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Entries about living abroad

Floating on the Surface of London

The new immigrant still feels a lot like a tourist in his new town

sunny 20 °C
View Exploring A New Home on GregW's travel map.

I am an immigrant and a resident of a new country. I just don't know it.

That is to say that while I know it intellectually, I don't feel it in my core. When I am walking around in London, I still feel like a tourist there to take in the sites, have a few pints, and get back on a plane to Canada. During all the weeks spent in Toronto in denial emotionally about my impeding move, I always felt that once I got to London, it would all hit me like a ton of bricks and I would realize that it was real. Instead, I find myself still sitting around feeling like a temporary visitor.

That's not that bad, though. Getting hit by a ton of bricks doesn't sound like much fun. Perhaps easing myself into this whole adventure seems a lot better.

The adventure started out poorly, frankly. My last day in Toronto was drizzling, cold and wet. My flight over was long and sleepless. I couldn't sleep, so instead I watched movies and thought about sleep.

Immigration was surprisingly easy. The immigration officer asked me who I was claiming as my "ancestor" for my ancestry visa. I said my grandmother.

"Where was she from," he asked, punching keys on his computer.

"Birmingham," I replied.

He looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Really," he asked. "I am from Birmingham, you know?"

I didn't know, but I thought it best not to point that out to the man in charge of deciding whether or not this whole adventure, for which I had given up my apartment and job in Toronto would continue, so instead I nodded and said, "really."

"Yes sir. You know what Birmingham is famous for?" he asked.

I didn't. In fact, I never had been to Birmingham, and prior to seeing it on my grandmother's birth certificate, I hadn't even bothered to think about it, except in the context that it was also the name of the capital of Alabama and that Birmingham gets mentioned in the Lynard Skynrd song "Sweet Home Alabama."

"You know the band UB40?"

"Sure," I replied. Red, red wine, and all that.

"They are from Birmingham," he said, looking at me with a very satisfied smile on his face, like he had just told me that the Queen or Elvis or the Dali Lama was from Birmingham. I made noises to indicate that I was very impressed, while on the inside was I was thinking that if the best Birmingham could do was UB40, perhaps they should just pack up shop and all move to Edinburgh now.

He went on to add two other notable Birmingham contributions to the world, those being Land Rover and Jaguar, which I have since learned are not, in fact, contributions that Birmingham has made to the world, as neither company is headquartered there. Though they do, I believe, have factories there.

I have also since learned that Duran Duran was from Birmingham, which is (at least to me) 100 time more impressive than UB40. No offence to UB40 fans, but Red, Red Wine doesn't hold a candle to Hungry Like The Wolf.

Heathrow didn't lose my luggage. In fact, quite the opposite happened. I exited the immigration hall to find my luggage already off the plane and waiting for me. I exited Heathrow into a bright, sunny day, exactly what I was not expecting from the United Kingdom. I left Toronto where it was cold and raining to arrive in London where it was sunny and warm. Perhaps I flew into Bizarro London instead of regular London. "Me am Bizarro Greg. This am bad weather."

After a very sweaty ride on a packed underground with three transfers and a number of evil looks from commuters who were cursing the fatty, sweaty foreigner taking up all the space with his three bags, including a backpack which he didn't even bother to take off, I arrived at Willesden Green station. I called to get picked up by the accommodation company that had arranged my flat for the month.

"Did you not get our confirmation email," the voice on the other end asked when I called. I had, and so I said I did. It said to call this number when at the tube station to get picked up, so that was what I was doing.

"Then you would have seen that we can't pick anyone up until 10:30 AM. The check in isn't until then," she said. In fact, I hadn't seen that. I must have skimmed over that part. I looked at my watch. 9:45 AM. "Perhaps you can go and grab a coffee for a while, and call back and 10:30 AM?" she suggested. I guess I would.

Instead of coffee (which I don't drink), I grabbed a Coca-Cola Light and sat on my suitcase outside the tube station, watching the world go by and reading, occasionally, from a travelogue book by Tim Cahill. The neighbourhood seemed a pretty multicultural mix of people, and struck me as safe, which was at least one less thing to worry about.

10:30 rolled around, and I called back to get my pick up. A blonde Aussie girl drove around and took me to my place. She was quite pretty, with large full lips like Scarlett Johansson that kept drawing my attention when I should have been paying attention to riveting things like lease arrangements, power consumption keys and garbage collection schedules. Eventually we got all the papers signed and the leave paid, and I sadly saw Scarlett out the door. I turned around to face my new home.

