I return to a place and a lifestyle that doesn’t make me feel as happy? More than ever, I knew that I wanted to remain in Canada.

I made a list of goals for when I would become single. One of them involved running competitively again. I signed up for my first race in over two years for late September, and regardless of the fact that I ended up being the first lady home in my race, I enjoyed the whole experience immensely.

Another goal included making more use of my free time to travel. It had been over a year since I’d completed a solo trip. After passing my work probation I booked a few days off for the beginning of September. It was time to leave the Island and return to the place where I first fell in love with Canada: the Rockies.

I spent a day walking around Calgary (not for me) and then got a bus to Banff. The town was flooded with tourists for the Labour Day weekend and had become a lot more commercialized since my last visit. I was a little disappointed by my return visit, but just having some alone time in a different setting felt good.

One morning, I sat at the same spot on the Bow River where I’d perched six years ago as a less confident and more naive 19 year old. I thought about all that has happened in the past six years – travelling, moving to London, completing my degree, commencing a (mostly long-distance) relationship, starting a job that developed into a career field, moving to Canada, and returning to single-hood again. I felt a sense of pride remembering all that I’ve experienced, learned and accomplished in that time, and suddenly the world felt like a map in my pocket, with me in control of my life route and excited for what lay ahead in my chosen path.

This summer turned out to be different from how I initially envisioned it would be. But the unexpected developments turned out to be positive. They gave me some important realizations and helped inspire my future plans.

Puzzled in Poland | Tales of Coping with a Language Barrier

by

Ask someone why they would not like to travel alone in a foreign-speaking country. The answer will most likely be because they are scared, or because they do not want to feel lonely. Ask them what they’re scared of and they’ll probably say being kidnapped or getting lost. They will probably not mention the more immediate, everyday emotions and situations that people tend to be afraid of: the confusion when you’re on a bus and aren’t completely sure when you should get off; the daunting feeling of entering a room with an awareness that you are not proficient in the local language; the alarm when a stranger starts speaking to you and you have no comprehension of what they’re saying; the potential loneliness when everyone around you is laughing or debating about something in another language and you can’t participate.

Before visiting a foreign-speaking country, I always ensure I know a few key words and phrases, such as “Yes”, “No”, “Please”, “Thank you”, “Excuse me/Sorry”, “‘I don’t understand”, “I don’t speak…do you speak English?” Even if the recipient speaks your language, this gesture of making an effort in their language can help foster good relations. But of course, these are not conversational terms and you will still be left clueless as to what people are talking about most of the time. However during a visit to Poland in autumn 2016, I began to see the funny and advantageous side of having a language barrier in a foreign country.

Sightseeing

On the Sunday morning of a weekend in Kraków with my co-sister-in-law, we visited Wawel Cathedral. The queue was extremely long and snatches of conversation apparently suggested ticket sales were about to end for the Royal State Rooms. My sister went to inquire inside and came back grinning. In a moment of jamminess, two South American ladies with spare tickets had overheard her asking about the probability of getting tickets within the next hour and offered her their spares. One of the ladies was an architect working in Warsaw and proficiently explained in Polish the origins behind the royal tapestries and regal pieces of furniture. It’s quite rare for someone from Latin America to speak Polish, and it was refreshing that this was the language of choice over English. I would stand with little idea of what they were saying, smiling and nodding at what seemed like the right times.

The funniest point is when people suddenly start laughing. Laughter is contagious and it’s an instinct to join in…except when the laughter is about something you can’t understand, people will look at you with a puzzled expression and you’ll feel like a Ben Stiller character.

At the same time, and, rude as it may sound, having a language barrier can bring a sense of liberty. There is no obligation to pay attention and contribute, but instead the freedom to wander around in your own world.

Yoga Classes

A few days after my Kraków trip, my sister-in-law invited me along to a yoga class. It would be my first experience of yoga but with traffic congested, we were running late. I suddenly felt a slight build-up of butterflies, flashbacks to when I was a child  turning up late to my first session with a swimming club not knowing anyone, or feeling self-conscious as a teenager walking into a party already in full swing.  But I was older now and more used to new situations.

We entered the studio with four other participants already making shapes (so much for my plan of going to the back of the room!) and were thrown straight in to abnormal stretches. Oblivious to what was going on, I would glance around the room and attempt to mimic the poses, with my sister-in-law whispering occasional instructions. Sometimes I would close my eyes to help me maintain a pose while the instructor kept talking, only to look up and notice that everyone now had their legs over their head and so forth.

The instructor had trained in California and could speak English. She would approach me with calm whispers of “Focus on your breathing – in and out through the nose.” ‘But I might collapse!’ I thought as I attempted to stick one leg straight out behind me while putting my hands in the praying position to my chest and twisting my head up towards the ceiling.

I then found myself in what I can only describe as the ‘Giving Birth’ position. Lying on my back with my legs spread far open, the instructor slowly attempted to ease them further apart. With eyes wide like a baby rabbit staring into the open mouth of a fox, I smiled up at her pathetically, hoping she wouldn’t snap my legs off (and be too disgusted by the condition of my feet).

By the end of the class, my brain and body was destroyed. However I went again a week later and saw a definite improvement in my ability to hold some stretches. I even started recognising the Polish words the instructor was using to count and say “hold” etc.

