The Gypsy Re-emerges

After having been in Montreal for 8 weeks, I’d decided my inner-gypsy needed to re-emerge so I decided to take off to New Jersey and New York for a reprieve from my very un-gypsy lifestyle.  I got off work that night at 10:00 pm and the bus departed at 11:45 pm, giving me just enough time to boogie on up and stand in line – and what a line it was, no less than 75 people long, plus their accompanists.  I was kind of worried I might not actually get on the bus since seats aren’t reserved and it’s first-come, first-serve.

I managed to make it into a seat and settled in for what is quite possibly the worst commute on the face of the planet.  There’s only one thing worse than a ride on the Greyhound for eight and a half hours, and that’s a ride on the Greyhound for eight and a half hours, where you need to get out of the bus twice, in the dead of winter, before you actually arrive in your destination.  You were probably envisioning a nice, peaceful ride through the Adirondacks, my pleasant slumber accompanied by dreams of New York City food establishments and of course of my international love interest, but you couldn’t be more wrong. 

Not only do you have to get off the bus to go through Customs at 12:30 am where you wait, always anxiously, in line while people ahead and behind you are questioned, have their retina’s scanned, and are sometimes pulled aside for additional questioning; but you also have to get out in what I will endearingly refer to as the “butthole of America,” Albany, New York.  We arrived there around 3:30 am.  It was about 15 degrees below zero.  I was not a happy gypsy.  We sat in the station while they serviced the bus for another half hour, and then reloaded and as I approached my seat I came to realize that someone sniped it!  I thought everyone knew the rules of travel, when you sit somewhere, that’s where you stay – especially on lengthy trips.  I was delegated to the back of the bus, right next to the bathroom and some dude who snored loudly for the remainder of the trip.

The only saving grace of the whole drive happened when we arrived just outside New York City.  There was a cold, misty fog hanging above the skyscrapers, causing them to disappear into it, as if they could go on forever.  The sun began rising just as we approached the city and the vibrant yellows and reds behind the beautiful New York City skyline blew me away.  I was then grateful for being ousted from my seat, and for being kept awake by my snoring seatmate, because otherwise I wouldn’t have caught the magnificent view.

I’ve briefly referred to the five days I spent in New Jersey/New York City in my blog post on becoming vegan.  My trip took place just after I finished my four-week vegan cleanse and I was rewarding myself for my dedication by allowing myself to eat whatever I wanted, after all, I was on vacation.  My body had other plans for letting me know what was going to go down (specifically down my oesophagus).  Throughout the week I had a heaping pile of waffles with whipped cream and fruit, pork, chicken and beef taco sliders, burritos, Peruvian food, coconut cake, eggplant parmesan (it’s not a visit to Jersey without it), and chicken fajitas, not to mention snacks and other treats along the way. My body reacted by developing a chronic stomach ache and blessing me with nightmares every single night.  It was then I decided I was going to be permanently vegan.

Surprisingly, it was the last day and my travel back to Montreal that left even more of an impact.  Coincidentally, my best friends’ parents were in New York City for a conference, so before catching my midnight bus back to Montreal, Matt and I met up with them for a 20 minute, super fast, catch-up cram session and I was on my way, fearing that I was going to miss my bus.

During the drive to the US, I kept to myself with my headphones on, but on the way back I happened to sit next to a fellow, or rather he sat next to me.  He immediately offered me a piece of chocolate and so the conversation began.  He just got back from travelling for six months in Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Belize and Florida.  He told me about how he began as a deck hand for a rich Floridian man who was sailing down the coast to Costa Rica, but after a few days at sea he realized their personalities clashed too much to salvage even a working relationship, so when they docked in Costa Rica he decided to stay there.

