The entry that wanted to be a poem?

Hot and sticky, I climbed the stairs
one by one, then two by two as the suits rushed past,
bumping me with their briefcases,
our lives colliding while we trudged up the escalator,
propelled by the momentum of the City.

Surfacing long enough to get a coffee, I walked to the next station, anxious to hear the beep and the click of the opening barrier, ready to descend back into the underground. For me the destination was simply an excuse for the trip, the real goal being the time spent in transit.

I watched the other passengers, guessing at their lives, fabricating the stories of the girls with hoop earrings, and the elderly couples with matching fanny-packs, while they simultaneously fabricated a story for me. Jostling back and forth in unison to the clacking of the rails beneath us, I hoped that I passed for one of them, hoped that the me who lived inside their heads sounded like she belonged.


I used to ride the tube to pretend that I lived in London. I rode the tube to pretend I was one of the people who rode the tube, not realizing until it was too late that I was never really pretending. These days I ride the train to pretend that I'm not here. I pretend that I can get off at the next stop to change platforms and go in a different direction. I pretend that when I press the button, the doors will open to reveal a bustling station alive with possibilities.
I pretend that when I get off the train I'll be home.

Soon I will run down those familiar tunnels again,
craving the gust of warm air that will tousle my hair,
and fill my lungs with the dust that turns
my flip flop feet black,
hoping that maybe this time it will settle.

Cowboy Wisdom

I took the bus to my parents' house this afternoon. After having a short conversation of pointing and smiles with the child sitting across from me about the coffee I was drinking, I gazed out the window watching images of the city speed past. I found myself saying good-bye, not sure if I would ever see that office building, that flower shop, that particular piece of graffiti ever again. I was flooded with memories, riding past a park in which I had sung an a cappella rendition of 'kiss the girl' with my friends the summer I turned nineteen, past the Alberta Choral Federation where I had held a part-time job during high school as the librarian of their sheet music library, holding my breath for old time's sake as we passed the large downtown graveyard. I said good-bye, knowing that I would not miss any of it.

Ever since I've begun to entertain the idea of moving back to Britain as a real and immediate possibility, I've been happier than I have been in a very long time. Happy to be here, at this point in my life, having so much to look forward to. My Mother commented on how I don't seem angry anymore. A friend told me that he's glad to finally see me excited about life. Another friend told me that he always knew, from the moment he met me, that I would go back.

A strange customer came into the bookshop last week. I'd say he was in his seventies, smelled of rich tobacco. He told me stories of his old man who was apparently a legendary cowboy. I zoned out for most of it, but one thing he said stuck with me: He said the most important thing his father ever told him was to always tell the truth, that way you didn't have to have a good memory, and you'd never be embarrassed. Almost more important than being honest with others, I think, is to be honest with yourself. I'm finding that life is much easier, much happier, much better, when I allow myself to follow my heart instead of the idea I have of what my heart should want. Irrationally following my heart is what got me to Scotland in the first place, how fitting that it should take me back.

Blueberry Whine

I walked past a liquor store this evening and spontaneously decided that it would be nice to have a glass of wine with my dinner. When I walked in, the first thing that caught my eye was a bottle of blueberry wine. “Mmm, blueberry wine”, I thought, “that sounds perfect.” So I bought it, and walked the eight blocks back to my apartment. I unpacked the rest of my groceries, got out a wine glass, and opened the drawer to get out the corkscrew.... Corkscrew? I was sure I had one. How could I not have a corkscrew? Have I seriously not opened a bottle of wine in the entire eight months I've been living here? I guess not. I didn't have a corkscrew. So I tried to open the bottle with a metal coat hanger, but that didn't work. I was getting pretty desperate, so I plucked up the courage to knock on the door next to mine and ask my neighbour, whom I've never met, if I could borrow one. She didn't have one either. I knocked on every single door on my floor. Nothing. Eight households, and nobody had a corkscrew.

One of my co-workers lives a couple buildings over from me, so I called the bookstore to get his number. He didn't answer. It was a long shot anyway: he doesn't drink. While I was thinking of work I remembered that we got a letter in the post a couple days ago with a complementary swiss army knife key chain in it, which happened to include a corkscrew. The downtown location of our bookstore chain is only a couple blocks away from my apartment, so I walked over there to see if they got the same thing in the mail. Of course they didn't, but Chris searched the store for me just in case there was one hiding somewhere. When his search failed, he told me that there was a wine store around the corner that was probably still open. When I got there, there was a sign on the door saying they were closed for a private wine tasting party. Just my luck.

I crossed the street and went into a small upscale grocery store. I found a rack of pretentious kitchen utensils. I found five different spatulas, a garlic peeler, a garlic press, a nut cracker, a lobster cracker, a melon baller, even a citrus zester. No corkscrew. So I asked an employee for help. He showed me to another rack of kitchen supplies. We found more spatulas, two different kinds of can openers, a silicone pot holder, a beer bottle opener (we were getting close now). No corkscrew.

I was about to admit defeat and began to walk home when I decided that I'd come too far to give up. I was so frustrated by that point that all I wanted was a drink. Ironic that. That the frustration of not being able to open a bottle of wine only increases your need for it's contents. And I knew that if I returned home without a corkscrew I'd spent the rest of the night staring at the bottle in agony. So I walked the eight blocks back to the liquor store I had left nearly three hours earlier and bought a bloody corkscrew.

And after all that, the wine isn't even very good.

The Day My Visa Came Back

When I originally made the decision to come back to Canada, I made the decision with the knowledge that if it didn't work, getting back into the UK would be relatively easy. At the time, something called an ancestry visa existed. All I had to do was prove that my grandparents were born in the UK, and I'd get a five year visa to be able to live and work in the UK, after which I could apply for permanent residency. Just as I moved back across the ocean, however, Britain overhauled it's immigration policies. My visa disappeared. And my hope of easily returning to the UK crumbled with it.

For the past eight months I've felt trapped. With my life in Britain locked behind a big door of bureaucracy, I've felt stuck in Edmonton, legally obliged either to stay here, or to start over from scratch somewhere else in Canada. I've been angry at Edmonton. Angry at it for sucking me back in and holding me hostage. I've tried to blame it for my unhappiness. I've tried to forgive it and give it a chance. I've tried to make it home again. I've tried to detach myself and know that my time here is temporary. I've tried imagining a life for myself on Vancouver Island. I've even tried imagining a life for myself in Calgary. Yes, Calgary. That's how desperate I am to get out of Edmonton. The truth is, I just want to go back to Britain. I miss the life I had over there. I miss my friends. I miss my oyster card. I miss having a good fry-up with my hangover. All the other viable options just look like second choices and consolation prizes.

I did the skype thing with two of my best friends still up in St Andrews this morning, and felt the familiar pull of wishing I was living with them again. So I went back to the UK visa website, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to make it work, and I discovered something that changes everything. The ancestry visa still exists. It never disappeared, they just re-did the website and hid it in the fine print of the work visa. I feel like my life has tangibly changed today. That a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I'm free of the shackles holding me in Edmonton. Free to go home.