Dog Shows

I also had my first experience of a dog show in Poland, when my brother and his wife took their two dogs to two competitions in one weekend. Over two days, I got a glimpse into the snobby, two-faced world that is dog shows. Imagine a row of poodles, Old English Sheepdogs, and Chihuahuas on tables having their fur blow-dried, curled or straightened. Imagine big men in tracksuits blowing whistles and shouting commands at their Alsatian as it gallops recklessly around a ring with the handler hanging on for dear life. Imagine smarmy judges reducing owners to tears with their arrogant, disapproving comments about a dog’s features. Imagine owners casting you filthy looks if your dog so much as glances at theirs. (Any slight scuff of contact can stimulate verbal wars.)

I was put on dog-and-baby-holding-duty, the latter inviting some curious looks which I was relieved didn’t lead to anything more. (My brother later joked that, based on typical Polish culture, most people were probably thinking I was too old, rather than too young, to have a baby.) When holding the dogs however, people would sometimes approach wanting to stroke them, occasionally asking questions. I could only smile and nod. On the second day I noticed one of the dogs trying to smell the bag of another owner sat near us. The owner later turned and said something to me with a facial expression that I found hard to interpret. I later found out he had been complaining about the dog’s alleged salivation on his bag. Being oblivious, I wasn’t able to feel bothered by anything he said.

This is where a language barrier can be beneficial, because of the desensitisation it brings to verbal interactions that might otherwise upset you. Another example of when I’ve appreciated language ignorance for this reason comes from Porto in Portugal, where I would sometimes walk down the street and males would make what seemed like, based on their body language and facial expressions, sexual comments towards me.

There are of course disadvantages to this specific scenario of a language barrier though, in that you can’t apologise for any bad actions you’ve committed unawaringly. This dog owner probably didn’t appreciate me smiling as he grumbled about my dog…but hey, I didn’t see any saliva anywhere.

Great Grandparents

My sister-in-law’s grandma speaks very little English. We stayed at hers over the weekend we went to the dog show, and as she showed me my room, she would mutter away in Polish as if not realising the extent of just how unproficient I am at the language. I would make enthusiastic “mmm” noises and say “piękny” (pretty) whenever she pointed at something and looked at me. Then there was the time when I was holding my nephew after he’d started crying. I finally managed to soothe him with some cheerful singing (Motown genre, to be precise) and looked out into the garden as his head flopped onto my shoulder. Then I sensed a new presence in the room and heard the approaching steps of the grandma sneaking up behind. I glanced around and saw her with her arms reached out expectantly, looking at her great-grandson with calculating glee. I had no choice but to relinquish him, before looking away awkwardly when he immediately started crying again.

Birthday Parties

One evening, my brother’s neighbour invited us over for a birthday dinner. One dessert dish was roasted pumpkin with honey, and it was really tasty. While guests would talk to me in English now and then, naturally the conversation would soon revert back to Polish. Again I faced the challenge of smiling at the right time, but there was also the added challenge of refusing food offerings. Polish culture has an emphasis on hospitality – people enjoy feeding others…a lot. I felt my stomach ballooning to the point of discomfort but felt rude saying no when someone mentioned in English that they’d made the cake themselves. Even if I said no, minutes later they would only hold the plate under my nose with encouraging nods.  “Pyszne,” (delicious) I would say with a thumbs up as I forced the food down my throat.

Then there came the biggest challenge: the singing of “Happy Birthday”. My solution to this seemed to be standing with my mouth half open, nodding my head from side to side in time with the tune, trying to guess when the person’s name was about to be mentioned so I could jump in and contribute at least one word.

*

There will always be times when not knowing the local language leads to stressful situations. But having a language barrier can also be highly entertaining and create fond memories. It also reinforces the value of patience, good manners, initiative, and observation – attributes useful in any environment, no matter what languages you speak.

Please share your hilarious language barrier stories below!

Return to Reykjavík | Tourism & the Changing Face of Iceland

by

Everyone is talking about Iceland. That island in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean with Björk, an unassumingly victorious football team,  and those hard-to-pronounce volcanoes. Its convenient location between Europe and North America has been taken advantage of on a higher scale in the past few years, and with Icelandair offering up to seven days of stopover time for free, why wouldn’t you go and see what all the fuss is about?

I first visited Iceland in August 2013. It was becoming more popular at that time but still had a minimalist feel to it that made me warm to it. I sensed that things would be different when I returned for a quick stop in December 2016 en route to Canada.

dsc_0024

Some things remained the same. The FlyBus from Keflavík airport to Reykjavík still played the same man’s slow, soothing voice to welcome passengers. As we passed the same barren lands and swathes of lava fields, I still got flashbacks to medieval times, imagining Viking soldiers in battle. But as we entered the surrounding towns and suburbs of the city, I noticed more apartment buildings than before. Had they always been here and I simply hadn’t noticed? Maybe the sparkling Christmas lights just made them stand out more? No, there were definitely more. The place looked more developed and modern.

My friend picked me up from the BSÍ terminal and confirmed the development that had been taking place in and around the city. She asked if I had any plans for my two and a half days in Iceland. I realised I hadn’t given it too much thought; my main goal was to see the Northern Lights. But I also thought it would be nice to go to a geothermal pool, since I had chickened out of going to one on my last visit due to shyness about the nudity element of pre-bathing showering. I had always regretted what had later seemed like a pathetic reason not to go. My friend suggested we go inland to a geothermal pool to that was smaller, less commercial and more natural than the popular Blue Lagoon, a place I briefly stopped by at on my last visit and didn’t enjoy. She had also never been and so it seemed like a great idea.

