Every time I come home from abroad it feels like no time has passed. My parents are always there waiting for me at arrivals. After a brief, glad but unemotional reunion, we head towards the parking lot. Before we can make it to the car, some kind of bickering will break out between the three of us. I will sit in the front seat of the car, my Dad in the driver’s and my Mom in the back. The radio will be tuned to 680 News, an all-news AM radio station my Dad keeps on to avoid Toronto’s traffic jams. I stare out the window at the highway and stare at the open space as we drive from back home. Once we are home and my bags are laying in a pile inside the house, I sit around and wonder what to do. There’s this unwritten rule that you don’t make any plans on the day you return from a trip. You feel like you should be really tired or decompressing. So I pace our house in the suburbs, like most days when I’m living there, and try to pass time.

It’s only in the following days and weeks do I get a sense of how long I’ve been gone. In time I find stores I’m accustomed to visiting are gone, whole buildings stand fully-formed and new appliances are found around the house. When I catch up with friends and on gossip I realize how far their lives have moved too. After the initial reunions, it’s even more of a game to try and figure out what to do with my time.

The wait is over and I’m flying out tonight to Paris. From there, I’ll take a train out to Strasbourg where I’ll stay for a few days figuring out where I’m going to live. The long and short of my living situation is I’m not any closer to making a decision than when I found out I would be teaching in Sélestat. I went from definitely commuting, to maybe I should live in a small town, to relief/cold feet when the teacher at my school told me I could live in an apartment on campus of another high school, to scouring French housing websites several times a day to find myself some roommates, or colocs. Here I am the day I am about to leave perhaps even more muddled in my opinion than when I began.

Now that I’m on my third big trip away from home, I think it’s safe to say that I’ve established a routine. I can’t go without feeling intense anxiety right before leaving. It’s exactly how I feel when I’m at an amusement park and faced with roller coasters. I run my mouth and try to cajole my friends who don’t want to ride it to change their minds. As the line dwindles down and we’re the next group to be let on, I think “Oh shit, why did I sign myself up for this?” Despite all the good times I’ve had in another country (and on roller coasters) before, I can’t help but quiver a little bit.

posted by vicky at 9:02 pm under Pre-departure, Toronto
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Every Saturday, from the ages five to 13, I spent my mornings at school. Monday through Friday I was earning teacher’s praise and good marks but come Saturday I was the illiterate badass. My parents sent to Chinese school in an attempt to salvage the relationship I had with my estranged maternal language. In Grade 2, after I reading a story aloud to my seventh-grade reading buddy, he declared, with slight astonishment, that I was a really good reader. In Chinese school, my teacher held me back a half-hour after class ended making write and re-write the character for “many” on the chalkboard while she had a talk with my Dad about me.

This summer I’m finally returning to Chinese school. I was accepted to the Taiwan Government Information Office Chinese Learning Scholarship Program. From June through August, I will be studying at the Mandarin Training Center  (part of the National Taiwan Normal University) in Taipei. Before school starts, I will spend May with my parents visiting relatives, touring China and going back to my place of birth, Hong Kong, for the first time in more than 10 years.

Returning to Chinese school voluntarily is something I never would have imagined myself doing at 13-years-old. This flies in the face of all the times I whined learning it was useless since we lived in Canada and the times I secretly relished my failing grades, hoping they would convince my parents to let me quit. My adolescent self would be even more horrified to find out she would be living in a city that doesn’t speak Cantonese and have to learn Mandarin from scratch.

At this time, about two years ago, I did an interview to go on exchange. I remember explaining my top location picks to my exchange coordinator and one of my journalism professors. Studying in the European Culture and European Journalism program in the Netherlands is exactly me, I said, raving about all of the interests the continent embodied. My professor interrupted me in mid-sentence. “Why isn’t Hong Kong on your list?” she asked. “What are you running away from?” I managed to come up with an answer that was true and believable enough. But inside I reeled a little bit, stunned that she could tell.

So what have I been running from? We’re about to find out.

posted by vicky at 11:30 am under Asia, Pre-departure, Taiwan
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I was always the sort of kid who had trouble sleeping before the first day of school. If I think too much before bed (usually out of excitement or worry) I fall prey to insomnia. And for a day that I’ve been anticipating for a few years, I slept surprisingly well last night–my cough was the only thing that kept me up for a while.

