*inhales deeply*

As anticipated, May was an insane month. Canadian Music week was a blitz of 6am starts, long days at the hotel, juggling emails, and late nights at packed venues. I stumbled across some great music, ate Diane Warren’s toast, met Amanda Palmer, got to see Mr. Quincy Jones speak, had a religious awakening at the Owen Pallett gig and played my own set at the end of the week (people even bought my music!).

I had one Sunday to squeeze some sort of rest in before work started again, and then on Thursday, Ian came to visit. I sat in cafes and thoughts of “Canada, Phase 2” kept bubbling up in my mind. I felt curious about my future — what I could do next, and where I could go. My internship was coming to an end, and so was my lease at my current apartment. A little voice in the back of my head told me to pack it all in and head to Montreal… I looked at the city’s sublets on Craigslist. Another voice told me I should look to the west… the mountain ranges and shimmering lakes of Alberta and British Columbia. I knew that I had just over two weeks to find a new place to live, and the desperation and panic was settling in nicely. I started to question what my real purpose of being in Canada was — what did I want to achieve? Had I really achieved anything yet? What the hell was I supposed to do next?

These thoughts had to fly away before I got a real chance to tackle them head-on, as I had to head to the airport to pick Ian up. I took the TTC to the airport and bought a cup of tea that burnt my tongue, and stood at the arrivals section waiting to see a familiar face appear from behind the double automatic doors.

Ian arrived with a smile and suitcase in tow, and I was very happy to see him. It was comforting to have someone from home here, someone I could talk to about anything and everything and know I was being heard. I had worried before because I’d only had one day to myself since Canadian Music Week — I hadn’t really stopped since — but by the evening, those worries had subsided.

We sat at the bar of a small barbecue joint, laughing over sticky pork ribs and sweet iced cocktails, surrounded by the Thursday night crowd, while smoky soul played on vinyl records. We downed shots of a terrible liquor called Buffalo Trace and made jokes like we’d seen each other yesterday.

The weekend saw us up the CN Tower, eating pancakes smothered in blueberries, down by the lakeshore, at the aquarium and kicking back at the Supermarket open mic. While all of this was going on, I was scouring Craigslist in the evenings, trying to find myself a place to live, my brow furrowed with concern. I’d reassured my parents that I’d have an emergency plan lined up if I was without a place to call my own by June 1st, but I hadn’t set anything in place. Would I have to stay with Robert in his condo which definitely only had space for one? Would I be shoving my stuff into storage and taking a bed in a hostel? I worried as I realised that I didn’t have a lot of Plan B material.

some jellyfish at the aquarium

Ian took a few nights at a hostel downtown when I had my work days. When I saw him in the evenings after the office, he’d tell me about what he’d done that day, and the people he’d met at the backpackers inn (including a passive-aggressive Israeli girl who had offered to drive him cross-country and Jacob, the guy from Korea who just wanted to know where all the bikinis were at). I felt a twinge of jealousy that he seemed to have met more people there in two days than I’d met in Toronto in my first two weeks. I’d never travelled by myself or experienced hostels like that, and the little voices inside of me that had been calling out for pastures new started to pipe up again: go to Montreal! Move to Vancouver! Travel! Be free! Toronto’s got nothing for you anymore!

One evening Ian and I met up with my pal from work, Jill, and we spent an evening at a small bar on College and Bathurst singing Belle & Sebastian songs. The group is called Choir! Choir! Choir! — a bunch of people all gathered together on a Tuesday night, learning to sing and harmonise whatever song that had been picked out for the evening. I hadn’t sung with a choir for years. There was something blissful about standing amongst all the bodies on the warm evening, with the ceiling fans lightly blowing my hair about, the lanterns swinging and feeling the soothing swells and harmonies in the words I was singing with everyone. Look closely, and see if you can spot me:

A couple of nights later, I had a flat viewing at a loft on King. I’d tried to temper my hopes for each room viewing, because I knew all too well the feeling of having my expectations completely quashed by chipping paint or walls that breathed the stale scent of Mary Jane. Ian and I stood outside a dark building off the main street, frowning slightly at the creepy-looking staircase through the glass-panelled front door of the apartment block. We both reassured myself that it was probably a lot nicer on the inside. A loft apartment! I’ve always wanted to live in a loft, I thought, imagining big spaces and exposed brick, with white walls reflecting rays of light streaming in from big, wide windows.

