The execution was haphazard at best. I'd planned to save up a few grand over the summer to execute the move in proper style, but that was my first party summer, and there just never seemed to be enough money. I saved $1,000 in May and June and virtually nothing more by the end of September.
As a result, plans had to change. Instead of having $3,000 saved, I had $1,000 and a fresh new VISA. Instead of an apartment, I was staying with a "friend" I barely knew until I landed a job. Instead of moving in the traditional sense, brought two suitcases and two knapsacks, with everything else thrown into storage in Ottawa.
Usually this is the sort of half-assed plan hatched by starry-eyed 19 year-olds, who end up giving up and moving home once they've blown through their savings and their parents' generosity. In my case, there was really no home to go back to.
Everything I considered home was in Ottawa, and the apartment I had there was gone. Even if I wanted to move back, as a dirty unilingual I'd never be able to land a job that paid as well as the (awful) one I left behind. That's why I had to leave in the first place. It was all fucking scary, because failure would mean moving to a dying town of 500 with my grandparents who, while loving, would rather play golf than take care of their 23 year-old grandson.
I left for Toronto in late September. Six very long weeks, and countless job interviews later I landed a job that paid less than I was making in Ottawa, but didn't make me want to die, and an awful bachelor apartment I could afford. By the time February rolled around I decided it wasn't worth living on my own if I could only afford a shoebox, and moved to a nicer place with roommates.
I didn't have the money or the logistical ability to move all my crap from Ottawa until the ex moved here as well. From September 25 until May 1, I lived out of those two suitcases. By then I'd almost forgotten that I actually owned any furniture and it felt like Christmas to bring all this niceish Ikea crap into my apartment. In essence, it took me seven months to move to Toronto. In the interim I was in purgatory.
This isn't a sob story. Those long, dark moments. The stress. The loneliness. It was all worth it, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. More than a testament to me, it's a testament to Toronto. My life here isn't perfect. I still make less than I made in Ottawa. The financial outlook isn't what it should be. But it's hard to be pessimistic in this city. There's an energy, an optimism here, as if the city is telling me to hold on and everything will be alright.
Because now this is my city.
A toast to you, Toronto. I don't regret a thing.
Image courtesy of sandrino.
I met a friend for brunch today and somehow we started talking about the big blackout in the summer of 2003. For my generation, it's one of those key life moments, like September 11, Woodstock, or Expo 67, except more universal and in no way depressing.
Everybody remembers what they did that weekend, and everybody had a blast. And all weekend you knew you were going to remember it, because it was such an exceptional event.
People ventured out into the streets. Friends gathered and just spent time together by candlelight. It's like life decided to pull away all the things that keep us apart and said "Now you'll realize that you still have everything that matters." Nobody cared that the TV wouldn't turn on. After a while people stopped complaining about taking the stairs. Internet withdrawals faded as old friends met in person for the first time in ages.
I ended up going to the Lusk caves in Gatineau Park with a bunch of friends. Everybody came. Nobody was too busy and nobody was tethered to their cell phone. It was a freaking blast.
Deep down, I hope the people in charge of fixing the problem were incompetent, so we can have another blackout weekend. What did you do when the lights went out?
Image courtesy of GirlReporter.
