From Chicago, with Love

I have tried and failed to write this essay now three times. In my mind, I want to write about the way I feel before leaving, or about what I think I will find after arriving. Instead, what comes out are the manifold worries that are bogging down my thoughts in these days before my departure.

The fact is, I am scared shitless about the move to Montréal and what awaits me there. Four years ago, I left the US with the weight of my own expectations on my shoulders, and the longing I felt for the home and people I had left behind left me a quivering ball of human flesh on the soggy ground of England.

My failure there was completely my own, borne from quitting and refusing to accept myself. But it has been hard for me to separate the act of throwing in the towel from the act of leaving the country. In the three years since returning, I have worked hard to rekindle the spark which I left behind when I ran off to Britain. Throughout it all, no matter how hard I have tried, the prospect of leaving home again has loomed as a daunting specter, haunting my thoughts. So, I am going to Montréal to face those fears head on, like when my mom would turn on the closet light at night* to show me there were no monsters. The light did not conquer my fears, but rather showed me that there was nothing to fear in the first place.

I will have a lot to keep me occupied in the next few months, which is something I did not have in England for the first two months. First off, I have to find a job in Montréal, no small task in a city as dedicated to the preservation of 18th-century French as is the cultural capital of la belle provence. Then, my search for grad school will be ramping up into high gear, including taking the GRE and making application. Finally, since I only have a six-month work visa, I will have to find something to do and someplace to go after it is over. More likely than not, the grad school search will be tied closely to the post-Montréal plans. Add to this the exploration of a new city and a new culture, the start of the religious observance of hockey season, visits by friends and family, and the need to learn and refine my French, I should be kept more than busy from here until well into the next decade.

Honestly, the next few months sound amazingly awesome. (Such rich descriptive language!) I have no expectations put upon me. This is the first time since 1989 that August will end and I will not be shopping for school supplies - 20 years! In Canada, really wherever I am, there is absolute freedom to do anything I like. If I want to ride the train to the outskirts of Laval and then walk fifteen miles into the countryside, I can do that. If I want to spend six months slaving in a restaurant kitchen, I can by God do that. If I want to spend my afternoons sitting by the St. Lawrence, watching container ships from Europe unload Mercedes, I can damn well do that, too. If I want to flit from job to job, spending most of my free time watching hockey with francos in shady East Montréal dives and perfecting my joual, well, by God and dis big right hand, you can bet your ass I will do that! And if I want to fall in love with a new woman every month, and visit her Catholic grandmother, and listen to stories of the days when the Rocket absolved her family from the Pope’s penance, while drinking toasts to their habitants progenitors, and commiserating on the superior air les Français have towards the Quebeckers, while eating a rich tourtière. Yes. I can do that. But I probably won't.

Despite the trepidation, and self-questioning (What if it was leaving America? What if I can’t speak French well enough to get a job? What if the winter is worse than Minnesota’s?), I am also incredibly excited, shivers-running-down-my-spine excited. I have wanted to live in Canada since I was 14 (the dusty Canadian flag I hung in early 2000 still resides above my bed), and I have loved French for even longer. If I am lucky, I will board a train in February for Chicago with a new appreciation for two of North America’s best cities and enough memories to keep my friends entertained for weeks.

*I was very young then, no older than 16.