After waiting for snow storms to pass the next morning, we set off. There are no signs indicating where the pool is. Once we arrived however, we were surprised by the number of cars parked up. I was expecting a very rustic set up with mostly native customers, but reception was bustling with a variety of nationalities. I paid 2500ISK for the ticket and followed my host to the changing rooms.

“So, we have to shower completely naked here, don’t we?” I asked, feeling the butterflies from three years ago begin to flutter back into my stomach. My friend nodded with a smile. I took a deep breath and undressed, looking straight ahead as I walked towards the shower. It was as if I thought this would stop people looking at me, but I soon realised that nobody was going to look at me anyway. Showering naked in public was so much less of an issue than I had previously let myself believe. Good on Icelanders for their fearlessness and their motive to protect their natural pools. Later on, I would even find myself shooting disapproving glares at the back of a bunch of Brits who I noticed proceed towards the pool having showered in their swimsuits. We are definitely a prude nation when it comes to public nudity (which seems ironic given that we have a fame-obsessed culture that promotes sex through various mediums).

The pool was very relaxing. There was even something refreshing about having your face pelted with hail stones from above whilst your body remained submerged in warm water. However it wasn’t as quiet as I’d hoped. Perhaps selfishly, I’d expected fewer people. As more loud groups entered the water and the drinking increased, the experience became more distracting than relaxing and we got out. Before arriving, I had already decided that I wouldn’t write a blog post about the place, in order to preserve its secrecy. I’ve since realised that the pool’s name of the Secret Lagoon has become an appealing marketing tool, and there is actually no secret to hide anymore.

The next morning over breakfast, my friend read a newspaper article which highlighted the growing problem of tourists feeding horses in the wild. These animals are not used to eating sugar or bread, and the treats were actually causing more harm than good, with more horses suffering from digestive problems without access to medical help. If you are reading this and planning to road trip through Iceland, please do not feed the horses or try to bribe them with food to come closer. They are self-sufficient animals and will not starve without your treats, nor suffer without your petting.

Another article discussed the rising number of car accidents on roundabouts as foreign visitors do not adopt Iceland’s road rules. On a roundabout, those in the inner lane have right of way to exit. I know – seems bonkers – but we should respect another country’s rules nonetheless. Another article reported that Keflavík airport had seen a record 6 million people enter its doors in 2016, a 25% increase from 2015. There are 323,000 inhabitants of Iceland.

That day, my friend took me on a rainy tour of the Reykjanes Peninsula in the southwest of the country. Lava fields smother the land  where you can find the Bridge Between Continents – a fissure in the ground where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates meet and diverge. The gap grows by 2 cm every year. Further on is Gunnuhver, the steam vents and mud pools of which are named after a female ghost whose shouting is supposedly symbolised by the eruption of the geyser. Reading her story reminded me of the mythologies I learned on my last visit – cultural traditions that helped make Iceland unique in more ways than its geology and landscape. Ferocious waves battered the cliffs as we drove further on. I read about a bird called the Great Auk, the last colony of which lived on a small island called Eldey off the coast of Iceland, before becoming extinct in 1844. Similarly looking to the penguin, it was flightless and stood no chance against human hunters.

In the town of Grindevík, we ate lobster soup in a small cafe decorated with ship memorabilia and an old piano. A group of Americans got up to leave shortly after we arrived, thanking the owner. The ditsy 20-something daughter then said to her mother, “How do you say ‘thank you’?” The mother had no answer. My friend grinned at me and I felt like dunking my face in my soup. A perfect example of one of the bad travel habits I wish I could see less of. Maybe I think too much, but I find that there’s something so rude about coming to a foreign country and not even bothering to learn one simple word (“takk”). Some might argue that paying money for a travel experience represents enough ‘giving’ and justifies the ‘taking’, but I think this outlook promotes an imperial-esque sense of self-entitlement and disrespect for local culture.

On my final morning, we took my friend’s dog for a quiet walk around a frozen lake. The only others we saw were a runner, another walker, and a party of horse riders. I got the impression this was one of a decreasing number of places locals could come to where they wouldn’t find many tourists…at least in the early hours of the morning. In downtown Reykjavík later on, my friend pointed out the construction of new hotels. It’s a contentious issue, the threat that hotels and other tourist accommodation options like Airbnb pose to long-term rental space for locals. You get the sense that some natives feel they are prioritised below tourists when it comes to urban planning.

dsc_0019

Overall, my short return to Reykjavík was enough to illustrate the increased popularity of Iceland as a tourist destination since I last visited. (Me ahead of a trend? Wow.) I’m not saying it’s bad that Iceland has become more popular. Afterall, as my friend acknowledged, tourism is good for the country’s economy. But my brief visit also illustrated the potential problems Iceland faces from its popularity growth. Its authenticity makes it popular and yet I worry that this is under threat from pressure to meet the expectations of tourists who come from more consumerist, materialistic, and fast-paced countries. I fear it’s in danger of becoming exploited at the expense of its culture, citizens and landscape.

I think of the slowly widening rift between the tectonic plates and relate it to what seems like a gradual tourist-takeover of Iceland. I think of the geographical mythologies and wonder if they’ll ever become regarded as archaic and unmarketable. I think of the Great Auk being hunted to extinction because of human greed. You’ll find ignorant and inconsiderate behaviour from tourists in any country, but for some reason I get defensive when Iceland is the victim. It’s perhaps because I have experienced the country from the perspective of both a tourist and local. I know how hard living in Iceland can be for Icelanders, and am able to see how large volumes of tourism can contribute to this. Are there any “secret” places anymore? Apart from their homes, where can native Icelanders go where they are free from tourist-oriented advertisements, expensive cuisine, English-speaking “banter” and complaints about WiFi?

