Sunday, March 13, 2011

This is me being concise... Enjoy it while you can

So, now that I'm a solid 3 months behind on my blog I've decided I'm going to give the quick and dirty of the last 3 months of my life.  Not that anyone particularly cares at this point, but a promise is a promise.

While in New Jersey I was permitted to watch the slow deterioration of the extremely upper class in a FYEO exhibition of holiday drunkenness and anorexic food avoidance.  I, the lowly server, had the pleasure of pouring wine for people whose clothing was probably worth more than my student debt, while they talked business, then pleasure, and finally ended the night by just yelling "NOOOVVAAA SCCOOOOTTTIIAAAA!!" at me repeatedly.  Yes, Miss - I'm from Nova Scotia, for the twenty-seventh time.  And no, it's not on the West Coast, and it's also not "like the north pole up there".

The rest of my time in Jers' was spent visiting as many restaurants as possible, hitting up the Museum of Natural History, seeing a few bands (Dark Star Orchestra jammed so hard that I almost lost consciousness - literally), visiting my great aunt and uncle, learning to snowboard (and subsequently crying almost the entire way down a one-mile trail), and of course, I was present for the infamous "Snowmageddon".  We went to three NHL games, got 35 blocks away from Times Square on New Years Eve, and even hit up Carlos' Bakery in Hoboken!  I spent a full 25 days at the Duker residence (much love goes out to Linda and Joe for being so hospitable) and by the end of my time there, between hanging out at the house, meeting lots of new people, seeing lots of older acquaintances, and even working the odd job here and there, I practically felt at home.  But, I wasn't and so I had to leave and come back to Canada and get a real job.

So at the beginning of January I hopped on my 9th airplane of the past six months and headed back to NOOOOVVVAAAA SCCOOOOTTTIIIAAAAA. (ha) Oh and of course, just for me, Halifax got hit with a blizzard the day I arrived.  Luckily for me, my poor-weather rescuer was at hand again to pick me up at the airport, followed by our usual 45 minute bitch session and then parking lot donuts.

Originally, I'd intended to stay in Nova Scotia until May or June - in the hopes that I'd be able to find work and save up some money before going to Concordia for their graduate program in Journalism (which I had yet to be accepted to).  But, as is to be expected with me, my plans quickly changed.

Firstly, being at home after being away for almost 7 years is a dramatic lifestyle change.  I felt like I couldn't accept or relate to the vast majority of the attitudes and personalities that resided in my county.  "No girl at the bar, just because I looked in the general direction of your boyfriend for a split second doesn't mean that I'm going to try to steal him. Feel free to loosen your death-grip on him now." In all seriousness, though, it had been so long that some people didn't even recognize me anymore.  I wasn't home - I was away - and eventually this started to eat away at me.  Within two weeks I was starting to feel anxious and depressed.

Like I may have mentioned before, I'm lucky, or blessed, to have the people in my life that I do.  One of these people came to the rescue late one Friday night when I was feeling particularly gloomy and alone, and she offered for me to move to Montreal.  "Honestly, Allie," she said, "don't worry about anything, just come here. You can worry about a job when you get here - just get out of Pictou County.  Don't let that place kill you."

So, in the next few days I applied on seven jobs, and set up interviews for four of them the coming Monday.  I had five days to figure out a plan and get my ass to Montreal.  My brother and I decided we should rent a car and take a road trip up together with all my stuff, so we made the reservation and specifically told the agency the class of car we needed because we'd be moving some things. "Shouldn't be a problem."

But it was.  That morning, all we could get was a minivan, and because we were leaving the Maritimes, it would cost us $0.18 for every kilometer past the New Brunswick border.  The fees started adding up and eventually it just wasn't reasonable anymore.  So, at 10:30 am I was forced to re-pack all my things, find a ride to Truro and take the train.

Lucky for me again, Janelle stepped up to the plate, and even though we had to pack her car in 30 minutes, and we had to drive the entire way with a snowboard in between our heads, she was a total trooper about it.  I arrived, unloaded my stuff onto three trolleys, headed into the station and started sorting everything out.  I had nine bags total, 2 carry-on, 4 checked, and 3 additional checked bags, one of which shouldn't have been accepted because it was a trunk. Thank goodness for ViaRail's amazing staff that day.

The train ride was 20 hours long and when I arrived in Montreal I was a cold, lonely Anglo in my new city of residence.  The porter for ViaRail on the Montreal end managed to somehow stack all my bags on one trolley, which garnered more than a few stares from customers and staff members alike.  He made sure to point out that generally, porters are tipped $3 per bag.  I gave him all I had left in cash after wasting my money on a too-small, disgusting train egg salad sandwich and couscous, which was only $15, but it would have to do.

My taxi driver stopped at a CIBC for me on the way to the apartment and even helped me with my French, clarifying for me why sometimes one uses the noun "vous" instead of "tu" when speaking to an individual ("vous" is more respectful, by the way).  Since he helped me learn French, and helped me carry everything into my apartment building I tipped him $35.

I'd thought I couldn't be so happy to arrive somewhere.  That is, until I couldn't get inside the apartment... But I'll save the rest for another post.

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