Hello, Canada!

Glasgow. Early - way, way early on the 16th of January: I was in the airport, recoiling slightly as my family were advancing towards me simultaneously, closing in on me, all dewy-eyed. It was a kind of a creepy, accidentally-synchronised thing, and I told them off for it because it looked weird and was probably going to make me cry. This was the last time I'd see them for a long while, so I said goodbye to each of them, and they imparted some wisdom (most of which revolved around the idea, "don't be afraid of failure!" - what u tryin to say bud?), and I headed off to security, pretending that I didn't feel a catch in the back of my throat.

Before too long, I was buckled into my seat. I had been awake since 5am, but I was buzzing. The plane aligned itself with the runway. The engines began to rev and roar, and we started gathering speed down the track. As the front wheels began to lift off the tarmac, my brain presented my final thought on Scottish soil:

...what have I DONE!?

I was still reeling as we ascended through the Glasgow clouds and burst through into this crazy beautiful heaven-scape. That's always my favourite part of flying, especially if it's early morning. The sun was spilling over the clouds, and everything was lavender and coral. It was like flying through cotton candy. We sifted through one large pink puff, and the whole plane was bathed in rosy light. I felt good. I felt ready.

The seven and a half hours passed comfortably, and soon the captain was announcing our descent. The clouds were thick, but began to separate slightly as we dipped further down. Before I knew it I could see the sparkling ground of the GTA (Greater Toronto Area). Everything was covered in snow and glittering with ice. I looked beyond and caught the skyline in the distance, silhouetted blue; the CN Tower stood proudly amongst the cluster of skyscrapers. I started smiling like a ninny. I pressed my face right up to the window and giggled to myself - I was so happy, I thought my face was going to burst. Oh man, oh man! Here I was! This was real! Canadian flags were flapping in the wind. I could see the city I had been lusting over for the past year, and it was real and concrete and scintillating in the winter sun, and it was mine.

During the run-up to my departure, I had been worrying that something terrible would place itself between me and my destination (mm, sounds a bit familiar, eh?). What if the plane crashed? What if I got to immigration and they refused me? My brain told me that I had to spend adequate mind-time on these possibilities to ward off their eventuality of actually happening (superstitious logic, I guess). And now, thanks to my all-powerful mind, I had landed safely in Canada, all I had left was to just get through customs. 

My heart was beating fast, I was standing at the counter with all my documents laid out. The woman had taken my passport and was spending an agonisingly long time typing things out, as I stood, sweating in my bulky snow clothes (I had to wear my biggest stuff on the plane - I only looked semi-ridiculous). Just when I had begun to consider that she was perhaps actually working on a short novel rather than my immigration papers, she printed off my work permit and stapled it into my passport.

All right, I thought. Let the adventure begin!

With great difficulty, I walked out with my two suitcases and guitar in hand. That small journey from the baggage claim to arrivals could have easily been a Mr Bean sketch, what with me stopping and starting, dragging one suitcase and then going back for the other one, not fitting through the double automatic doors because my guitar was catching between them. Eventually, I got through and saw a friendly, familiar face. 

We loaded up the van and I did the classic British thing of approaching the driver's side of the car (which I have done about twice since and am sure I am still yet to do several more times). We drove in to the city, so I could have a quick look around downtown and get a bite to eat.

Canada is cold, but the whole climate feels a world away from the chilly Scottish weather. The sky is high and bright, I had to don my sunnies because I was squinting so hard from the glare of it off the snow and concrete. The air is cold, but strangely dry: there's no dampness, no dreich-ness that hangs over you like it does in Scotland. We parked, and walked through Yonge Street, Bay Street, Spadina Avenue (which I realised I had been pronouncing wrong, it's nae Spa-dee-nah, which is quite a Scottish way of saying it… it's Levi-ohhh-sa, not Levvy-yo-sah!). It was magic, walking down all the streets that I had been spying on Google maps from behind a computer for about a year.

We got lunch at this small joint downtown, I had Canadian beer and ate the most ridiculously amazing sweet potato fries I've ever had in my life (hey, guys at The Restaurant, forget the wedges, you gotta get in on this!). We couldn't stay in town for long, but I got introduced to the Canadian INSTITUTION that is Tim Hortons.

