Here or There, Who Cares? Canada and I Are Just Friends Now

I’m not there anymore, I’m over there.

Across an ocean this time, not across the equator (yet, anyway).

Yes, again.

Does it matter, really? Do you need to know why? Do you wonder why I packed and left again?

It’s okay. I do too. The short answer is, I go places because I can and because it gives my life meaning.

Random people have opinions about my life. Fair enough. I don’t mind opinions. I mean, we all have them, right?

Judging is what I hate, especially from people who only know half the story, a story so easy to twist.

I’m sure you know what I mean. I’m sure your life is judged too.

From acquaintances who occasionally ask when I’m going to get a job (i.e., a real one with benefits) to the old lady in my neighbourhood who told me I shouldn’t be surprised if my husband was cheating on me, plenty of people feel the need to share an opinion I never asked for.

“Why do you care?” my mum asks.

I don’t and I do. I don’t because fuck you and I do because I try to do the right thing, whatever that means, and I often second-guess myself. I don’t want to hurt anyone or get hurt more than necessary.

And opinions hurt.

I don’t romanticize my life but I love to tell stories. If you ask me a question, chances are I’ll answer it.

The practical side of my life on the road is easy enough to explain—I made my life packable. I don’t have a trust fund, I just work, wherever I am. Downside: I’m always working and I’m typing this at 1 a.m. in France after chatting with Feng. Perk: I can translate from anywhere in the world and most of my clients don’t know (or care) where I am unless they read the blog (many do).

My travels are probably not the kind of holiday you have in mind. I rent cheap Airbnbs (or, ahem, stay with my mum in France) and cook my own meals. My idea of fun is walking around taking pictures and notes. Oh, and I’ll never post about Dubai, the Maldives or Northern Europe because I can’t afford to go there.

Now, the psychological side of leaving again and again is more complicated.

Yes, I came to Canada and ended up staying there because… because I could? Because it just happened that way? Because it was just one possible move in a life full of possible moves?

Once upon a time, I dived into the English language, North American pop culture and adult life in a country I knew nothing about.

I used to hate being asked where I’m from because it implied that I stuck out, that I was obviously a foreigner.

I didn’t want to stand out. I wanted to be Canadian. I wanted to belong.

The problem is, there’s no clear Canadian standard and I failed the most obvious one, resistance to cold. “Cold enough for you, eh?” “Love it!” I always lied, trying to hide the fact that I was shivering at a mere zero degrees.

I also failed to develop a fondness for lakes and cottages (give me waves and salt water, please, yes, even jellyfish) and countless aspects of the North American lifestyle. I mean, these crazy people eat dinner at 6 p.m.!

Yet I kept on trying.

I went to hockey games (as a photographer, not a player), waved a flag on many a Canada Day, deciphered the Tragically Hip’s lyrics and even saw them live.

I enrolled at university for a belated Canadian experience. I learned to be an adult in Canada. I had jobs in Canada. Hell, I had a kid in Canada.

And I got tired of trying to be Canadian.

These days, I’m not even trying.

Now, I see Canada as a friendly ex. We can catch up, hang out, maybe spend some holidays together, but hey, no, we’re not moving in together again.

I know Canada well enough by now. I speak both official languages, I get the cultural references. Learning all this kept me busy for a few years. I also owe Canada my career and possibly a kid who proudly defines himself as Canadian and sees no reason to ever leave his beloved neighbourhood, complete with a park and a Walmart within walking distance.

Yet I can’t say I’m comfortable in Canada. Not enough to stay without leaving regularly, anyway.

After 20 years, it’s a bit late for the post-honeymoon crash.

Or maybe I had an unusually long honeymoon.

I never want to stand by the garage door again, watching a blizzard, trying to shield myself from the relentless wind.

I never want to sit for hours at a walk-in clinic again.

I never want to feel stuck in Canada again—and maybe that’s what made me realize that it serves a purpose for me, but it’s not where I really want to be.

What purpose? Work. Neutral territory for our multicultural family.

I’m loyal to people but not to countries.

I’m not married to Canada.

I am, however, married to Feng, who I very much love.

No, we can’t just move to China, Brazil or even France. Not only is there the tiny detail of immigration status, but there’s also Mark—no, he can’t just “pick up” Portuguese or Chinese and seamlessly join a Grade 9 class or its equivalent halfway across the world.

Really, Canada is the easiest base for a Chinese husband, a French wife and a Canadian kid. We’ve built part of our lives here.

And the rest of the time, we leave. Feng is just as addicted to travelling as I am.

So yeah, I’m in France.

Thanks, Canada, for the lovely fall colours from above, though.