As may be evidenced by my six-month absence from this blog, I've never been one to sit still. So after almost three years in Canada, we have up and moved to the one place I never thought I'd live.
It was a hard decision, really. We were getting pretty comfy in Toronto, moved into a three-bedroom place in the west end, had a few excellent projects underway, when Mr. O gets a call -- or tweet, as is the fashion these days -- from an agency in New York City. It was a great opportunity for him, a shop with a spotless reputation and a position that he'd been looking for all over TO and never managed to find. It also meant I could quit my admittedly solid, even promising but not perfect, full-time job and step off into the unknown, a prospect which, since I'd turned 30, had been lingering in the back of my mind but that I'd never have the guts to do without a good hard kick in the ass.
On the other hand, we were -- and are -- highly suspicious of the piss-poor health care system, unregulated work hours, and all the uprooting and postponing of our regularly scheduled lives that such a move would entail. I've been to New York often enough to see through the glamorous black patent sheen to the rats and poverty beneath. I am too old for clubs and too poor for fashion. And I had worked to build wonderful, amazing, inspiring friendships and a future in Toronto that make up for any non-Big-Apple-ness of that city.
I was and am incredibly proud of Mr. O for being recruited, and from the outset promised to support him if he decided he wanted to follow the dream job. Even if we didn't stay, it is the kind of thing that pimps a CV forever. Even my mom didn't say "Don't go." So after months of late-night debating, lurking on Craigslist, swearing at lawyers (behind their backs, natch), Skype courting, an intense day of in-person interviews, a botched counter-offer from a Toronto firm which shall remain nameless, a few surprise coups, one brief crying bout, two resignations, two permits and a tequila-soaked layer cake of farewell parties, we put our furniture in storage, packed up a U-haul, force-fed the cats some Baby Gravol and hit the road. In a torrential downpour. At 1 a.m.
The border was a breeze, deserted and creepy at 3 a.m. We had an inventory of goods, health certificates for the cats, a questionable liquor limit, but the staff were more concerned with staying dry to worry about scrubbed yessir kids like us. Thankfully too, because our ragamuffin cat Layla started puking in her carrier before we left Toronto city limits, and by the time we got to the New York border was drooling and moaning and foaming at the mouth like Cujo. (Nota bene: when the vet says test out the Gravol beforehand, test it out.) We eventually threw a jacket over the two of them -- Moyo was relatively unbothered by the whole thing! -- which seemed to help.
On the New York side, the frequency of Tim Hortons franchises made us wonder if we'd really left Canada. Weak and sentimental, I ordered one last small double-double in a sad, shuttered, pothole-riddled and totally soaked roadside attraction manned by a lobotomized teenage blonde. The magical disembodied GPS man carried us pretty much the whole way, despite a minor cock-up that took us on and off the toll-road a few times and right through the centre of Syracuse during morning rush hour.
The drive south from Syracuse was surprisingly scenic, winding through a valley where the Susquehanna river meets the Chenango. South of Binghampton the view was marred by the incredible amount of roadkill; I think I counted 15 dead deer from there through Pennsylvania. We waved hello to Dunder Mifflin and veered east again, blasting the radio and the AC to keep ourselves awake as the traffic got thicker and faster. We survived Jersey, made it through the Holland Tunnel, along Canal and across the Manhattan bridge to Brooklyn. Home. For now.
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