My pal Robert tried to draw up a comparison with a UK chain, but we couldn't seem to find one. There's nothing quite like Timmy's (or Timmy Ho Ho's, my personal favourite nickname) - it's kind of like a sit-in Greggs, but nobody hates it? Even that doesn't quite cover it. It's like a fast-food place decided to do just coffee and donuts, and everyone seems to drink it. It's bloody everywhere.

Anyway, I got my Tim's hot chocolate and we drove out to Barrie, where I'd be staying for the next two weeks. The snow was sparse in the city, but as soon as we were a couple of miles out of the town, it was snowy AS.

Driving through Barrie was interesting. The snow was thick on the ground, and Robert took me on a tour through the heart of the town. Barrie lies on a bay of Lake Simcoe, which is frozen over for several miles at the moment. Ice fishing huts were stationed out in several places on the lake. Canadian geese took off from the shore and flew up in a perfect line (just as you'd see those kitchsy geese ornaments stationed on an old lady's wall). We drove through to Shanty Bay (which I keep accidentally calling Shanky Bay), passed beautiful houses, including one which is apparently owned by the Russian mafia (huh!), and through to the house.*

That evening at the dinner table we figured out that my figure skater, Jeffrey Buttle, the man who started this whole darn thing, lives in Barrie. We got the phone book out and found a 'Buttle' family, but none of the initials started with J (I'm not sure what I would have done if I had actually found him in the phone book - called him up? knocked on his door?!). I am not deterred, though. I know he's near. As I write, I have a tab open to buy a ticket for "Stars on Ice" in Toronto. Our paths are inextricably intertwined. It's happening.

Day 2 in Canada consisted of running several errands, setting up my bank account and getting my social insurance number (which was all surprisingly easy). In the evening a bunch of us drove to Barrie's 'Snow Valley' and went tubing. I had been tubing before, but on cruddy, Scottish, dry ski slopes (to which a couple of our friends said, "how do you even make a dry ski slope!?" Apparently, and with good reason, there are no dry slopes in Canada). This was not Garthdee or Alford. This was next level tubing. Bright lights illuminated the icy chutes, and the local radio station played through several speakers stationed around the area (sliding in a dinghy under the full moon to Bohemian Rhapsody was an experience, let me tell ya!). I was pretty hesitant, because the slopes that we were presented with were huge, white, shiny death slides (the website had advertised them as ten-story drops).

My heart was leaping about as I sat in my little donut (sponsored by Timmy Ho Ho's!) at the top. I got a couple of swift kicks, and soon enough I was sliding over the edge. As I dipped, my stomach left me behind and the profanities that flew from my mouth were caught by the cold wind. I was speeding down. I'm pretty sure my ears popped on the way. It was insane, but the best, best fun. Post-tubing, we caught a drive-thru Timmy's (I've been here three days and have had Tim's every single day), and hit up the neighbour's hot tub. The sky was high and clear, the moon was full and the stars were out. I could get used to this, I mused. The Canadians certainly know how to enjoy winter.

The thing about staying outside of the city for these initial couple of weeks is that I am getting the full, stereotypical, Canadian experience:

• Sitting in the Service Canada office, waiting to get my social insurance number, I saw a man wearing a raccoon tail hat with a Canada pin, and his son was dressed in a Toronto Maple Leafs jumper
• People's accents out here are thicker - they honestly say oot and aboot -I'm getting used to the okie-dokie, eh buddy, tone of voice
• Everybody is crazy about ice hockey
• The snow ploughs trucks are huge
• I met someone who is studying Ojibwe, one of the native languages
• One of the big stories on the news now is about how Neil Young is protesting against the oilsands in Alberta
• One of the smaller stories was about a young boy who got lost out on a frozen lake (he was fine though, he got the priviledge of getting told off by his mum and being on national television)

I'm not looking through entirely rose-tinted glasses, though. There are, of course, scaffy bits to the outskirts of Barrie, as there are with all towns. There are an abundance of retail parks with all the same shops: Walmart, Bed Bath & Beyond, Target…

But even there, I see the Canadian flag flying, and I remember the yearning, I remember everything that I had pinned upon that red maple leaf. My fourteen-year-old self would be dancing.

*I'm sorry, the way I wrote that makes it sounds like Robert and his family live next to the Russian mafia. They don't. I'm safe, don't worry!