I didn’t see the Northern Lights as hoped during my brief stay, as skies were too cloudy. Although it was a shame not to witness something I’d been hoping for, I took comfort knowing that there remains something in Iceland that can never be influenced and caused by tourist demands and actions. A natural phenomenon that doesn’t give a hoot about how much people want to see it and how much money they have to offer.

Please visit Iceland, just don’t plunder it. Support the economy, just don’t govern it. Embrace the culture, just don’t squash it. Take many a photo of the nature, just don’t leave a mark on it.

Travel & Trepidation | How My Solo Adventures Began

by

People often remark how interesting/brave/crazy it is that I go travelling by myself. In a world where we often hear stories about kidnap and homicide abroad, it can seem risky, especially if you’re a young female. I sense that people don’t really understand why I’m happy to do it, or how I go about doing it. As I mark five years since I first travelled solo, I’ve been remembering how this seasonal hobby of mine came about.

The funny thing is that I too used to feel the same way as those aforementioned people. If a psychic had told me in the summer of 2010 that a year later I would be travelling through Canada by myself, I would have laughed in their face. I’d been lucky to travel to some great places on opposite ends of the world as a child with my family, and I had loved those experiences, but I couldn’t imagine going off somewhere myself. The world seemed so big and I didn’t think I’d be able to cope on my own.

1073874_10153171824345495_1862413284_o

After finishing my A levels I opted to take a gap year, with my main aims being to apply to university and earn some money. The first half of that year was spent filling out UCAS forms and getting up at 5.15 a.m. to start a morning shift at the sports centre where I worked. Then in March 2011, after craving a break from the bleak spring weather, I flew to Australia to spend a month with some family friends. The only thing I had to do on my own was the flying, and then I would be in the care of people I knew. I would be meeting up with my sister at one point to visit our cousin for a few days, but hadn’t made any specific plans to go and see somewhere by myself. It wasn’t going to be a true travelling experience as such; I simply wanted to chill out in the sun for a while.

I turned up at the house only to find out that the family were hosting a Scottish man, who was working for them in return for food and accommodation. He’d set off nearly a year ago by himself to do a round-the-world trip, and hearing his stories got me thinking. Even if he was a few years older than me (and male), he made travelling alone sound fun and, most importantly, doable.

208009_186880238024855_100001086392980_453641_1564736_n

I returned to England with the travel bug, revitalised by my month away. I’d received an offer to study at university in London before I left, and I now accepted it. I would be moving from life in the isolated countryside to the bustling capital – a complete paradox. London had previously seemed too daunting a place to live for a girl who was used to travelling 10 miles to the nearest village. But following my time in Australia, my curiosity about the world had increased and London seemed like the right choice.

In early May I started researching Canada, a couple of weeks after I returned from Oz. Hiking in the Rockies attracted me, and yet the prospect of travelling alone still made me feel nervous. Ideally I still wanted to travel with someone, but was unable to find anyone with the time, money or interest. In response, I looked up help-exchange schemes similar to the one my friend in Australia had been part of, thinking that I would just live with different families the whole time. That way I wouldn’t have to worry about turning up at a hostel with nobody to talk to. I found a few families in British Columbia who were happy to host me for a week each. However all the families I wrote to in the Rockies were fully booked, or demanded a minimum length of stay that I couldn’t commit to.

The plan seemed to be crumbling and I began regretting telling my friends so definitively that I was going to Canada.  Questions of rationality filled my head – had I really thought about this, or was I just trying to impress someone? And yet I couldn’t just give up so easily. To me that would be a failure. Slowly it sunk in that for the first week of my five-week trip, I would have to stay in hostels and risk having nobody to hang out with.

But gradually I got more into the idea of travelling alone. It was exciting – I could plan my own adventures without having to think about what anyone else wanted. I was totally free. I realised that I did want to do this for myself. It was my own challenge – I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. Travelling alone formed a category in this new and improved ‘me’ that I wanted to create. I saw it as a way of reinventing myself before starting this new chapter in my life of university and life in the  big city. I wanted to be able to tell stories like my friend had – unique and interesting stories that were my own.

From that point onwards I became determined that this trip would happen. I was bored of my daily routine and craved an adventure. In early June I gave in my notice at work. My spare time when I wasn’t lifeguarding or serving customers was spent poring over my ‘Lonely Planet’ guidebook and typing websites into Google, papers covered in scruffy notes soon beginning to pile up on my desk. I’d decided to start in Toronto and then spend a few days exploring the Rockies, and on June 25th I booked my flights. It was really happening – I was going to a new country by myself…and I had no idea what to expect. Of course I was excited to see a new country, but I still felt unsure of my capability to cope alone. 19 still seemed very young to have so much responsibility.

At the beginning of July I sorted out my travel insurance (with my dad’s help) and booked my hostel for two nights in Toronto and a flight to Calgary. It was really beginning to feel like an adventure now. July 1st may mark Canada Day and the increasing unification of territories into one nation, but for me too it marked a growing sense of autonomy and completeness. My friends and work colleagues remarked how brave I was going on my own, and it made me feel good. They assured me that I’d have no trouble making friends. I’d learned in this year that kindness can get you far, and it would now be time to use it. About ten days before my trip I went to attend my sister’s graduation ceremony in Sheffield, and afterwards joined her and her friends for drinks to celebrate. One of them told her that I was “confident without being arrogant.” It surprised me. I hadn’t realised I portrayed such traits. ‘Maybe I am braver than I thought?’ I wondered to myself. While I was still more nervous than I appeared, these comments helped boost my incentive. I liked the idea of being regarded by my peers as an inspiration.

