Two weeks notice

It's official; I'm leaving the North.

I have my ticket, and in two weeks' time I will be back home in the south.

Permanently.

As I mentioned a few posts ago, this moment has been coming for a while now, but yesterday I finally confirmed my intentions with the powers that be and today I received my travel itinerary. Most things happen very slowly in the North, but in my life events are now moving on apace. The number of teaching days that remain are in single digits - so even I can count them on my fingers - and just two weekends sit between me and my final flight.

I know I'm going to be feeling some mixed emotions over the coming days - in fact I'm already feeling them - but I'm glad to have finally made an irrevocable decision and I know in my heart that it's the right one. I've said before in these pages that my time in the North has changed my outlook on life, and whilst I really do believe that my experience has been largely positive, I also feel that the misanthrope inside me is edging ever nearer the surface, especially this year, and that can't be a good thing.

Consequently, my repatriation to the south, and to Melanie in particular, is coming just at the right time I think, and as much as I'm going to be looking back over the next few weeks, now is really a time to be looking forward. There will be many changes ahead and all the routines I've established will need to be broken, but it's all for the greater good.

The countdown has begun...

Houses and history

A diplomatic incident was avoided when the Canadian protests over Amy Williams' helmet thankfully came to naught, and this is all just as well as we may have bought a house yesterday! We've been thinking about a move for some time now, and Melanie has looked at umpteen properties over the last few months without finding anything that ticked enough boxes to proceed with any intent.

However, she found something last week and as of yesterday it looks as though our offer has been accepted. Much water has to pass under the bridge before everything is finalised, but it could be that we will be ready to move just a few days after I return home in May, which will also be the first time that I actually get to see the house in person! Melanie has sent me a whole bunch of photos and I trust her judgment implicitly though, which is a good job as it will be too late for a change of mind by then!

Should the move go through, we will be living in the same area just outside of Kingston where John Babcock was born over a century ago. You may not know the name John Babcock, but he was Canada's last surviving veteran of World War I and earlier this week he passed away at the age of 109. Babcock lied about his age in order to enlist in 1916, and whilst he never actually saw active service he was nonetheless prepared to give his all for his country, and his passing leaves Claude Choules and Frank Buckles as the last remaining survivors of those who fought in the Great War.

As I commented back in 2008, the First World War will very soon no longer be in 'living memory'; such thoughts put protests over helmets and hunting for houses into perspective, don't they?

Almost home

I'm writing this courtesy of the wi-fi service at the Via Rail station in Montreal, which means that I'm almost, repeat almost, home. After a hugely frustrating 48 hours I'm not counting any chickens though.

I managed to get to Kuujjuaq yesterday where, as I mentioned before, I was on standby for Montreal. Happily First Air got me on board the Montreal flight, but after two hours waiting on the tarmac, those of us who had been on standby were asked to raise their hands. Oh dear...this didn't look good.

And indeed it wasn't. The flight was going to stop in Iqaluit first - check your atlas to see how little sense this route makes - where we would take on more passengers, and there was a chance that the 'standbyers' would be asked to leave the plane and be forced to remain in Iqaluit. When I asked what was meant by a 'chance' I couldn't be given a precise answer, which was a little worrying given that planes have a finite number of seats so, given that the next flight out of Iqaluit was not until Monday, I decided to get off.

After a night in the Co-op hotel in Kuujjuaq and a further six hours waiting at the airport I finally got my flight, and here I am, waiting for my train. I shall be so glad to get home and get clean - I've travelled light on this trip so no changes of clothes - but I shall also be sparing a thought for my teaching friends and colleagues back up in Kangiqsujuaq, who were unable to leave today because of the weather. I have every sympathy and I know how they feel, and I can only hope that they will make it back in time for Christmas.

As for me, the holiday now begins, and for once I think I've earned it. Tims here I come...

Taking flight

Well, all things being equal I fly home tomorrow (the 17th), which is also the same date that the Wright Brothers made their first flight back in 1903. I just hope that my flight lasts a little bit longer than theirs.

As as I write the weather forecast for tomorrow is not encouraging though, and if we do fly it looks as though it will be a bumpy ride. This time last year we were grounded by mechanical failure rather than the weather and I don't want a repeat of those frustrations again, but there's no use in fretting over things that are out of my control. So I shall think positively, and hopefully my next posting will come from south of the tree line.

The final curtain (part two)

The remainder of my journey from Montreal to Kingston was 'interesting'. Firstly, the flight goes via Toronto which, if you know your Canadian geography, is somewhat convoluted in itself. Getting to Toronto was fine, but we were then held up for an hour or so by a rather spectacular thunderstorm which deposited so much hail on the ground that it looked like we were back in the frozen North once again.

Eventually the flight left though, and I have to say that I have never been on a smaller plane than this one. There were just 18 seats, nine on each side, and there wasn't even a door to the cockpit. The pilots merely drew a curtain across during take-off and landing, and let us watch them at work during the rest of the flight. Quite what they were doing during take-off and landing that we weren't allowed to see I just don't know, but as long as it didn't involve reading the first and last chapters of Flying For Dummies, then I don't really care.

