some of this is true

I have been living in Nova Scotia for 1,101 days.

I know this because a little more than three years ago, when I was 23 years old living in Calgary, I set up a counter on a web page¹  so I and anyone who wanted to could track my departure, partly out of excitement but mostly to deflect fear. When my plane lifted off from the Calgary airport in the very early hours of Aug. 14, 2004, on a red-eye flight to Halifax just two days before classes were to begin (and only hours after I finished my final shift at my summer job, production co-ordinator at the campus radio station), the counter hit zero. And then, apparently, it started counting back up, and for some reason I’ve never taken it down, largely forgetting about it until a few days ago.

1,101 days at the same time seems like an eternity and not very long at all. You could close your eyes forever or quickly open them with a blink, and it would seem about the same.

I remember packing, deciding what to gently stuff into a collection of cardboard boxes, which I opted to check as luggage on the plane because it was quicker and, surprisingly cheaper (though uninsured against potential damage, inflicted by baggage handlers that likely don’t care, and who could blame them). Take this shirt. Leave behind this sweater. Take all the CDs, even the old ones that I haven’t listened to in years, and why do I have two copies of Nirvana: Unplugged? — better take them both. Take these photos. Leave behind the guitars. Leave a favourite mug; it will just break anyway. Pack all these books, then realize the box is far too heavy, and instead leave most of them behind, in the bookshelf in the room at the end of the hallway, where they still sit, perfectly aligned. Remember to bring phone numbers and addresses, and a phone, because I’ll need that. And then remember myself and leave everyone else behind.

I remember the drive, through dark city streets on a calm and clear night, toward the airport. The roads were largely deserted, and the silence outside the car was eclipsed by the silence inside — my silence, at least — broken up of course by awkward conversation but mostly drowned out by my nervously humming brain, not quite sure what to make of all this. It would be a beautiful cliche to say the gravity of everything didn’t hit me until I was at the airport, saying goodbye and walking through gate toward the plane, overcome with — with what? — but in truth it didn’t happen until long after that, days or weeks or months, and I really don’t know when exactly. I had to convince myself that I was in a different province, that I couldn’t just drive downtown to my favourite pub and meet my favourite people, or walk over to the closet to find relics from my childhood, which I did often, or look outside the front window to see the street where I grew up, where I played hide-and-go-seek and tackle football on the neighbours’ lawns and where we tried to convince the owl that was perched on someone’s balcony to fly over us by dragging a fake mouse across the street with fishing line. The owl, of course, wasn’t fooled. I still convince myself sometimes, but it all makes a lot more sense now.

I remember arriving, alone at the airport and then the long cab ride into Halifax, excited and tired, and then unpacking, rushing around the city to buy, among other things: food, chairs, dishes, blankets (that I would end up using as curtains), the ugliest couch you’ve ever seen (which I loved for its regal, 1980s-era pattern and hated for its hard, sharp edges where soft cushions should have been). And then to borrow, among other things: a bed and a table and a desk. Buy a TV and a dresser and a small bookshelf. Go for a drink on the first night, ignoring my exhaustion, mostly to prove that, yes, I can do this.

I remember the first week, the first month, the first year, and then the next one, and it starts to all bleed together. 1,101 days is a long time and at the same time not very long at all. A lot has happened — finished school, new job, the start of a relationship, the end of one, new people, cat, lots of rain and snow, several apartments, and now I eat a lot more sushi. There’s still an uncertainty hovering over everything, especially lately, and maybe it’s not helpful to think about that, or at least to dwell on it, because when isn’t there?, and anyway maybe it’s time to stop counting.

What’s 1,101 days, anyway? It’s nothing. Just a blink.

¹http://members.shaw.ca/jdkeller/

Be safe and considerate.

The signs were all over the Toronto subway system, and of course they were urging passengers to not block the doors or try to hold them open, and of course they weren’t referring to anything beyond public transit. But still.

Maybe it was an order. A command, for living. Be safe. Be considerate.

I tried it over the weekend, wondering around Toronto. It’s easy to be safe, at least relatively. I walked with my eyes looking up, instead of down at the warm concrete, and I kept my music player far, far away, so I could hear anything coming for me and also to let the outside world pour into my ears. I got out of the way as the skateboarders launched down the steps of the CN Tower and as crowds of people held up the cameras to capture the exact moment when his body — pick which part: arm, back, shoulder, helmetless head, etc. — hit the pavement, and then when he did it again and again and again. I applied sunblock, which mixed with the moist air and moist sweat and, like everyone else, I was soggy for days. I stood at an appropriate distance from the subway cars as they rolled into the station, and I minded the gap, and I used all available doors. I jaywalked quickly, but cautiously, and only when the street was four lanes or fewer. I read the restaurant inspection signs where we ate, because they are posted prominently, because that is the law.

And I tried to be considerate. I talked to strangers, people on the street, cashiers and wait staff. When I wasn’t interested in what they were saying, I tried to be interested anyway, or I’d ask questions and give them an opportunity to improve. Our server at some Italian cafe was cold and angry, or probably just defeated, but I wore her down, and our table and her became friends, if only briefly. On the waterfront there were two women taking turns snapping photos of each other in front of a boat, so I asked if they wanted a picture of both of them together, because when they get back home (Calgary, of all places, and originally from Drumheller, of all places) and they look at their boring photos of them in front of boring things, at least they’ll remember that. They were a mother and an aunt of a top-seven Canadian idol contestant, and they were both very proud, and they told me to vote for the 16-year-old (‘a beautiful blond boy,’ his mother said several times) after the show that evening, which they do hundreds and hundreds of times each night, and I nodded, but I didn’t, of course.

I spent a few days eating and drinking and walking and walking and walking, until my legs were sore and the soles of my feet were worn down. Up Yonge. Across Bloor. Down Spadina. Across Queen. Across King. Adelaide. Front. College. Church. And on and on and on and on. Bought a samosa in Kensington Market, which came with spicy green chutney. Watched African drumming in the park and yoga on the street. Sushi near the large polka-dot art school. Walked through markets and parks and passed historic landmarks and legislative buildings. Into bookstores. Into camera stores. French toast at St. Lawrence Market. Thai food on Yonge. Sipped frozen coffee. Ate and drank and walked with friends. Late nights, late mornings. Ate and drank and walked by myself, which was the point of leaving in the first place, even if I didn’t end up where I thought I would.

And I was safe. And I was considerate.

And now I am back.

Change of plans.

I was supposed to be in Antigonish, a small university town in northeastern Nova Scotia, just before the mainland meets the causeway. Listening to music and camping with a bunch of people I didn’t know. Sometime this afternoon, after having been there for two days already, I would have packed up and headed to Cape Breton.

Instead, I am in Toronto.

For reasons that can only be attributed to the failings of the car rental industry, Cape Breton dreams collapsed, and in an effort to be more spontaneous, I flew a few hours in the opposite direction to the bright lights. Instead of camping on a field near a stage, I spent yesterday afternoon in the air, approaching Pearson. I saw the CN Tower and the former Skydome, houses and houses and millions of people I’ll never meet, sailboats dotting the lake, which looks more like an ocean to this Albertan, industrial parks where flat concrete buildings sandwiched together look like a circuit board inside a computer, the highway before the runway where I thought just for a second I wonder if we’re making an emergency landing in rush-hour traffic. And we landed, safely, and that was yesterday, and today and tomorrow and the next day I’ll explore the city, see some friends and who knows what else.