In a few hours I’m leaving Canada for seven months. A lot of people have been asking how I’m feeling and looking slightly surprised that I’m not more visibly excited. When you decide years ahead of time you’re going to go live in another country, you tell everyone but it doesn’t really mean anything. It was just this thing that was in the back of my head I pulled out in conversation sometimes. When it got to the one-year countdown, I finally had to make some real decisions to prepare for it and make it happen (like moving back with my parents.)

Around the one month mark was when I really realized what was going to happen. The anxiety started to build and more than one night ended in tears. People didn’t seem to understand when I confessed I was suddenly scared of going. They said it was going to be fine, I was going to have a great time and they seemed to mean it. It took me until the last week to calm down.

A quick recap of what’s happened in the last week. Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty stopped into my News Reporting class and fielded questions from eager hoard of J-schoolers.

I asked him to what extent government entities (specifically the Human Rights Commission) should have in say in editorial content. He gave me an honest answer, “I don’t have a neat and tidy answer for you,” and went about a roundabout story involving lecturing a Pakistani university. It was probably the most exciting thing that has happened in J-School thus far.

Later that night I had my goodbye party at my on-and-off-again haunt, The Library. Conveniently, I chose that night to begin promoting this website. Having a crowd of people available and a few drinks in a my system was just a coincidence.

And that’s it. Bye Canada, see you in seven months. Next stop: The Netherlands.

posted by vicky at 12:38 pm under Europe, J-School, Pre-departure
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Clafouti
915 Queen Street West/ 416-603-1935

Despite the years of moaning about wanting to live in Europe and the fact I’m leaving next week, sometimes I doubt that there can be a place in the world nicer than Toronto in the summer. I’ve suspected it since my days in high school commuting down to traipse around Queen West (read: Muchmusic and the surrounding stores) but living downtown last summer confirmed it.

Clafouti epitomizes the ideal summer morning that I once had the privilege to call routine existence. This French patisserie is at the heart of the West Queen West, right across from Trinity Bellwoods Park. Every morning last August I would pass through the park, making my way between dogs, their owners and children before turning on Queen Street on my walk to my internship. The late start time allowed for a leisurely walk that took in the best part of the Queen Street–west of commercialization and east of pretension.

On a good morning I would stop at Clafouti for a chocolate almond croissant. On the best mornings I would stop at Clafouti for a chocolate almond croissant and eat it sitting on a bench in the park. When I went early enough to get them fresh from the oven (around 10 a.m. worked for me), the croissant was just enough to create that warm, happy feeling in my stomach. The worst days, however, were Mondays when I forgot that they weren’t open.

There are only three small tables inside the store so orders are almost always to go. It’s a little disappointing when I want to stare at the colourful shelves of imported European confections, enjoy the impeccable music selection and stare at the store’s display cases. These vitrines are the stuff dreams are made of. Inside sit rows of tarts (lychee-caramel, almond-pear), sandwich croissants (shrimp with avocado) each with elegant little signs in front of each one, explaining its contents. Outside the store, a slate sign quietly broadcasts the staff’s daily musings (“War is over.”)

It’s the little details that give this patisserie its chaleur. Clafouti embodies the romantic life that Amélie made us wistful for. It is the seamless melding of urbanity and old-world charm together in one delicious package.

posted by vicky at 9:49 pm under Food, Pre-departure, Toronto
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The first time I had schwarma, I was in my first year of university. It was at La Zeez (now Pita Land), a small fast-food schwarma joint close to my university residence. I don’t remember much about my first schwarma, other than it didn’t compel me to have it again. The closest I would come to having a schwarma for the rest of the school year was the Extreme Pita kiosk in the residence cafeteria.

That summer I went with my friend Alex to Université Laval on the EXPLORE program to learn French. By the time we arrived in Ste Foy, it was late and we hadn’t eaten. We walked past the set of three malls next to the campus, half exploring, half desperate for a meal. The only place that was open, was Beyrouth Cité, a 24-hour Lebanese restaurant. The man who worked the night shift dressed like a pirate, blared Middle Eastern techno music and gave us generous doses of garlic mayonnaise, or “mayo magique.” His persona was too weird to be normal, too real to be a gimmick, but either way we ate it up. And it was delicious.

(Prepare for old, slightly embarassing picture)

Some of my best memories of Québec City involve schwarma and this man (pictured center.) He had whetted my appetite for schwarma but I needed to find a place in Toronto that could sustain it.