I was volunteering at an international competition in Kent a few days before I left for Canada, so had to organise and pack everything before and bring it down in the car with me. I started feeling stressed, remembering how easy Australia had been in comparison. My backpack was stuffed with horse-riding gear, trainers and outdoor clothes and I couldn’t decide whether it was too much. “How am I going to carry all this?” I asked my mum incredulously, only half-joking. I checked and re-checked I had my passport and then said goodbye to my dad, who seemed very relaxed. He’d travelled alone when he was 17 and obviously thought there was little to it. With one last look back from the car at my home with the rose bushes taking over the front of the house, it was weird to think that I wouldn’t be back for another six weeks.

In Kent I was asked whether I was scared about going travelling on my own. My brave face re-appeared as I replied with a “Nahhh”. But I seemed to lose my voice over those few days, surrounded by adults who made me feel really young. I felt embarrassed as I struggled to make myself heard in conversation. Was this what it would be like in Canada?  My friend asked my mum if she was worried about me going away on my own. She said “Not at all” confidently, and I believed she meant it. But I wasn’t so sure of myself.

On the evening before my flight I took some clothes out of my backpack, still unable to decide exactly how much to bring. It was difficult to estimate – I had to consider how often I’d be able to find a washing machine and so on. At midnight I had finally finished, and collapsed on my bed exhausted. Mum asked how I was feeling. “Fine, just wary of getting lost,” I said with a nervous laugh. She reminded me to check everything twice, whether it be my luggage, or a map, or a bus schedule. It seemed simple, yet the butterflies were beginning to kick in. It suddenly hit me that I was going to be on my own, without her help. I lay on my bed in the hotel room and felt like crying. But I couldn’t pull out now.

We left the hotel early on the morning of August 2nd to avoid the busy traffic. I saw the signs for Gatwick airport and almost longed for a traffic jam so that I would miss my flight. But we soon pulled up at the drop off gate and it was time to say goodbye. Mum hugged me tight, saying “Love you, squeeze you, miss you already” as she always does, only her voice was starting to break. I pulled away and saw tears forming in her eyes. I hadn’t expected that from her because she’d seemed so calm about me going off by myself.  I felt my own eyes start to water and had to make myself turn around and not look back. Her fifth and final baby was going off into the big world and I guess I should have expected her to get quite emotional about it.

I had a window seat on the plane and looked down absent-mindedly at the men below scurrying around on the luggage buggies. To distract from thinking about my mum, I started talking to the mother and daughter next to me, asking if they were from Canada or visiting. The daughter said, “You’ll enjoy Toronto, it’s a great city.” I told myself she would be right, but when it came into view six hours later the butterflies returned. This was it. I waited for my backpack to emerge on the conveyer belt and sighed with relief when it did. As I checked it over and re-arranged the straps, I suddenly felt really glad of its company, as if it was some kind of friend. A girl with blonde hair similar to mine was doing the same about 10 metres away. ‘Maybe she’s staying at my hostel,’ I thought hopefully. But she soon walked off with a purposeful gait that suggested she had been here before, and my spontaneous hopes of immediately finding a travel companion were dashed.

As I walked through the arrival lounge I felt like a lost puppy. Then a young guy approached me, asking if I was heading downtown. “Er, yeah,” I said hazily. He told me where to get the bus from and where to get off in the city. I thanked him, my confidence soaring. My trip had started off well without me having to do anything. But naturally as soon as I got off at my stop the hustle and bustle of the city hit me and I felt confused again. I fumbled in my pocket for the map of the city that I’d picked up from the guy at the airport, only to find that it had fallen out and was now being trampled by people’s feet. I had no option but to ask someone, but people looked like they were in a rush to get somewhere and my voice came out faint and pathetic. Then I spotted a girl in a summery dress walking in my direction who looked a similar age, so I cleared my throat and asked her if she knew where my hostel was. “Sure, it’s…oh actually, I’ll just walk you there.” I followed her gratefully for a couple of blocks and she wished me a nice stay.

An Irish woman checked me in, giving me quizzical looks as if questioning whether I was about to vomit. I walked into my dorm only to see two girls sat on the floor studying a map. I greeted them with a prolonged “Heeeey” that sounded more confident than I expected. They nodded a greeting in return then got back to their map, mumbling in French. I turned away awkwardly and began making my bed in silence. They obviously had their own agenda and weren’t interested in making conversation. It was around 5 p.m. now. ‘I can’t just stay in here like this’ I thought to myself, so I padlocked my backpack and went for a walk around. The road system was confusing. I went to cross the road at a pedestrian crossing only to jump backwards in shock as a car shot round the corner. I cautiously watched other people to find out what the road rules were, feeling completely out of my comfort zone. Soon I stumbled upon a food store and bought some ham and bagels – breakfast and dinner for the next two days. The store was busy and I sensed the fellow customer’s impatience as I took my time to make sure I used the right coins. I hadn’t realised that tax wasn’t included in the item’s displayed price, and fumbled around clumsily in my purse for more change, wishing I’d remembered to remove my British currency.