Rather than appearing from inside the flat, the owner of the property sidled up to the front of the building behind us and introduced himself, finishing off a cigarette with two of his friends. We talked about the specs of the tenancy outside the door, hands in pockets. Ian later said the whole thing felt very “drug deal”-y, and I agreed.

It only got worse. We stepped inside the apartment to find a tall space with various nooks and crannies filled with organised junk, walls which had been set up to stand and separate ‘rooms’ (the bathroom wall had the soundproofing akin to holding a tissue downwind of Niagara Falls) and — the best/worst part — the room in question was windowless, only accessible via a tall, blue ladder. I climbed up to have a look at the rented space, trying my best to feign interest and not betray the mini-heart attack I was having as the ladder shoogled about under my shoegrip. Ian and I couldn’t get out there soon enough.

We laughed down the street, imagining my the poor fate of a paralell-universe self where I took the apartment and had to climb up and down a bloody ladder ten times a day. We fashioned the idea of “ladder trousers” — a pair of joggers I would wear as I ascended and descended during summer months, to prevent unsightly flashes to my roomies of my upskirt.

brunch at the Drake! best in town

We’d planned to spend one of our final days together down at Niagara Falls, to view one of the world’s greatest watery wonders. I’d been told that the strip next to the falls was akin to Blackpool (aka, tacky hell), but the falls were enough to redeem it. It was good fun, apparently. Ian and I were excited, sitting on the train with our Tim Hortons coffees. By the time we got to Niagara, it had started to rain. I was wearing flimsy flat shoes which soaked up the sidewalk’s water like two sponges, and we had no umbrella to shelter ourselves.

We had to walk into the centre of Niagara, and as we squelched through the humid rain to to the falls, our surroundings became more and more… tacky. I felt like we were walking through some sort of Cadona’s Hell at the end of the world, with an abundance of wax museums and tourist tat on either side of us. Eventually we caught sight of the falls — just the tops of the cliffs on the other side of the gorge, the water rushing over it and the mist rising. Approaching, I knew that Ian and I were sharing the same thought: I hope it’s a lot larger than it looks right now.

They weren’t. I stood at the edge of the rail, mouthing off at how my tap back at home could encourage bigger gasps than what escaped from my lips when I saw the two piddles that were Niagara Falls. A couple of tourists laughed, I had gone into my full-blown Scottish accent, which only seems to come out whenever I’m mildly annoyed. Ian shared the sentiment. So we went to the Hard Rock Cafe, I ordered a Pina Colada and we planned when to get the next bus home.

disappoint

Ian hopped on a plane back home to Scotland and I had one evening to myself before I was back at work again. By the Sunday that he’d left, I’d been able to find an apartment to move into and it looked promising — one bedroom in a flat of four, newly renovated kitchen and bathroom, a window — oh, yes, a window! — and air conditioning.

So I’ve started to formulate a plan for Canada, Phase Two. The lease in my new apartment lasts until August, at which point I can either stay in Toronto and fight against a tsunami of students looking for a year’s accommodation, or disappear out west for a few weeks. I have ALSO managed to secure a trial shift as supervisor at a popular coffee joint downtown, which would give me some actual moolah to pay rent and travel with, thank god.

It sort of feels like I’m posing for the tableau, and the curtain is about to fall. In a matter of seconds, the red velvet will rise again and I’ll be stationed in a completely new scene: new job, new apartment, new neighbourhood. The stage is empty save for me, but I’m hoping that some new cast members will be introduced soon! (~*theatre metaphors*~)

Oh yeah, and I got a haircut.

OLIVIA 2.0