It's a studio apartment. Not very big, but clean. It sits on the second floor in the front room of a row house on a quiet though central located street. Just steps away is a busier street full of shops, restaurants and bars which cater to a mainly Polish population in the area, but are welcoming of "foreigners" like myself.

My street

The main room of my flat

Kitchen in my flat, with bathroom off to the side

As you can see there are only two rooms, the large main room and a very small bathroom. I quickly dubbed the two rooms the greenhouse and the cold storage. The main room has large windows that were closed when I arrived, and with the bright hot London sun (there are words I didn't think I would be saying), the main room had heated up to an almost unbearable level. In contrast, the bathroom door was closed, and upon entering one felt a frigid chill.

I have since figured out that if I keep the windows open a crack to let in some cool air and keep the bathroom door open, the temperature in both rooms evens out to a liveable level, but the names have stuck.

I dozed for a little while in the afternoon, but didn't want to sleep all day, as I was afraid that would mean I was up all night, so I went out for a walk. My mind raced with a million thoughts, a million things that I needed to do as a new resident of London. I tried to put them all out my head, telling myself that I could worry about those things tomorrow. For today, I would just try and let the day wash over me and let my new found residency sink in.

It didn't sink in, though. Instead I still felt like a tourist all day. Perhaps it is because I have nothing permanent over here. My flat is rented for the month. I have no job, no permanent place to live, no bank account, no phone, no friends, no connections to this place at all.

Dejected, I walked back to my flat, and continued to read my book. The book, Road Fever, by Tim Cahill, tells the story of an attempt to break a Guinness Book of World Records by driving as quickly as possible from the tip of South America to Alaska. Just before he is about to set out on the adventure, he talks about feeling down.

Remorse before the fact is a common preadventure sensation. There is an overwhelming sense that you left the water running in the bathroom. You have, in fact, neglected something so simple and self-evident that people didn’t see any reason to tell you about it: the Wall of Flame in Chile, for instance, or the Big Hole in the Earth that Swallows Trucks just south of Rio Gallegos, the River of Acid, the meteorite Firing Range, the Living Dinosaurs...

I read it, and recognized the feeling in me. In the days leading up to leaving Toronto, I had been feeling down, and the feelings had carried over to my first day in London. I felt like I was missing something, that at any moment I was going to get a call from back in Canada that I hadn't paid my rent, or that the UK police were going to bust down the door and deport me. I knew that I was here in the United Kingdom, but it didn't feel like it is permanent. It still felt temporary, and it felt like I was not in control.

I went to bed early the first night at 10:30 PM, and I didn't walk up the next morning until 11:15 AM, getting more than 12 hours of sleep. Despite the late start, I headed out and got 3 things done on my list of things to do:

  • Buy Shaving Cream - okay, not exactly complex, but it was still on my list
  • Get a phone - kind of complete, as my voice mail doesn't work, but at least I have a phone number now
  • Get an adapter plug from my Apple MacBook

In addition, I took a double-decker bus for the first time today, riding the 189 from Oxford Circus to Brent, where I am staying. Like a tourist, I sat up top in the front to watch the view. More importantly, however, is the fact that this bus is a 24 hour bus and will come in handy in the future if I get stuck in Central London after the subway trains stop running. I know that many of the 24 hour buses run through Oxford Circus, and I now know how to get home from there, which could save me a huge amount on cabs in the future.

Music fans will also be interested to know that the 189 runs along Abbey Road, right by the Abbey Road studios. These studios are famous for being the place where famous British rockers "Camel" recorded their 1981 album "Nude." I also understand that some mop-top kids from Liverpool recorded some crap there, but that's 1960s/1970s ancient history, dude.

Anyway, I felt better about the whole adventure after completing the little things today like getting a phone, an adapter and riding the bus. I can't say that I exactly feel like a resident of London now, or that I have completely shaken that feeling that I am just a tourist here, but at least I feel a little more like someone who lives here now. If the first day I felt like I was floating on top of London, not at all immersed into it, the second day I felt that at the very least I had a toe in the water, slowly sinking into my life.

