You know when you feel as though you haven’t quite broken up with someone enough? When you have cried and wailed and attached yourself, limpet like, to their leg as they tried to leave you, but still, you sensed that deep down there was a teeny bit more heartbreak left to be wrung out of the situation and damned if you weren’t going to wring it?
My very first sojourn to Canada ended rather abruptly when it turned that the Canadian government wasn’t keen on granting visas for foreigners who wanted to fart about and try to make movies – there are, after all, more than enough Canadians farting about and trying to make movies, so I was out on my ear. This all happened so abruptly, however, that my family had already booked and paid for a trip to visit me, in three months’ time – in the country I wasn’t allowed to live in any more. Also around this time, my boyfriend and I were not getting on terribly well and had discussed breaking up – but, in the end decided that it would be a better idea to travel around the U.S. in a tiny car and tent together for three months at which time I would head back to Canada to meet up with my family. Brilliant? Or not.
That lasted a few weeks after which point we decided that the breaking up idea in fact had been the right one, and I took a train to Boston to stay with my aunt until it was time to sneak back into the Great White North. Except that a couple of months later, we decided that, in fact, we’d better just see each other one more time to make sure that the breaking up idea was the one to go for. I jumped on a train in Washington D.C. (after visiting another aunt) for a day and a half’s journey after which time I would have almost 2 days in Chicago to sort things with old what’s his face then jump on a plane to Seattle and get a bus up to Vancouver where my family would be waiting and bob would be my uncle.
Things started to go a bit pear shaped when the train pulled out of the station in D.C. – and promptly began to reverse. It turned out that there had been a crash (no one was hurt so I was allowed to be annoyed) on the track to Chicago, so we had to head down into Virginia to get on to another track. Virginia, it turns out, is ever such a pretty state, but being in a bit of a hurry to get to Illinois probably isn’t the best circumstance in which to appreciate it. Nearly 20 hours later, at an interminable wait outside Cleveland, with my precious time in Chicago ticking away, I’d had enough and burst into tears. A very sweet elderly couple who were due to get off in Cleveland kindly asked me if I was okay (which was somewhat a redundant question given that I was heaving with sobs and struggling to catch my breath while drowning in snot, but undoubtedly well intentioned.) I was of course terribly British about it and said that I was just fine, thank you for asking. When the couple got off the train, the old man handed me a bag of pretzels, which I tried to hand back as I don’t like pretzels, but he told me to keep it anyway. Not wishing to appear rude, I did so – and as the train pulled out of the station I glanced at the bag, and realized that he had put a $10 note in it for me. I was quite stunned by such a random and incredibly kind gesture from a stranger – although I would love to know what he thought I was crying about!
Upon finally reaching Chicago, a couple of hours chatting with the man confirmed that yup, breakup still definitely on. Unfortunately, we came to that conclusion with a good two hours to go before I had to be at the airport for my flight to Seattle, and there was no one else to drive me. So we had lots of fun sitting in stony silence in my cousin’s apartment, with me occasionally choking back sobs because damned if I was going to cry (more) in front of him. The silence was occasionally punctuated by me grandly pronouncing that I didn’t want him to drive me to the airport, in fact I never wanted to see him again, and he would ask if I had the money for a taxi to the airport and I would huff that no, I didn’t, and he would reply that then he would drive me and I would snort ‘fine then’ and we’d go back to silence and choked sobs.
My very first sojourn to Canada ended rather abruptly when it turned that the Canadian government wasn’t keen on granting visas for foreigners who wanted to fart about and try to make movies – there are, after all, more than enough Canadians farting about and trying to make movies, so I was out on my ear. This all happened so abruptly, however, that my family had already booked and paid for a trip to visit me, in three months’ time – in the country I wasn’t allowed to live in any more. Also around this time, my boyfriend and I were not getting on terribly well and had discussed breaking up – but, in the end decided that it would be a better idea to travel around the U.S. in a tiny car and tent together for three months at which time I would head back to Canada to meet up with my family. Brilliant? Or not.
That lasted a few weeks after which point we decided that the breaking up idea in fact had been the right one, and I took a train to Boston to stay with my aunt until it was time to sneak back into the Great White North. Except that a couple of months later, we decided that, in fact, we’d better just see each other one more time to make sure that the breaking up idea was the one to go for. I jumped on a train in Washington D.C. (after visiting another aunt) for a day and a half’s journey after which time I would have almost 2 days in Chicago to sort things with old what’s his face then jump on a plane to Seattle and get a bus up to Vancouver where my family would be waiting and bob would be my uncle.