Wrap & Grab
618 Yonge Street/ 416-915-7482

Wrap & Grab was a big part of my life in second year. It used to be located at Yonge and College, which made it close enough from campus for lunch and on route to the streetcar ride home. This summer they moved to a new location at Yonge and St. Joseph (one block north of Wellesley) but I still find myself making the trip. $6.99 buys you 2 schwarmas, chicken or beef, but I don’t go there for the price. I pass at least 10 schwarma places on the walk from school to Wrap & Grab but I doubt any can do the schwarma this kind of justice.

Their schwarma is, in a word, godly. The meat is freshly cut and expertly seasoned. Opt for the hot sauce, it’s the flavourful kind of spicy, not hot. Personally, when I remember I pass on the hummus and ask for extra garlic. Maybe eating schwarma lets me relive Québec, or maybe I’m just partial to those flavours–either way, it tastes amazing.

posted by vicky at 6:29 pm under Food, Pre-departure, Toronto
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Whenever people go away for long periods of time, they spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about leaving their friends and family. What they don’t realize they will miss are the everyday things that are so common and convenient, they’re almost invisible. I am trying to avoid these oversights and become more aware of the things I will leave behind with each passing day. My hour-and-fifteen-minute bus/subway ride on the TTC everyday, copy editing class, salt stains on the bottom of my jeans: these are things I am only too happy to leave behind. But there are also those things which I hesitate to leave behind and will miss dearly while I am gone.

This is why I will dedicate my last two weeks to dining at my favourite Toronto establishments. It is with pleasure and sadness I introduce the Last Suppers. This is the first in a series of heartbreaking and savoury goodbyes.

New York Subway
520 Queen St. W. / 416-703-4496

The name is a misnomer; New York Subway is the go-to place for burritos. Some people will swear that Burrito Boyz is the best burrito joint in town. I have heard this testimony often and do not take it lightly. However, I still haven’t had a chance to try out the Boyz. But for those of us who have no reason to be in the Richmond/Adelaide area and avoid going there unnccessarily, I am happy to go on believing.

Their sandwich board advertising a spinach burrito for $3.99 attracted to eat here for the first time, and, to this day, it remains my favourite. The main cook is a stoic man but makes a burrito just as mean as he sometimes comes off. When he asks you how spicy you want it, keep in mind their sauce is more rich and creamy than mouth-burning. Their burritos are a perfect example of spicy flavourful and not spicy hot. The only burrito I’ve tried and haven’t liked was the cheese and eggplant burrito. It sounded good in theory but was just bland.

This is a popular lunch take-out place, so during your wait expect to see people who walk in after you to get their food before you. Preparation takes an eon in retail job lunch time, even when there is no line. Call ahead if you’re in a rush; this is anything but fast food. That isn’t a dig at the service, but a reminder that gourmet burritos, like all gourmet food, are best enjoyed with leisure.

posted by vicky at 2:15 am under Food, Pre-departure, Toronto
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This fall, when I moved back to my parents’ house, one of my former roommates admitted to me that living together drove him crazy. Everyone knows bad roommate horror stories but I never saw myself as one. I didn’t make loud noise during odd hours, we rarely fought, the company I kept was agreeable–what was so terrible about living with me?

He said I lived and treated our house like it was temporary. I knew I was bad at cleaning, cooking and every other exercise in domesticity. But he said it was because I made no attempt to personalize the house and only when my replacement moved in did the house “finally look like someone lives here.” He made me rhetorically promise the next time I lived on my own I would live better instead of just choosing to do without.

Yes, we used the clear curtain liner our landlord gave us instead as an excuse not to buy a shower curtain. Yes, our one plastic spatula was slightly melted. And maybe there was one time I had to run to Shoppers Drug Mart bleeding to buy band-aids when I accidentally cut my finger and realized we didn’t have any.  But isn’t the impoverished college student lifestyle acceptable when you are an impoverished college student? Still, he had a point.

I remembered what he said today when I was shopping for a backpack for my new laptop and to take traveling in Europe. I have a new laptop because I cracked the screen of the old one a year ago when I left it under a car seat unprotected (while the car was being driven.) Today I stood inside a backpack mecca today with a bag that met my basic requirements (reasonably priced) and one that promised more comfort for me, more safety for my computer and some fun hi-tech gizmos (what I would call indulgent) at a crossroads. It required some justification and debate, but I allowed myself the more expensive bag.

Three weeks from now I am leaving for the Netherlands to go on exchange and it will be the impoverished life once more. I will be fending for myself in foreign lands for seven months. But I am proud to have taken the first step to leaving the coddled suburban comfort I hope to outgrow the only way I know how. God bless Mastercard.

posted by vicky at 11:24 pm under Netherlands, Pre-departure, Toronto
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