I lived in another universe.

One where I felt a bit like a startled deer; where men shouted come-ons at me on the street, as my eyes scowled while my heart palpitated too much, too hard against my rib cage.

London was such a conundrum to live in.
I lived on Turin street, which smartly divided my corner of East London in two: if you turned left onto the high street, you were suddenly thrust into Indian and Bangladeshi corner stores and saris with millions of reflective mirrors, dirty sidewalks. If you turned right, you were amongst the white/black/pink/green people of the hipster world, sipping their espressos, men in pants tighter than mine, smoking a fag, evidence of evocative street art everywhere. Perhaps even dirtier sidewalks.

It was hard to fit in. After all this time, I realize that I never felt like it was home. Such transience, and speed and kisses on both cheeks-- but hardly any hugs, ever. I got accustomed to living with bars on my windows (because we lived on the ground floor), the gawking of men as they strolled past these windows of our flat, as they shouted "Chinese girl!" while we tried to watch TV on our laptops in the living room, the omnipresence of traffic noise.

Every time I descended into a Tube stop, I felt my lungs tightening and a sense that I would never be rid of residue. I would then ascend onto the street level, having lost microscopic pieces of my soul. Yes, being down in those sweaty, winding tunnels have a melodramatic affect on creatures who crave light and air. And to think, in my first weeks there: I thought the Underground was God!

I dressed up on the weekends. I never felt as fashionable as the beautiful London girls. That didn't matter-- it was a pleasure to watch them in their skyscraper heels and coiffed hair. My eyes were full of them; I thought of style always. I returned to my Land, suitcases brimming.

I ate out with gusto. It was delicious.
I didn't have art to hang on my walls. So they were plain and off-white.
I had a 2 hr commute everyday.
I haunted streets that William Shakespeare also did, 400 years ago.
I never stopped feeling tingles upon coming around a bend and seeing St. Paul's Cathedral.
I had my best friend and my boyfriend. Sometimes it was hard on the heart to divide my time.
I vigorously planned weekend jaunts to Amsterdam. Berlin. Prague. San Sebastien. Paris. Dublin. Croatia.
I was in London, and never would I regret this.



-----

I now live in another universe, again.

A year later, I write this and feel, at last, at home.
My house has windows on all sides of its walls and nothing is barred. We bought ceramic terracotta planters to nurture the lives of Minty, Sir Grows-a-lot and Spiderman. Plants will live here.

I still feel like a deer, but no longer startled. Maybe more of a meandering deer who has found a brook to stick her pink tongue in.

It's snowing as you read this, as I write this. I am a skeptic of snow. I lost my childlike affinity to that white stuff when I was very young--- and now it is slowly coming back. Maybe. We spent yesterday loping off into the forest to find a patch of the most virginal snow with which to make Maple syrup snowslushies with. I ran down hills a lot.

I sit by a woodstove where a fire burns, one that I built, I think about what I will make for dinner, I pick up laundry off the couches. I admire the art that hangs on my walls.

Every morning I wake up to my partner. Every night I fall asleep with him. Everyday it becomes more of a partnership. Our boots sit muddily side by side in our entryway.

People in this town wear neutral tones, and sensible things. I am out of place in this way. I long to fill my eyes with fabrics and textures and colors! I fill my head instead with images of fox-covered tights from the Internet. I can always get things, in lovely parcels hopefully, sent to us.

He is reluctant to travel, since we were inundated with trainsplanesautomobiles so recently. He wants to stay put in one place. I look at flights much less frequently now. We quietly muse about spending our summer in a wall tent on Vancouver Island. I brighten when he brings up the possibility of New York and Mexico.....at some point.

I will go to yoga tomorrow.
I will heat up leftover sausage stew for dinner tonight.
I sometimes get lonely in this Wintery scape. My other loved ones are not here.
I walk to school and it takes 3 minutes.
We take drives to Whitehorse to stock up on food: the stoplights are overwhelming.
I buy a ticket to Vancouver for Christmas.
I still am not easy with friendly strangers. My half smile must often look like a grimace.
I love the kids (most of them) I am teaching

I live in Haines Junction, and never will I regret this.