Things started to go a bit pear shaped when the train pulled out of the station in D.C. – and promptly began to reverse. It turned out that there had been a crash (no one was hurt so I was allowed to be annoyed) on the track to Chicago, so we had to head down into Virginia to get on to another track. Virginia, it turns out, is ever such a pretty state, but being in a bit of a hurry to get to Illinois probably isn’t the best circumstance in which to appreciate it. Nearly 20 hours later, at an interminable wait outside Cleveland, with my precious time in Chicago ticking away, I’d had enough and burst into tears. A very sweet elderly couple who were due to get off in Cleveland kindly asked me if I was okay (which was somewhat a redundant question given that I was heaving with sobs and struggling to catch my breath while drowning in snot, but undoubtedly well intentioned.) I was of course terribly British about it and said that I was just fine, thank you for asking. When the couple got off the train, the old man handed me a bag of pretzels, which I tried to hand back as I don’t like pretzels, but he told me to keep it anyway. Not wishing to appear rude, I did so – and as the train pulled out of the station I glanced at the bag, and realized that he had put a $10 note in it for me. I was quite stunned by such a random and incredibly kind gesture from a stranger – although I would love to know what he thought I was crying about!
Upon finally reaching Chicago, a couple of hours chatting with the man confirmed that yup, breakup still definitely on. Unfortunately, we came to that conclusion with a good two hours to go before I had to be at the airport for my flight to Seattle, and there was no one else to drive me. So we had lots of fun sitting in stony silence in my cousin’s apartment, with me occasionally choking back sobs because damned if I was going to cry (more) in front of him. The silence was occasionally punctuated by me grandly pronouncing that I didn’t want him to drive me to the airport, in fact I never wanted to see him again, and he would ask if I had the money for a taxi to the airport and I would huff that no, I didn’t, and he would reply that then he would drive me and I would snort ‘fine then’ and we’d go back to silence and choked sobs.
After storming through the departure gate at Midway and childishly refusing to hug the now very definitely ex, I nearly came to blows with a woman at the coffee shop over the pronunciation of the word “raspberry” (don’t ask) and boarded my flight to Seattle.
The flight itself was uneventful enough, other than the fact that it was 20 minutes late. Not a big deal, or so you’d think. It meant that I when I struggled outside (bear in mind, I was carting every last one of my worldly goods in a massive suitcase which was literally bursting at the seams, a large backpack, and, just for good measure, a small backpack) – I arrived just in time to watch the back of my bus departing in the direction of Vancouver.
Dragging the lopsided suitcase (for one of the wheels had broken off) and vainly attempting to offset the weight of one backpack by strapping it sideways so that it rested on my hip and in theory countered the weight of the other backpack on the other hip – which gave me the look of a hunchback with an inner ear problem – I made off for the taxi rank. Unfortunately, bumming around America for three months doesn’t pay terribly well, so I had to pay for a ride to the Greyhound station with small change I found at the bottom of each piece of luggage. Oddly, given my charm, the taxi driver was not a fan of mine, so he thought it fun to drop me off at the bottom of a hill near the Seattle Greyhound bus station.
I discovered that by straightening my right leg so that it was parallel to the suitcase (Seattle’s hills are steep), balancing the bigger backpack against it and sort of lunging forward with my left leg – the momentum of which would yank the suitcase/backpack combo forward – I would find myself, at intervals, slightly startled, approximately half a foot further up the hill than I had been. If not terribly elegantly. On the plus side, I did get to do this with a stunning Pacific sunset for company, although whenever I turned around to have a look at the bay the suitcase would invariably slip out of my grip and merrily trundle back down the hill, which was fun.
Eventually, in pitch darkness, I made it up the hill and into the bus station, where I was greeted by a young man, for whom – I suspect – hospitality was not a first choice of career. He perked up somewhat when he got to deliver the news that the next bus to Vancouver wouldn’t be departing until 12.30am (three hours from then) and would arrive at around 5am. And also, my suitcase was too heavy. Stunned by the news that my suitcase weighed a bit, I asked for a little further clarification. Apparently the big strong men who load luggage for a living were not covered by insurance to lift up the suitcase that I (a not big, not strong, not man) had carted all over the United States. The solution my good friend the Greyhound man cheerfully offered me was to unload around 15 pounds from the case (wish I’d had him around back in Boston.)
“And where do you suggest I put these 15 pounds?”
“Uhh… I have some garbage bags?”
With my worldly goods now packed securely in a suitcase, a large backpack, a small packback and two garbage bags, I headed to the vending machine to see what culinary delights were on offer for that evening’s meal. Deciding to partake of a starter of Ruffles chips, followed by a main of M&Ms cooked to perfection and washed down by a tangy Lilt, I fed the machine my last three dollars, which it happily accepted but – clearly it had the temperament expected of all the best chefs – chose not to serve me my meal. So I kicked the crap out of it and burst into tears.
Cut to 10 minutes later, I was sitting on the best bench the Greyhound Bus Station has to offer, surrounded by sympathetic homeless people as I wailed “but I thought hee looooovvveed meeeeee….” and a woman wizened with years of exposure to the elements patted my arm and clucked “If he didn’t see what he had in you then he’s not good enough for you, honey” and various other residents of Seattle’s streets nodded in agreement. (Incidentally, years later, that very ex mentioned that he was thinking of moving to Seattle – I advised him to stay away from the bus station as he’s not very popular there.)
