making it up

migration is about as common an experience as you can find. the particulars surrounding the change in location become what distinguish an easier or simpler move -- including the kind we rarely think of as "migration" (remember when you 'migrated' into a dorm for the first time?) -- from a more difficult or adventurous one: to what extent was the move forced upon you (e.g. by economic, political, ecological factors) versus a choice you made on your own terms? how many kilometres have you been displaced? what kind of social infrastructure do you have supporting you? how well do you know the languages spoken in your new home? how open are you to giving white or black pudding a chance? and so on...

on the sliding scale of easy to difficult, my recent move -- inspired by events that took place almost exactly three years ago (i.e. when i was introduced to the person who has since become my spouse) and, as it turns out, just a few days after my last blog post -- has been easy breezy beautiful.

still, when you move to a new country, one of your (or at least my) inadvertent new obsessions becomes asking questions. some travel writer or migration studies scholar has surely already outlined a typology of them (via an article called "wondering wanderers: a typology of immigrants' questions" or some such), so i won't even attempt to cover all the bases here. but many of the questions are formulated along the lines of: is behaviour X considered 'normal' here? this is asked less judgmentally than it probably sounds there. it is also asked ad nauseam, since the task of teasing apart the particular (what a specific person does) from the general (what people in a community generally do) is an inherently lengthy process, and deserves as much energy and patience as one can afford to give it. (this being said, one related question i ask myself several times a day -- in purely rhetorical fashion now because i simply can't wrap my brain around the phenomenon -- is: why are so many women painting themselves orange? and why don't they at least rub the (orange) self-tanning product / bronzer in all the way? #orangeblossom #anklestreaks #kanklestreaks #walkingpumpkins. but that's a matter for another post...)

other routine questions sound more like: what does it mean when someone says Y? i'm surprised by how often i find myself asking this question, particularly when the linguistic landscape of my day-to-day has by and large remained the same (in other words: english continues its hegemonic rule, and i still get to speak french fairly regularly).

given the sheer volume of your questions, their often sensitive nature, and the fact that you'd really love it if your partner didn't file for divorce, ever, for any reason, but especially not during the first few months of marriage and on the grounds of "interminable intercultural querying," you try to keep the vast majority of the questions to yourself. in fact, you don't even want to hear them anymore! you keep trying to free yourself from their incessantness, as they follow you around when you're dropping your dirty clothes off at the laundrette, or taking out the garbage, or making your way to the coffee shop. but this morning, this -- the coffee shop -- is where i've finally found some relief on that front.

seated in plush leather armchairs next to me are two fortysomething women, whom i now realize i've seen here before. or at least heard here before. i recognize their crisp local accents. i recognize their friends-y chatter with one another (which is one weird, capitalism-infused step beyond, or beneath, friendly chatter). and then, most especially, i recognize their launch into how that eyeshadow really catches the light beautifully, doesn't it and oh my, it really does and you know, we have that coming out soon in shade Z!

avon calling! or maybe it's mary kay or arbonne...who's to know. but it's just like being back in ottawa (or toronto, montreal, barrie or charlottetown). amid this transatlantic shuffle and the ensuing Qs&A, here's a little friends-y reminder that plus ça change...

and now back to translating...

trumped

shorter than usual line-up at the quieter than usual campus coffee shop. i make my way, more quickly than usual, to the counter. barista looks up at me, ready to take my order.

barista: hello.

me: hi, how are you?

barista: angry. how are you?

me: angry, too. nice to meet you!

thankfully, even on days of mourning, there is community.

and now back to translating...

batter up!

there is a man i quickly grew to love, thanks to this blog.

before i'd begun frequenting my first regular coffee shop, he'd already been a regular there. before i'd ever spoken to him, i'd written (a few times...) about him here. and although an acquaintanceship was launched through a series of unpredicted run-ins at that starbucks on elgin street, our friendship really hit its stride several months later, eventually involving monthly-ish phone calls as well as scheduled hour-long get-togethers taking place in whatever coffee shop has happened to be convenient.

he wears a fedora, a misfit blazer, a pair of wacky socks, and an enormous tie featuring cartoon baseball games. in my mind's eye, he is always striking up a friendly conversation with someone (an old colleague, an "important" public figure, an unsuspecting stranger who won't be a stranger for long) and -- somehow simultaneously -- he perpetually has his arms reaching out towards me, welcoming a warm hello of a hug and the kind of conversation that masterfully and naturally weaves together "how's your family doing?" and "let's get into [very heated topic X]."

even in the early days, he would belt out that he knew i'd be "great." he'd gregariously anticipate -- before a whole room of (perhaps reluctant) witnesses -- grandiose opportunities and accolades for me that actually began to seem possible, in spite of themselves.

and somewhere in each of our conversations, he'd reiterate that he's just never been someone who gets down; how -- i kid you not, Trish! -- he always wakes up with a smile on his face and a positive outlook on the day.

this afternoon, i checked my messages and heard the voice of a somewhat weaker man. but don't you worry about me (he eventually said). i just wanted to know how you were doing! i'll give you a shout tomorrow. before all of that, of course, was the story of how he'd been in the hospital for a week, after having a stroke and being paralyzed on his left side.

tick tock. a stroke of the clock. stroke of genius. stroke of good luck.

i don't know who gets used to the prospect of loss. we mustn't dwell in that room for too long, because the floor there is too slippery (coffee's always just been spilled; there's been no time yet to put up the yellow warning signs; the bruising and concussion from our impending fall are already palpable). but, if we discover -- by circumstance, a hunch, or a miracle -- the right amount of time to be calm in the middle of that room and to have a look around, then i think we catch a very vivid glimpse of, say, a gigantic tie with a colourful new york yankees baseball scene cartooned onto it. even more vivid than seeing it across the table, hanging from your friend's checkered shirt collar. so vivid that you can actually make out Babe Ruth beginning to swing his bat. sah-WING, batterbatterbatter! and it's a strike.