I had no sense of where I was and soon realised I was lost again. Feeling like an idiot, I asked a couple for help. The girl got her iPhone out to find the hostel. She then gave me her number when I told her about the reserved girls in my dorm, in case I wanted to hang out. I felt surprised but relieved at the same time. But when I did get back to the hostel and turned on my phone, I realised I’d forgotten the pin to activate my new Sim card. I rummaged through my bag for the piece of paper, cursing myself silently when it became obvious I didn’t have it. Pessimistic thoughts flooded my mind. I went to email home from the computers in the hostel, to let mum and dad know I’d arrived safe. Trying to sound upbeat was difficult. I was completely useless at finding my way around, had nearly been run-over, had nobody to talk to, and didn’t have a working phone to contact my hosts later on with. All the worries I had carried beforehand about my ability to cope alone seemed to make sense. ‘What am I doing?’ I thought to myself, head in hands.

I went down to the kitchen to make my boring bagel, feeling disheartened. Then I suddenly heard an Australian accent and my shoulders lifted as the familiarity of it gave me a sense of comfort. A guy was making some pasta with a German girl. I realised I had to speak up. It was now or never. So I made a joke about something he said. We got chatting and they asked if I wanted to join them outside.  I was offered a beer and crisps were shared out as everyone spoke about their individual travel plans. Most of them planned to stay in Toronto for a while and work here. I began to relax and enjoy myself, relieved that I’d made the effort to join in. The afternoon had started badly but now I was beginning to feel more positive.

The next morning I’d booked to go on a tour to Niagara Falls, but nobody from that group was going. I hoped I wouldn’t be on my own all day. A few minutes later two smiley girls got on my bus, chatting in Italian. They seemed friendly enough, but how did I know they’d want me to join them? I spotted another guy sat on the other side of the bus, and sensed he was English. Sure enough, I heard the accent when the tour guide asked him something. One voice in my head said ‘Perfect! You can hang out with him’, but another was reluctant. I knew English people. If I wanted to hang out with them I could have just stayed at home. This was my opportunity to meet people of different nationalities.

Grey clouds filled the sky as we walked down to the falls and got handed our blue waterproofs ready for our ‘Maid of the Mist’ boat trip. I purposefully stood myself fairly close to the girls. One of them caught my eye and we laughed at how funny we looked, with introductions following. They were the first Italians I’d ever spoken to. We hung out on the boat together, getting drenched by the spray from the magnificent falls. I went on to spend the rest of the day with them. I almost felt bad, as if I was intruding, but they didn’t mind at all.

Niagara Falls

We were driven on to a quaint little town called Niagara-on-the-Lake with amazing chocolate shops and a store dedicated to Christmas. On the way there we passed a building with the name ‘School of Horticulture’ crafted in flowers on the front lawn. Its name rang a bell. I looked at my watch and smiled when I read ‘Niagara Parks Commission School of Horticulture’. I’d found it in a hostel in Australia with my sister and had (naughtily) taken it. It wasn’t flashy at all, but there was something about it that I’d liked. Now I was randomly and completely unassumingly passing its original home. It was as if I’d been destined to come here.

The tour ended with a trip to a winery where we got to sample some sickly sweet Ice Wine. The girls were staying at a different hostel to me. I wrote my name and email on a piece of paper, ready to offer it should they wish to keep in touch but anxious that they wouldn’t. But sure enough, they turned around as we approached their stop and the question “Do you have Facebook?” went on to become a key motto of my trip.

Before I got back to my hostel I went to the shop from the day before again to stock up on water, and felt slightly smug as I returned without getting lost. I was beginning to feel more like I could cope and I was walking around feeling less self-conscious. This time when I approached my hostel reception  to collect my key, the Irish lady flashed me a smile, as if my increased confidence showed. As I sat in the living area reading my guidebook, a German girl walked in and asked “Where do I go?” with a laugh. I told her where the dorms were and she later joined me. We sat with an Austrian boy and two Irish people. One of them was 30 and said she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to travel alone at 19. But then she added how great it is to do so because it makes you more open. I totally understood what she meant. Suddenly I felt really glad that I was on my own. Thinking back to the French girls in my dorm, I felt sorry for them. Their trip was going to be limited by the fact that they weren’t allowing themselves to hang out with other people who might enrich their experience.

I asked the German girl and Austrian guy if they wanted to go up the CN Tower with me in the morning. They said yes and we set off the next day with the sun now shining over the city, as if reflecting how much brighter my trip was becoming with every new day. From the tower one could see for miles. It couldn’t quite match the views in New York, but was still impressive. I stood on the thick pane of glass staring down 1500 feet at the ground below. Some people even dared jump up and down on it. We then spent the rest of the morning wondering around the city. On the way to Kensington Market in Chinatown with its abundance of fruit stalls, the Austrian guy pointed out a road sign with ‘King’s College’ on it. “Isn’t that where you’re going to study?” he asked. I laughed at the irony of it. But London was nowhere near here, and university still felt like ages away. I was starting to really enjoy myself and didn’t want to think about studying.