Posted by GregW 15:47 Archived in United Kingdom Tagged living_abroad migration_experiences Comments (2)

Separation Anti-Anxiety

How to Hate a Place Enough to Leave (Not that I really hate Toronto, per say, but I am starting to dislike it a little bit)...

sunny 20 °C

It’s been a crappy week. If I look back on the past 7 days, I find myself seeing nothing but memories of packing, sweating, moving, sweating, driving, sweating, talking to bureaucrats, sweating, stressing out and sweating.

Despite my desire to be a tourist in my own town for my last month in Toronto, mostly the past couple of weeks have been spent using up my time taking care of moving stuff. While it is all fine and dandy to say to oneself, “self, I am going to take care of as much of this moving stuff as I can as early as possible to free up my time in the last few days I have in Toronto,” the reality is that one cannot do enough up front. After all, I still have my apartment for a couple of days, and I still need places to sit, places to sleep, shampoo to wash my hair, towels to dry me after showering and forks to use when eating take-out Thai food.

When you are moving away, you can’t get rid of everything early, as you need so much of it to live out your last days in your old home.

That really tees me off. And that reminds me of another time when I was teed off and moving.

Back when I was a young 18 year old, living at home and getting ready to move out of my parents place and go away to university, I was, apparently, a bit of a jackass, or at least so said my mother. Quite often, actually.

Back in 1989 when I was 18, I was a bit of a sarcastic ass. I still am a sarcastic ass, and in fact was a sarcastic ass prior to 1989. In fact, that is a trait I am sure I inherited from my mother, which I hope will some mitigate any damage to my reputation that the comments I am about to repeat here that she made about me.

Back in 1989, when I would make a comment that an 18 year old sarcastic ass would be expected to make, my mother would look at me and say the following. “I know that you are just saying that to create some distance between us, so that the pain of separation won’t be as great when you leave for University.”

Her argument was that I was not, in fact, a sarcastic pain in the neck because I was a teenager with a sharp wit (honed for years by my mother), but rather I was a sarcastic pain in the neck because it was a defense mechanism to make separation more bearable.

At the time I didn’t put much stock in her theory. I didn’t feel like I was being especially sarcastic or cruel. I liked my home and my mother and I knew that I would be back there to live at some point (as I was in the summer of 1990, 1991 and then for a whole bunch of time during 1995 through to 1997), so I couldn’t see any reason why I would want to make it a less nice place to live.

However this past week has started to make me think that perhaps my mother was on to something. For with less than one week to go before leaving Toronto for London, I must admit that Toronto is really getting my goat.

It could be that Toronto is just especially annoying this week. Or it could just be that I am tired from a week of packing, moving and sweating. It could even be that I am starting to actually realize that I am 1 week away from moving to another country without a job, a permanent place to live or anything resembling friends.

But it could also be that I am just trying to make the city I am leaving less desirable so that the impending move seems more so.

Lest any of my Toronto friends think I don't like them, let me assure them all that I have had lots of fun going out with all my friends these past few weeks, so I hope you don't take this blog as an insult. Trust me, it's not being out with old friends that is needling me. It's everything else.

I find myself tired, even in the mornings after a full nights sleep. I find myself looking at boxes or furniture and sighing, just on the verge of breaking down thinking about what the crap I am going to do with the item. I find myself talking to stupid people about stupid things like what size storage locker I want, what the address on my bank statements should be (even though the bank knows that all my statements are electronic) or how long I want my mobile phone active for in Canada.

Last night, though, took the cake. I went out to dinner at a local pub, a place I have enjoyed for the 10 years I have lived in my neighbourhood in Toronto. Despite trying to look like I was intently reading a book, I still got engaged by a crazy old lady with an allergy problem (which she detailed in some depth) and a dude on crutches who apparently got some sort of brain injury in Mexico running from the police. I quickly said my goodbyes and moved on.

Next I went to another restaurant, a sports bar a few blocks away. I was hoping to sit at the bar, have a pint and enjoy the playoff hockey game. Instead I found a bar jam packed with old, creepy men staring at the bartender, a well-endowed blonder who (knowing her audience) was wearing a very low cut blouse. I left upset, not sure if it was because I felt icky because of the old pervs, or because I was upset that I couldn’t get a decent seat and be an old perv myself.