and now back to translating...

craft dad

it's funny how certain things that remain crystal clear for one person can completely fall by the wayside for others, and vice versa.

case in point: the craft dad.

i recently found out that my friends don't remember him at all. for me, however, he remains a vivid caricature that we not only devised but also referenced throughout (and after) our creatively uninhibited middle-school years, during downtime between fart jokes, fort building, Capture the Flag, and conversations about some unattainable boy we had a crush on.

basically, a "craft dad" was a guy, typically of "dad" age (according to ten year-olds), who was exaggeratedly soft-spoken and passive -- typing an exclamation mark, even to express joy, would overstimulate his senses -- and therefore limited in terms of the potential activities he could engage in with his kids. there could be no movies or toboganning or board games, for instance. (stop the insanity. no exclamation mark.) instead, he might be able to carefully prepare a peanut-butter sandwich on Weston white bread for them. (mind you, this was in the 80s, before peanuts represented a threat to civilization.) or read them a relaxing bedtime story. (kindly keep your distance, Robert Munsch.) mostly, though, he could handle, and even calmly enjoy, sitting at a table in the rec room and -- that's right -- doing crafts with his kids. gently reminding them, of course, that they should never run with scissors. (no exclamation mark.)

anyway, i bring all of this up because, this afternoon, i find myself in Westboro Village, in a café-meets-culinary-hotspot. to be fair, the food here is outstanding, and i've just noticed that the music playing off in the distance seems to be a jig (hold on to your hats). but otherwise, things seem just a bit too serene. and there's definitely something missing when i hear people around me appreciating their food: "oh, that's spicy," they mutter. and "mmm, delicious."

i dunno. but i think i can smell the glue.

and now back to translating...

open-book barista

the earbuds are in as i'm rediscovering the soundtrack to 500 days of summer ("oh reckless abandon, like no one's watching you") while quietly fine-tuning a translation. but, don't worry, i can still hear her lunchbreak phone call with Dad.

the multisyllabic syndrome she thinks she's been diagnosed with. (detailed twice, cause Dad didn't catch it the first time round.)

how many funds she's entitled to.

when her next shift is.

getting a better picture -- literally: Dad, please text one, stat! -- of the insurance policy. (maybe she'll get her eyes checked out today. plus, she'll need to see the dentist soon.)

how suchandsuch payments got cancelled, and as a result: bouncing cheques.

oh -- and how the stove needs to get fixed soon. 'cause, um, i'd like to use the stove!

thankfully, she's gone over everything with Carmela, so things seem to be ok now. (oh, phew!)

*briefest pause to mow down on her Green Rebel roughage-in-a-box*

and then an "i'm sorry, Dad, i just needed to rub [somethingorother] in and be bitter about the [somethingorother] for a moment. k, i luv you, gotta go."

and yes, of course -- and as i like to think you've already deduced -- uptalk was at FULL throttle.

and now back to translating...

unlike the others

i have just sat down in the lord elgin starbucks. have just taken my first sip of hot chocolate. have just contributed my latest to a heartfelt correspondence with a wonderful old friend of my mom's. have just received a text message confirmation from one of my colleague friends saying she won't be able to join me for this afternoon's café work session. have just opened up my notepad and jotted down the goals for the next few hours.

in sum, i've just completed one variation of a routine first five minutes of being in the coffee shop before resuming thesis work.

far less routine, however, is the line-up to my right. unbeknownst to this string of customers, they are all performing in a classic game of "one of these things is not like the other." (best of luck getting that jingle out of your head.) and we are the contestants.

here's what's the same: seven of the eight customers are behaving like a buncha lazy, boring, normal people, standing there facing the eventual baristas. some are quietly talking to each other. (yawn.) others are alone and checking their phones. (snore.) some clutch a purse or a briefcase...others are trailing a little beetle of a roller-suitcase behind them. (weak.) most look moderately out of it (it is, after all, 3:30pm -- aka the witching hour of the nine-to-five workday).

but they can't fool us. mostly because the second-last guy in line (who's clearly never played this game before and who has no idea what "lazy," "boring" or "normal" entails) immediately gives himself away. we all watch (a hush falls over the crowd, so you can barely hear my commentator's voice) as he sets his sights on the tee, takes the time to line everything up juuust right, and then -- really putting his business-suited, forty-seven-year-old hips into it -- suh-WINGS, following all the way through with his arms.

"fooooooore!"

if you could only see the pride stretch across his face as he watches that ball fly all the way down the fairway until it's time to place his order.

and now back to translating...

hot air

a trio of very happy undergrad girls enter the campus coffee shop. one of them is holding a long hot-pink ribbon that extends high into the air and eventually explodes into a black helium-filled balloon that has two special features:
1) hot-pink letters that spell out "princess grad"; and
2) a pink and silver tiara on top (as in, a tiara made of balloonery).

witnessing the scene firsthand, i can't deny that, while their celebratory spirit is kinda contagious, it all looks pretty precious, pretty pretentious and, honestly, rather ridiculous -- not unlike the way princesses (or the drunken bachelorette-party-goers these girls currently resemble) tend to seem.

then again... remember the fairy tale about kissing a frog and finding a prince? well, now it seems you complete your exams and (poof!) become a princess. both narratives could use some tweaking, i'd say. but the direction of this shift in plot ain't half bad. stay tuned!

and now back to translating...