My bus to the airport was at 1 p.m. I gave the other two my contact details and checked out of the hostel, excited for the Rockies. I had a map of the city, but soon got confused and when I asked someone for help they sent me in the wrong direction. My back soon began to ache from lugging my huge backpack around in the midday heat. When I did find the stop, the driver told me its schedule meant I wouldn’t get to the airport in time. My confidence that had been improving so much began to falter as I envisaged missing my plane to Calgary. I had no idea what to do and stood helplessly on the pavement as passers-by looked at me inquisitively. Then another man showed up with a travel bag, only to hear the same information. He looked at me running my hands through my hair anxiously and asked if I wanted to split the fare for a cab to the next station where our bus would be. Without thinking twice I said yes. He was going to visit his mother in Ottawa for the weekend. I ran to make sure the bus didn’t leave without us as he gave the money, and sank into a seat, relieved that this man had been in the same boat. Some people might be funny about sharing taxis with strangers, but I had no regrets. It had been the most sensible option and was nice to know that we’d done each other a favour. I suddenly felt like a real traveller – spontaneous and practical.

We arrived at the airport and the guy called “Have a good trip” with a wave. I was sat next to a good-looking man on the plane, probably around 30 years old, and I didn’t expect him to want to talk. Then he asked casually, “You heading home or away?” I smiled to myself, remembering how I had asked the family on my flight over the same thing. We flew with the Great Lakes below us, and I asked him more about the geography of the country, surprising myself with how chatty I was. ‘Why sit in silence when you can learn something?’ I thought.

We landed in Calgary four hours later. I found my bus to Banff with no problems and as the glacier mountains came into view my excitement kicked in. This was the part of the trip I’d been most looking forward to. I got off on Banff Avenue and went to find a bank, remembering Dad’s advice about getting lots of money out at a time because of commission prices. The streets were filled with tourists on the way to dinner. A group of older ladies in peep-toe sandals gave me funny looks as I roamed around in my scruffy flannel shirt and trainers, hoisting my huge backpack higher up. This time I had no trouble finding my hostel. It was situated in a quiet area over the bridge. I was sharing a dorm with two girls from Montreal, who invited me to join them at a bonfire. The offer contrasted so much to the reception I received in the Toronto hostel, but I politely said I was going to do my own thing. It was different now. I’m a country girl. When I got to the city I felt miniscule and needed someone. But now I was in a rural area I felt more at home and less apprehensive about being on my own.

I set off walking along the Bow River, appreciating the peace and quiet. The air smelt of pine cones and midges hummed near the water. When I checked my emails later Mum had replied, saying she hoped I was okay – I’d sounded quite downbeat in the first email. That seemed like a long time ago now. I updated her of my whereabouts, telling her my plans for the next day. The girls were still asleep as I got up to get dressed and go explore in the early morning. I felt completely in my element. I didn’t even have a real map but just followed my feet and unlike in the city, they always led me to the right place. Reaching a main road which headed up towards Sulphur Mountain, I knew there was a bus I could get and went to read the signs, hearing mum’s advice of “check twice” in my head. Unlike in that store on my first day, I didn’t have to rush. With the rural environment comes so much more freedom.

I didn’t have time to hike the 5.6km route up to the mountain’s summit, so I got the gondola instead. A boy who looked about my age was sat in the ticket office looking bored. He gave me a look when I asked for my ticket that seemed to say ‘Why are you on your own?’ It made me blush and I got into my carriage feeling a little silly. As I rode up to the top I noticed that the carriages above and below me contained couples or groups. I was reminded of my Scottish friend recalling how some people had thought he was weird for travelling on his own. “I guess I’m weird too then,” I said aloud to myself, gazing at my watch pensively.

But if I was weird, it was worth it. After admiring the mountain squirrels for a few minutes, I walked along to a viewing point that overlooked the town below. It was breathtaking. I could just make out the glistening of a lake in the distance, surrounded by snow-capped mountains on either side. The turquoise river wound its way through the town with its patchwork of tiny houses, situated amongst layers of lush fir trees. I’d seen this very view in a photo on a website, and read about it in my guidebook. Now I was here myself, all through my own doing. A great sense of fulfillment hit me and I felt really proud of myself. This was my own personal achievement. All the stress and worries and embarrassing moments from before seemed like nothing now. It didn’t matter anymore if I got funny looks from people for wondering around on my own with this huge backpack. How many of them could say they had done something similar at the same age? I felt like I was on top of the world and nobody could take this feeling away from me.

Views from Sulphur Mountain

So in conclusion, I suppose that’s why I like to travel alone, because of that unbeatable feeling of individual accomplishment that it brings. I’ve always liked exploring the outdoors and in a sense it was something I soon fell into easily after the first few days. But it was by no means something I’d planned to do from a young age. There were butterflies, there were cynical questions, and there were tears. But with that comes so much more confidence afterwards. Since that trip, I’ve never looked back. Going off somewhere by myself just seems natural now and if anything, travelling with someone else feels ore stressful to me. Travelling alone gave me an extra spark, and I really don’t think I’d be who I am today without having done it.

Appreciating the Simple Life | Tofino and Ucluelet

by

I’ll be honest: when I arrived in Tofino for the first time in October 2015, my initial reaction was “Is this it?”. Located on Vancouver Island about a four hour drive upland from Victoria (depending on the number of tourist stops taken on the way), you arrive in a small town and to me it was not immediately obvious what the appeal is to the mass of tourists that come here. There is no symbolic institution or landmark as such and the view of the ocean offered can be found at many other areas around the island. So what is it that people love so much about Tofino?

The obvious answer is the sandy beaches. There are lots of opportunities to give surfing a go, with Surf Sister being a particularly popular company for girls to learn with. Experienced surfers are tempted by the waves on Long Beach. Those less keen to take a dip can sunbathe amongst the driftwood on quiet Florencia beach, or admire the lovely sunsets on Tonquin beach.