After a flight that I will simply describe as 'turbulent,' it was a relief to make it back to solid ground, and I now have a little insight as to why the Pope always kisses the ground after his plane lands. Mind you, he does have a direct line to the man upstairs if his flight ever gets into trouble, so I don't really know why he's always so relieved. Maybe God intended to take his pilot's exam on the seventh day, but was just too tired after the hard week he'd had.

But I digest.

The rest of my week has revolved mainly around sleep, paperwork and Tim Horton's, although today I did spend the day at the school in Kingston where I used to teach, Maplecrest-Sempar, which enabled me to catch up with a few old friends as well as develop a lovely head cold as a result of a day's exposure to the grass and pollen which simply doesn't exist in the North. At least I think it's just a cold...

Little has changed on the job front since I last wrote, but I am hopeful of a resolution in the next couple of weeks, so watch this space for details. In the meantime I am now settling in to my new role as man of leisure, although I have to say that part of me does miss my life in a Northern town. I guess I ought to rename the blog now that I'm back home, but I suppose Canada is still pretty northern wherever you are within its borders, so I'll keep it as it is for the time being. I intend to keep the blog going over the summer, although how often I post I can't say yet; depends what shenanigans I get up to, I suppose. Keep checking in though, otherwise I shall get lonely.

Until next time...

The final curtain (part one)

As I write I’m sitting outside Tim Horton’s at Montreal’s Trudeau Airport, it's 10.30 on Friday night and I'm waiting for the flight that will form the final leg of my journey home tomorrow morning. As predicted, it was a hectic last week in Inukjuak – a contributing factor towards the lack of posts in that time – and it was a week that maybe ended one chapter but perhaps began another.

It was with mixed emotions that I hosted our graduation ceremony on Thursday. It was the fifth time that I’ve acted as host, thus making me something like the Bob Hope or the Billy Crystal of the North, and whilst a lot of effort goes into organising the event, it is always gratifying when, eventually, the day runs relatively smoothly. Proceedings were delayed this time around as we had to wake up one of the graduates who’d fallen asleep after a large lunch, but other than that the afternoon ran pretty well.

On a personal level, the most gratifying moment of the day came when I was approached by two women (you both know who you are!) at the graduation meal in the evening. Both parties clearly knew who I was, but there they had the advantage as I couldn’t place them at all. However, all was then revealed as they both explained that before coming North to work, they had discovered the blog during their research and, much to my delight, had still decided to come! It was quite a novel experience to meet one’s ‘public,’ and it just goes to prove that, despite whatever isolation one may feel, we really do inhabit a small world.

Now I'm back, I have once again been reminded of some of the many differences between the North and the South. Cellphones are prevalent once more. I was just able to buy a beer at a bar. All the people that I am now surrounded by all seem to be in such a hurry. And I have even seen a number of people wearing masks, no doubt trying to protect themselves from the swine flu despite the fact that they are more likely to die in the twisted wreckage of the plane that they’ve just flown on or are about to catch. I have a compelling urge to run up to them and cough in their face whilst performing the Mexican Hat Dance. Come on, people!

Anyway, porcine-induced death permitting, I shall be home within the next twelve hours and free to contemplate both what has been and what is to come. A chef friend of mine once said that ‘in the kitchen, there are always possibilities’; at the moment, life is my kitchen.

Hanging on the telephone

A lot can change in the space of a couple of days, and since my last post I've decided to return home for our Easter break, meaning I'll get to see Melanie for the first time since January. She flew out from the UK earlier today, and for the first time since January we are now in both the same time zone and the same continent. January was also the last time I was able to visit either a Tim Horton's or a barber, and trips to both establishments are now high on my to do list. As luck would have it (or was it a cunning Baldrick plan?), there is a Tim's right next to where I get my hair cut, so one stone is going to account for two birds as soon as I get back.

Another thing to look forward to upon my return is access to a speedy internet service once again, and to that end I have had to arrange for all our cable services to be reconnected ahead of Melanie's arrival today. I phoned Cogeco, our cable provider, on Monday to arrange said reconnection, only to be told that I may as well do this on Wednesday when Melanie was actually going to be at the apartment as otherwise we'd be paying unnecessarily for two extra days.

Pleased with the fact that the cable company was trying to help me save money I duly called back today, but I was immediately suspicious of the agent's tone of voice and was eventually put on hold for what became an interminably lengthy period of time. At this point in proceedings a succession of upbeat chart hits is normally fed down the line so as to keep you, the valued customer, in a suitably cheerful frame of mind as the time ticks by, but today I was subjected to a journey through the back catalogue of Alanis Morissette, hardly the dictionary definition of 'feel good pop.' At this point I should have realised what was coming next. The agent finally returned to tell me that our services could not actually be reconnected until Thursday, and when I asked if he knew what time this might be, he had no idea other than the usual 'some time between eight and four.'