Finally, the bus arrived and I managed to snooze all the way to the Canadian border, where all passengers were ejected, handed our luggage and pointed in the direction of customs. Concerned that my Quasimodo lunge wouldn’t endear me to Canada Immigration, I invented a new way to walk while carrying nearly 150 pounds of crap: backwards. This worked just wonderfully, right up until I crashed into a display of Maple themed stuff and knocked it all over. Had this happened going in the other direction I am fairly sure that I would have been carted off to State prison with all the potential terrorists and B.C. pot activists on charges of being too much of a bloody idiot to enter the United States, but this being Canada, three immigration officers jumped up to help me carry my stuff to the desk.
My passport was duly stamped, the crap was duly searched through, and a security guy carried my suitcase and backpacks (I took the garbage bags) back to the bus and off we headed up Highway 99. As the sun rose over the North Shore mountains, I struggled into a hotel room and fell asleep next to my sister.
The flight itself was uneventful enough, other than the fact that it was 20 minutes late. Not a big deal, or so you’d think. It meant that I when I struggled outside (bear in mind, I was carting every last one of my worldly goods in a massive suitcase which was literally bursting at the seams, a large backpack, and, just for good measure, a small backpack) – I arrived just in time to watch the back of my bus departing in the direction of Vancouver.
Dragging the lopsided suitcase (for one of the wheels had broken off) and vainly attempting to offset the weight of one backpack by strapping it sideways so that it rested on my hip and in theory countered the weight of the other backpack on the other hip – which gave me the look of a hunchback with an inner ear problem – I made off for the taxi rank. Unfortunately, bumming around America for three months doesn’t pay terribly well, so I had to pay for a ride to the Greyhound station with small change I found at the bottom of each piece of luggage. Oddly, given my charm, the taxi driver was not a fan of mine, so he thought it fun to drop me off at the bottom of a hill near the Seattle Greyhound bus station.
I discovered that by straightening my right leg so that it was parallel to the suitcase (Seattle’s hills are steep), balancing the bigger backpack against it and sort of lunging forward with my left leg – the momentum of which would yank the suitcase/backpack combo forward – I would find myself, at intervals, slightly startled, approximately half a foot further up the hill than I had been. If not terribly elegantly. On the plus side, I did get to do this with a stunning Pacific sunset for company, although whenever I turned around to have a look at the bay the suitcase would invariably slip out of my grip and merrily trundle back down the hill, which was fun.
Eventually, in pitch darkness, I made it up the hill and into the bus station, where I was greeted by a young man, for whom – I suspect – hospitality was not a first choice of career. He perked up somewhat when he got to deliver the news that the next bus to Vancouver wouldn’t be departing until 12.30am (three hours from then) and would arrive at around 5am. And also, my suitcase was too heavy. Stunned by the news that my suitcase weighed a bit, I asked for a little further clarification. Apparently the big strong men who load luggage for a living were not covered by insurance to lift up the suitcase that I (a not big, not strong, not man) had carted all over the United States. The solution my good friend the Greyhound man cheerfully offered me was to unload around 15 pounds from the case (wish I’d had him around back in Boston.)
“And where do you suggest I put these 15 pounds?”
“Uhh… I have some garbage bags?”
With my worldly goods now packed securely in a suitcase, a large backpack, a small packback and two garbage bags, I headed to the vending machine to see what culinary delights were on offer for that evening’s meal. Deciding to partake of a starter of Ruffles chips, followed by a main of M&Ms cooked to perfection and washed down by a tangy Lilt, I fed the machine my last three dollars, which it happily accepted but – clearly it had the temperament expected of all the best chefs – chose not to serve me my meal. So I kicked the crap out of it and burst into tears.
Cut to 10 minutes later, I was sitting on the best bench the Greyhound Bus Station has to offer, surrounded by sympathetic homeless people as I wailed “but I thought hee looooovvveed meeeeee….” and a woman wizened with years of exposure to the elements patted my arm and clucked “If he didn’t see what he had in you then he’s not good enough for you, honey” and various other residents of Seattle’s streets nodded in agreement. (Incidentally, years later, that very ex mentioned that he was thinking of moving to Seattle – I advised him to stay away from the bus station as he’s not very popular there.)
Finally, the bus arrived and I managed to snooze all the way to the Canadian border, where all passengers were ejected, handed our luggage and pointed in the direction of customs. Concerned that my Quasimodo lunge wouldn’t endear me to Canada Immigration, I invented a new way to walk while carrying nearly 150 pounds of crap: backwards. This worked just wonderfully, right up until I crashed into a display of Maple themed stuff and knocked it all over. Had this happened going in the other direction I am fairly sure that I would have been carted off to State prison with all the potential terrorists and B.C. pot activists on charges of being too much of a bloody idiot to enter the United States, but this being Canada, three immigration officers jumped up to help me carry my stuff to the desk.
My passport was duly stamped, the crap was duly searched through, and a security guy carried my suitcase and backpacks (I took the garbage bags) back to the bus and off we headed up Highway 99. As the sun rose over the North Shore mountains, I struggled into a hotel room and fell asleep next to my sister.
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