Onto the next place, a joint that is best known for showing European soccer but that does show National League Hockey during the evenings (as Euro sports tend to be on during the morning and afternoons over here in North America). I took a seat at the empty bar and watched as the puck dropped on game 3 of the NHL finals.

My peace was not to last though. A guy walked in, probably in his early 60s with a white goatee. He took a seat and ordered a beer, and started to look around the bar. I caught him looking around out the corner of my eye, and I could tell immediately that he was looking for someone to talk to.

“Damnit,” I thought, “I’ve already talked to the crazy old lady and the crutch dude tonight. Can’t I just enjoy the hockey game in peace?” So I stared straight ahead, never moving my gaze from the TV set in front of me. If he can’t make eye contact, I reasoned, he can’t engage me.

My plan worked, though the guy found others to engage. He complained to the bartender that hockey was on, and demanded one of the TVs be turned to something else. She flipped around the channels, and once the TV landed on horse racing, he seemed content.

He wasn’t content, though. He spent 15 minutes speaking to the man on his right, bemoaning the fact that we all in Canada watch hockey, even though no Canadian teams were playing, and that in 10 years we Canadians would probably all be walking around with TVs attached to our heads so we wouldn’t miss a minute of hockey.

I just kept my mouth shut and my face forward towards the screen, no doubt proving his theory that we Canadians are all hockey obsessed. While I was interested in the game, I was more interested in not speaking to him.

The guy on the old man’s right started to ignore him, so the old man engaged the bartender. She spoke to him for about a minute before the following words came out of the old dude’s mouth.

“You know, you are a beautiful girl, but your voice is like nails on a blackboard.”

Take a moment to think about saying that to a woman you don’t even know. Reread that if you like. It’s not very flattering.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” the bartender replied. Her voice, which had moments before had a certain joyous tone to it became cold and monotone. The kind of tone that a North Korean interrogator might use right before pulling your still beating heart out of your chest.

“No, it’s not an insult. I’m trying to help you,” said the old man. “I know an opera singer who can train you to change the tone you speak with. Don’t feel bad. So many Canadian women can’t speak well.”

I could see the bartender out of the corner of my eye, and her eyes had daggers shooting out of them at the old man. I prepared for a fight, in that I put my hand around my beer, so that if the bartender came over the bar at the old man, I could quickly get out of the way without spilling a drop.

She didn’t come over the bar at the old idiot, though. Instead she did what I thought was a very composed thing. She looked at the old man and said, “well, if you don’t like my voice, then I just won’t talk to you anymore.” Then she walked away.

I was impressed, because I think I probably would have popped the old guy in the eye, or at the very least spit in his half pint of Creemore.

The old guy left quite soon after the above incident, and I was able to finish watching the hockey game in peace. A few weeks ago I might have continued on, perhaps grabbing another pint and going over and saying hello to the Ultimate Frisbee team that was celebrating a victory at the bar.

Instead, I decided to go home. I was tired from a day of moving stuff into storage and worn out from meeting three different crazy people in one day at three of what were my favourite Toronto hang-outs. I used to quite like meeting and talking to the crazy people, it is part of what makes living in an urban setting unique. But last night I just couldn’t take it anymore. Instead it just wore me out, and I couldn’t help but find a bunch of faults with the places that I used to frequent.

Perhaps my mother’s theory holds some water then. Prior to leaving a place for another pasture, you need to make your current pasture seem a little browner. That way, even if it isn’t, the new pasture will feel greener by comparison.

Posted by GregW 21:20 Archived in Canada Tagged living_abroad migration_experiences migration_philosophy Comments (0)

Whodya cheer for? Picking a footie team...

I'm guessing I'm not going to get to see too much hockey over there

sunny 16 °C

The NHL finals are set, and games start up tomorrow. The Pittsburgh Penguins are taking on the Detroit Red Wings. It should be an exciting final, as both teams have pretty potent offenses. I, however, am worried that I won't get to see the champion crowned. The finals are a best of seven series, with the final two games scheduled for June 4th and June 7th. With both games at 8:00 PM Toronto time, that would put them at 1:00 AM London time. Even if I can find a place to watch the games, they'll probably shut down before the game is over.

Me with the Stanley Cup, taken in Denver in 2001 when they hosted the All Star Game

Anyway, I need to concentrate on starting to watch European sports. No more American football, baseball and hockey. I have to start watching Rugby, Cricket and (most importantly) Soccer, or as they call it over there, football.