I'm fully aware that my post about Tsutomu Yamaguchi, the man who survived not one, but two nuclear detonations, has now been sandwiched by rants about sewage trucks and cable companies, but it's my blog and I'll rant if I want to, and I'd wager that you would rant too if it happened to you. I feel all the better for venting my frustrations, and I thank you, dear reader, for allowing me to do so.

'Til next time then.......will sometime between eight and four be good for you?

Home!

Well, I finally made it! Our flight left at around 11am, we went straight through to Montreal (only three hours!), and then I managed to catch a lift with Stephanie and her dad, whose route home to Trenton took them down the 401 and right past our house. Result! No Snowmageddon, and no need for Bruce Willis.

It's great to see Melanie again after four months, and she's certainly made the apartment look very Christmassy; our balcony has more lights than all the other condos combined! It's also wonderful to have proper internet again - we have the cheapest service here, but it's greased lightning compared to 'Shatner-net'!

Just in case I was missing the North though, it's currently -18°C here, and it's forecast to be -27° with windchill tomorrow. Oh, and there's a snowfall warning in effect too. It won't stop me getting my Tim's though.

Bliss!

48 Hours

It's bingo night again, and further to my posting of a week ago, the big prize still hasn't been won so tonight's pay out could be close to $30,000! Someone's going to have a happy Christmas.

Speaking of Christmas, we're in the middle of a very exciting/nerve-racking 48 hours at the moment. Yesterday was graduation day at Nunavimmi Pigiursavik (my school); we tend to have two graduation ceremonies during the year, one at Christmas and one in the summer, as the courses we offer all start at different times and have different requirements in their hours of study. Yours truly was asked to M.C. the event - it's the third time I've 'hosted' - and if Hugh Jackman can't make the Oscars for some reason, I'd be only too happy to stand in for him.

Today was my last day with the students, and I spent most of it playing 'Copter', an inordinately frustrating yet addictive online game. One of my class introduced it to me, and I guess this was the modern equivalent of when you were allowed to bring in toys and games on the last day of school. This was always the highlight of the year, and nearly always ended in tears when someone's prized toy was trodden on resulting in the teacher having to call everything to a halt with a cry of "well now you've spoiled it for everyone, haven't you?"

Having spent most of the afternoon crashing my aircraft into the rocks, thoughts now turn to my flight home tomorrow; thinking about it, playing 'Copter' probably wasn't the best preparation for my flight, was it? Much like the way I made my friend Kevin watch the film 'Alive' the night before coming on our old school's ski trip probably wasn't the best preparation either.

I'm meant to be flying from Inukjuak at 1.45 pm tomorrow, spending the night at Montreal airport - I've already booked the comfy sofa opposite Tim Horton's - then catching a flight to Kingston via Toronto very early on Saturday morning. For those of you who know your Canadian geography this route makes no sense, but there you go. I say meant to be flying though, because the local forecast for tomorrow afternoon is not the best, and it's going to be a nervy few hours ahead as we watch the weather. A snow day is normally cause for celebration, but not when you're scheduled to be flying home for the first time in nearly four months.

So hopefully my next post will come to you from Gananoque, but I don't want to tempt fate and face waiting for Another 48 Hours, because that really wasn't a good film...

A sad day

I heard some very sad news earlier this week. Last Sunday, a boy I used to teach in the UK, named Sam, collapsed and died during a soccer match in which he was playing. He was only 16. I received an email from a parent at the school to tell me the news, and I had to read it three or four times to take it in. Sam's father was watching his son play, as he always did, and another former pupil of mine was playing on the opposite team.

The term 'tragedy' is over-used in life, especially in sport, but I can't think of a better word to describe what happened here. Sam's family were the most friendly, caring and supportive people you could wish to meet, and his father was, and still is, someone for whom I have huge respect. He always came to support our school teams, whether his sons were playing or not, and he was always positive, never negative; "did you have fun?" was always his first question after each match.

I'm sure his boy was having fun last Sunday. He was such a committed, competitive and talented young man, and it is extraordinarily difficult to comprehend that he has gone. I would love to be back in England at this time so that I could pay my respects in person, and it's at times like this that I wonder what I'm actually doing in Canada, let alone the sub-Arctic. I've called this country 'home' for the last three and a bit years and I enjoy living and working here, but such tragedies bring into focus the very notion of 'home'. Where is it, precisely? Is it where the heart is? Or wherever you lay your hat? Or even on the range? I've done more travelling in the last five years than in the rest of my life put together, and I think my vision of home has become increasingly blurred during that time...

That's quite enough navel-gazing for now though. I have nothing but fond memories of Sam, and it is intolerably unfair that he has been taken from his family so suddenly and so unexpectedly. On tonight's CSI: NY, Detective Mac Taylor commented that we should make the most of the time that we spend with the ones we care about, and that rings especially true today. Godspeed to you, Sam.