He took 48 hour long bus rides, hitchhiked, taxied and walked throughout all of the countries he visited, and all just at his own whim.  The travel wasn’t planned, it wasn’t sought out, it just happened.  He took the circumstances he had and made the best of them.  He received his certification as a scuba diver and was only coming back to Montreal now for a brief hiatus from the seas before he was heading West to Vancouver to meet up with a documentary film maker who was going to be at sea for three to six weeks filming whale migrations.

He didn’t know what he would do after that, but that didn’t matter to him anyway.  What mattered was that he was following his passion, the sea, and his heart.  I find the idea of static living to be so suffocating that a conversation with this late-twenties West Islander invigorating to the point that I couldn’t sleep until roughly 4:00 am.  It’s always so inspiring when I find people who don’t blend in or conform to societies’ rules of what they should do and when.  His life was full of uncertainty, not unlike mine, but also full of pleasure and pure joy, also not unlike mine.

As we parted ways at the Berri-UQAM station in Montreal, I wondered if I should have asked for his contact information, to be kept informed on all of his adventures and travels, but as I slowly descended the escalator I knew our brief encounter was just what I needed to remind me of my own need for adventure, drive for discovery and absolute necessity of listening to my heart.  The moment before a new, exciting chapter in life is what I refer to the “inhale,” and with that in mind I could feel myself breathe in.

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.

You Don't Have to Go Home, But You Can't Stay Here

The next two weeks in Florida would be a whirlwind of changing plans and alternative arrangements.

Everyone seemed to be making their plans leaving me no other choice but to leave as well.  And fast.

I had a week to make up my mind and commit to a plan, which isn’t much time at all when you’re in an unfamiliar country, with no friends or family in the immediate vicinity.

My first thought was that I should head back to that hostel in Florida City.  I could live there for free if I volunteered.  I would stay for 16 days, volunteer, meet lots of interesting travelers, and spend Christmas in Florida.

That didn’t sound so bad.

I called the hostel.  The owner said just swing on by whenever.  I looked into finding transportation there; the Greyhound would take me so far as Miami, but I would need to take Public Transportation from Miami/Cutler Ridge to Florida City… at night, with a 45lb expedition pack and a laptop bag. 

If a young, lone woman, clearly traveling and so out of her comfort zone doesn’t scream¸ “TARGET” then I don’t know what does.

In leaving the hostel I would need to take Public Transit to Miami, transfer to the Greyhound to Fort Lauderdale, and then take a cab from the Greyhound station to the Fort Lauderdale airport.  Again, at night.  And very much alone.

After spending 16 days at the hostel, I would head to New Jersey from Fort Lauderdale, for two weeks, until January 9^th.

I was afraid, but I was willing to do it without letting on, for two reasons:

1)      I thought I had no other options;

2)      If I let on that I was afraid, then others might be afraid for me;

I didn’t want anyone worrying about me.  When I told interested parties of my plans, I made sure to sound excited, fearless, in control, and collected. 

I was terrified someone would catch on, but I began arranging everything for my return to Florida City anyway.  I had the bus prices checked, the Google maps directions printed, I’d notified all interested parties of my plans, and I was going to leave in four days; which I thought was just enough time to get my things together and come to terms with my fear.  Also, I wanted to leave before everyone else did.  I didn’t want to be the last one at the house.

Then, kismet stuck again.

Matt messaged me.  He’d been talking to his mom.  She really didn’t like the idea of me being at a hostel alone, especially at Christmas.  She suggested that I should go there for the Christmas season.  But, I’d already booked my flights, and I couldn’t afford to reschedule them both, and pay for the cost disparity.  I was really nervous about being there for almost a full month.  December 15^th until January 9^th. 

A month is a long time, and when you don’t know a family really well, it’s easy to feel like you’re in the way, like you’re a burden, or just plain out of place.

I considered the option for a while and decided some momentary discomfort while finding my niche in the house would be less of a risk than say, taking Public Transit, by oneself, at night, in Miami.

I began packing, along with the rest of the members of the soon-to-be disbanded household.  The week was crawling by.