The UEFA Champions League final was played on Wednesday, with Chelsea from London facing off against Manchester United. As Chelsea is from London, I was thinking of cheering for Chelsea. The game ended in a 1-1 tie, and went to penalty kicks, where Man U ended up winning a nail-biter.

So now I can't cheer for Chelsea. I mean, not only did they lose the UEFA Champions League Cup to Man U, but they also came in second in the Premiership to Man U and they lost the 2008 Carling League cup to Tottenham. Obviously they are not closers. I'll have to pick another team to cheer for...

Luckily, Maple Leaf Sports and Entertainment (MLSE), the owners of the Toronto Maple Leafs of the National Hockey League, Toronto Raptors of the National Basketball Association and the Toronto FC of Major League Soccer are looking to purchase a team. They are eyeing a Premiership team (source). As the article says, "A sports banking executive who specializes in European soccer said three English Premier teams would probably merit interest from the like of MLSE: Everton, Newcastle United and Tottenham Hotspur."

Personally, I hope they buy Tottenham, as that's a cool name for a team. Hotspur. Plus they play in London.

As such, I'll just wait for them to decide who they will buy and then I'll just start cheering for them. And I can wear my Toronto FC jersey to the games and not look out of place, right?

Me at the FIFA Under 20 World Cup last summer (July 22, 2007)

Just kidding, of course, both about Chelsea not being closers (obviously coming in 2nd a lot means they are good team, so please don't write me) and also about having to pick a team right away. In all honest, I can't even figure out how the soccer leagues work over there. There's promotions and demotions and apparently 5 different cups that a teams can win. Some of the games don't count towards some of the cups, and some games are just friendlies that apparently don't count for anything.

It's going to require a hell of a lot of study before I understand it all, I'm sure. By study, of course, I mean sitting in a pub having someone explain it to me over a pint of beer.


So, if anyone understands it all and wants to explain it to me, I'll buy a pint at the local.


Posted by GregW 12:17 Archived in Canada Tagged sports living_abroad migration_experiences Comments (0)

The Emotional Importance of Geography

Answering the question "Why are you moving to the United Kingdom?"

sunny 16 °C

So you've read my last entry and a natural question pops into your head, "why are you moving to the United Kingdom, Greg?"

The quick answer is that the timing was right. I'd been thinking about living abroad since I started travelling for work back in 1997. In fact, I almost moved from Toronto to Denver back in 2001, a move that was thwarted at the last minute by the "tech bubble crash" and a subsequent drying up up the telecommunications market in the USA, which was a major industry in Denver at the time.

The dream became a lot more concrete back in 2005, when I ran into a woman on the train from Beijing to Hong Kong who was originally from Canada but had moved to the UK. She was travelling with a UK passport, which I found intriguing. That's when I learned about the UK Ancestry Visa, which allows those who had a grandparent born in the UK to return and work there. After a 5 year stint of working the UK, you can then apply for indefinite leave to remain, and finally citizenship.

As my grandparents were originally from the UK, this seemed like a good idea to me. The UK speaks English, which is good because the state of my French or Spanish would preclude me from working in Paris or Barcelona, save perhaps in the sex industry, but then I'd be thwarted by my looks. The UK is a stable economy, and with my background in consulting and IT, it should be easy to find a job.

The idea of moving floated around in my head for a few years, and then through a stroke of timing, everything kind of came together.

First, I got my hands on all the needed paperwork (which was basically a set of birth certificates so I could trace my lineage back to the UK). Secondly, I had a slow period at work, along with the downturn in the US economy and a few resignations of key people who I had worked for in the past made me think that perhaps looking for another job might not be a bad idea. Third came the news that the UK is considering scrapping the Ancestry Visa. Now, I could apply to be a skilled worker and probably get into the UK, but the Ancestry Visa is much less restrictive in the type of work I am allowed to undertake and it is a good path to citizenship, so I preferred to get in using that Visa.

Then the really kicker came. I came home one day to find my roommate and his girlfriend sitting on the couch with big, giddy smiles on their faces. "We just put an offer in on a house," they said. 24 hours later, with the offer accepted, I was left with a decision about what I now needed to do about a place to live. I could continue to live in the apartment and find a new roommate, or I could give up the place and find a new place to live.

I thought, "well, if I am going to be looking for a place to live, I might as well look for a place to live in London."