Trying to decide what the itinerary for my Last Saturday and Last Sunday will include.
What would you do, in each of your respective lands, towns and heart-centres, if your imminent leave was just around the bend?

For me:


1. Borough Market








2. One last time at Biegel Bake for a Salt-Beef Bagel




3. Greenwich; for its Meridian, sloping hill, and market-- amongst other things










4. The Noodle King. (Yes. I am aware. How lame. But, Fried Duck Hofun for 3.80 wins everytime)





5. Catching my local Bus Number 8 to shop on Regent Street-- Anthropologie!!!



6. Honorary Mention: Columbia Flower Market (Went and bought sunflowers yesterday. If I wasn't moving out this weekend, I would go and buy flowers again)








Bye bye, 10-month-Home. You've been a grand ol' pal.

Hi friends & family,

It's me. That girl you once knew who moved to England and who subsequently disappeared off the radar for a bit?

I miss you all. But! The time is nearing, my journey is almost at its end, and I wanted to update you on what's been transpiring so far.

So, England. In many ways, it has been everything I've wanted in terms of: cooking for myself, doing my own laundry (hi mom!), growing, stretching, and generally being a 25 year old. When the time comes, I will sorely miss the easy access to cheap fruit and veg (a pound for a big bowl of bananas?!), the infamous Columbia Flower market two blocks from our flat, the ease of walking or busing anywhere.

Suffice it to say that the teaching itself has been probably the hardest thing I've done, to date. There's only six weeks left in our teaching year, but from January on, it has been a steep, roller-coastery incline of lion taming. There have been a lot of outrageous things that would never have transpired in Vancouver (i.e. getting money stolen from my wallet, hugely inappropriate sexual innuendoes, being sworn at when patrolling the lawn for smokers, deliberate grade inflation by my department head to make the school look better, paper planes, penis graffiti, you name it--), but I am pretty sure it means that it will make me a stronger teacher when I come home.

Or, at the very least, immune to penis graffiti.

Living here has meant access to Europe, and that makes it more than worth it to deal with my kids. Bryan and I just got back from Croatia, and it was full of wild rosemary & lavender, skinny dipping in warm Mediterranean waters, fresh calamari, and Diocletian palaces. In a couple of weekends, I'm doing a quick 48 hr trip to Amsterdam with Maggie. I may or may not got to Scotland by myself at the end of the school year, and will definitely be doing a camping trip-- probably in the South of France.
So. Not bad. It is worth it.

As for my imminent return! My (expensive) flight has been booked for August 4th.... so: streamers and balloons at the airport around 1pm, okay? I want to kick it in Vancouver for as long as I can to visit with any and all of you, and will likely be spending some time either in the Okanagan with my sis and Saturna island with B and whoever wants to come camp with deer. Let's plan for a huge Jericho beach picnic party to celebrate my coming and leaving, and my birthday.

Now, most of you should know that a move up to the Yukon has been whispered about for as long as I've been here, and so, I formally state to you now:

I am moving up North to be a LumberJill, alongside my LumberJack.

Oh wait, it gets better.

I am moving up North, to be a LumberJill, and to teach French at St. Elias School to Grades 4-12.

FRENCH.

Qu'est-ce le fuck? (Pardon my French. Literally. Pardon it, because-- it's not very good).

I have somehow managed to convince the powers-that-be that I can do it. And I can-- It will probably just mean a lot of scrambling and panicking until I feel more confident in this role. By the way-- any of my Education friends have any French unit plans? Sister, can you send me some language plans/ideas?
I feel trepidation, anxiety, excitement and hope for this next leg of my life. Like London, Haines Junction will certainly do its part in continuing my stretching and growing.
Please come visit. Bryan and I will have two spare beds in our little house, and an awesome verendah to host sing-a-longs and firebug nights. (Michael, please start clearing a space in your roster to be my Only Friend).

That's it! The grand update! Please reply and tell me yours, or any two cents about what you think about all this epic-ness. I miss hearing you, having you around.

Here are some pictures of Croatia attached, in case you are too lazy to read this essay.

With much warmth and love,

Joann