DSC_0140DSC_0144

DSC_0094DSC_0108DSC_0113

There’s also plenty of hiking on offer, with various boardwalk  and trail routes available including the Lighthouse Trail, Rainforest Walk and others within the Pacific Rim National Park. These will take you on a journey that features Western Cedar and Hemlock trees, colourful fungi and possibly the odd bear or two.

DSC_0121DSC_0122DSC_0125

But the beaches and these hikes aren’t the main features that set Tofino apart from other coastal towns.

My sister and I stayed in the Tofino Traveller’s Guesthouse on Main Street. It’s a lovely place with a cosy, relaxing ambiance. There was no reception desk which made the atmosphere more welcoming, with the main rule being to take shoes off upon entry. The soft sounds of Bon Iver and Matt Corby played in the kitchen and in the morning, the host would make waffles for everyone. Guests were very chatty with each other. Particularly memorable was seeing a couple in their sixties talking about life aims and societal pressures to a young punky girl who was wearing only a flannel shirt and her underwear. I couldn’t imagine them talking in other, more urban contexts.

The hostel featured lots of mottos conveying deep meanings. Reading ‘There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story’ made me feel restless and I had a sudden urge to stop thinking too much and just get on with personal projects. A poignant one referred to how people waste time devoting so much of it to something they don’t enjoy under the assumption that this will eventually allow them to do what they do enjoy…but this doesn’t happen. Reading this made me think of city life – how people in high-paying jobs tell themselves they’ll live the mundane office life with the 50 hour weeks just for a few years until they’ve saved enough money to escape to the country and live a restful life of part-time work. But as this lifestyle becomes routine and the income becomes comfortable, many abandon their vision for fear of losing security.

With its sleepy town-feel, Tofino definitely evokes a sense of the simple life. This is the kind of town where you can imagine the owner of the pub is best friends with the guy who runs the hardware store two blocks away, who happens to be related to the doctor at the hospital who is married to the lady who works at the cafe, who herself is sister to the owner of the pub. Friday night bonfires will always be favoured and new faces are welcome. The corporate world is completely alien and nobody is in a hurry. Routine is not regarded as boring but rather a guaranteed source of happiness, even if it doesn’t allow for ‘climbing the career ladder’ as such. Life just flows along at a nice gentle pace and people are content with it being this way.

This is why the fatal capsize of a whale-watching boat in October 2015 was such a momentous event. The sleepy town had to wake up to run an intense rescue operation that strained its resources and relied significantly on the personal initiative of boat-owning residents. It was a huge shock for the town psychologically and practically.

Located about 30km away, Ucluelet is even sleepier, with the main attraction on offer being the beginning of the Wild Pacific Trail. Once this had been completed, there was much twiddling of thumbs as my sister and I looked around for something else to fill our time with. We didn’t fancy paying $14 to go inside the small aquarium so went to Zoe’s Bakery and had some tasty carrot cake and frothy hot chocolate. The only other options after this seemed to involve eating more food, which wasn’t necessary.

DSC_0178

Instead we decided to turn up early to our rustic hostel. A wooden path led down to the water where boats dozed on the still surface. Here was a place of tranquility and creativity, and under this influence I found myself pouring out words onto paper.

DSC_0191

In the evening, the hostel manager invited the guests and some locals round for a bonfire. My sister and I got ourselves into a slightly awkward moment when we asked one of the local girls what she did for a living and gave a little too enthusiastic of a response after mistaking “Server” for “Surfer”.  She was from Toronto and I asked what she liked best about living in Ucluelet. She looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “Because it’s one of the most beautiful places in the world”, as it this was an obvious answer. I agree that it’s lovely, but I wasn’t convinced of the credit of this statement. I believe there are many more stunning and unique places in the world that have more character to them.

The guy running the hostel first came here on a vacation from Vancouver and ended up staying for five years. Then he followed a girl to Europe for a year or so, only to return here to remedy his symptoms of withdrawal.

As they sat smoking weed and talking about the funny guy eating fries in the cafe today, I found it hard to relate to these people and understand the appeal of their lifestyle. Sure these small quiet towns were nice detoxes from the busier, more populated world, but did they not get boring after a few months of seeing the same faces and places every day? And if these people did interact with the tourists that come and went, did they not feel a burning sense of curiosity to follow in their footsteps and see more of the world?

However, what is interesting is that these two people in question came from the city to the countryside. They came from urban density to rural seclusion, from an area of domineering social norms to one allowing greater freedom and acceptance of individuality. Some might say they had regressed from life in a fast-moving, technologically advanced setting to a slower, less developed pace. But they were happier with this way of life.

Perhaps that is the appeal of Tofino and Ucluelet; it’s not so much to do with their looks but their humble, quiet characters that welcome anyone and let them be themselves, instead of imposing an identity on them. To entertain oneself in these areas, more emphasis is placed on the environment than on consumer goods, on personal communication over technological sources. Residents might not have as many responsibilities nor make a tonne of money but they’ll likely be happier, healthier and have more time for themselves and others. As snobby as city-based people may want to be about such lifestyles, deep down they are probably a little jealous.

Tofino made me envision a quieter, simpler life – one in which I would have fewer professional accolades but a more care-free routine that gave me time to appreciate the small things in life. I day-dreamed of running a guesthouse for income, writing stories for pleasure and going for daily runs on the beach for leisure. In today’s age, people tend to spend too much time looking for the next big thing to do and not enough time enjoying the present. And so I take back my initial thought about you, Tofino.