And so that's the answer.


Now, you'll be sitting there and saying, "That's a fine answer for the question if you put the emphasis on why you are moving to the United Kingdom, but what I was really asking is why are you moving AT ALL?"

I am moving because it I feel it is something important.

Back in the early years of this decade, I got myself entangled in a relationship that didn't go well. It ended poorly, and I noticed that I had a history of poor relationships with women. "I need help to sort this out," I thought to myself. "What am I doing wrong that I always seem to end up bruised and battered emotionally at the end of every relationship I have with the opposite sex?"

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I consulted the experts – daytime talk show hosts. Those who want emotional reassurance and comfort turn to Oprah. Those who want psychic help from a chain-smoking blond turn to Montell. Those who want to feel better about themselves by comparing themselves to trailer trash turn to Jerry Springer. Those who want to distract themselves by spending time guessing "which of the girls on stage is really a man?" turn to Maury.

But those, like me, who want some kick you in the pants and pull no punches advice turn to Dr. Phil. Whether or not Dr. Phil's brand of down home brutality peppered with southern sayings actual helped me is debatable (as I haven't had any better luck with women since undertaking my "quest" to figure out what I kept doing wrong in relationships), but one show, completely unrelated to my poor relationship skills has stuck with me.

In that show, a woman who lived in the mid-west of the USA, very far from any ocean, was on asking Dr. Phil advice's on if she should move to California. She was divorced with a child. She wanted to move, and her child was excited about the possibility of the move as well (probably imagining skipping school to go surfing with beautiful people). Her family and her ex-husband didn't want her to move, though, because they didn't want to be so far from the kid.

"Why do you want to move to the west coast?" asked Dr. Phil.

"I've always wanted to live in California by the ocean. I like the climate, I like the lifestyle and I think it would make me happy," responded the woman.

"Do you believe geography can play a part in how happy you are?" Dr. Phil asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"So you truly believe that you'd be happier if you moved?"

The guest nodded her head and said, "Yes."

At this point I expected Dr. Phil to come down on her. Tell her how place isn't important, that happiness comes from the inside and that if she wasn't happy in the Mid-west, moving to California was certainly not going to make her happy.

I think the guest expected the same response from Dr. Phil, because she had a sheepish look on her face, like she was ashamed to say something as trivial or banal as I'd be happier living in California.

He didn't tell her she was wrong, though. Instead he agreed with her. He said that place and geography could be an important part of happiness, and that if this woman felt that she and her child would have a happier, fuller, better life in California, than she shouldn't let the opinions of her ex-husband or family sway her.

Ultimately, Dr. Phil said, she was responsible for her and her child, and if she felt that the move was best, she should do it. In fact, to kowtow to the demands of her family would be doing both her and her child a disservice, as she would be sacrificing improvements in their lives for the demands of other people.

That really struck me.

Now, to be clear, I don't know if moving to London will make me happy. In fact, I'm not even going to London to be any happier than I already am (because I am already a smiling, goofy nut). Rather, I am going because I feel it is an important thing to do. I admire those that have pulled up stakes and headed to a new country. It seems brave to me to leave behind what you know for the chance to experience something new. As well, those who have moved elsewhere seem to me to have a deeper chest of experience to draw upon. They've operated in different arenas, and I think it gives them a flexibility to deal with the unfamiliar.

I feel like that I need to try to do that, to leave behind what I know and gain the experience of learning about a new culture by immersing myself in it.

I've partially had that with my work as a consulting, spending anywhere from 3 to 14 months in various cities in North America (and one lucky time in Paris), but it was always a bit of a sham, really, because I never really moved to those places. I always had an apartment back in Toronto and the option to return home at any time. There was always that safety net. Emigrating to the United Kingdom and giving up my life in Toronto takes that safety net away.

So that's really the answer. It's something I feel I need to do. I feel like I need to try it, or else I'll always wonder if I could have done it, and what amazing experiences and lessons that I have given up.

I am moving to London because it's important to try being someplace else. I don't know what emotions I'll be subjected to by emigrating. Maybe I won't end up being happier or more patient or more flexible, but the alternative is not to do it and I do know that would leave me with an emotion I don't want.


Posted by GregW 11:32 Archived in Canada Tagged living_abroad migration_philosophy existential_migration Comments (3)

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