I’ve never once claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but when I packed up for the peaceful paradise of Victoria, I have to admit natural disaster was not on my mind. Apparently, I was too distracted by minor moving related catastrophes to learn about my new city.

My first clue that something was amiss came during the arrangement of our home insurance. The second came when I was exploring my desk the other day and found this:

It’s an earthquake kit. How a bag of water, a mask, a pair of gloves and a couple of glow sticks are supposed to pull me down from the ceiling when the earth begins to tremble is anyone’s guess. Plus, where’s the Valium? Clearly I got a defective supply bag.

I asked around and sure enough, I now live in an earthquake susceptible zone. I did NOT sign on for that mess. For some reason I thought seismic perils ended at the San Francisco city limits. The Victorians tell me it’s nothing to be concerned about, but really, come on. I’m from Newfoundland. Hurricanes and wild blizzards I can handle. A building suddenly caving in on my head swiftly followed by a tidal wave I cannot.

According to the Earthquake Track website, there have been 232 earthquakes in British Columbia so far this year, two in the past seven days (not that I experienced anything beyond my usual instability). See that’s the kind of information I expect to be told at the immigration office in Vancouver—”Now you’re absolutely sure you want to live here? You know that at any moment we will all tumble into the sea never to be heard from again, right?”

Sweet hand of god, I’m not prepared to live with this hanging over me at every moment. Maybe that’s why folks here are always running and cycling like maniacs all the time. I guess they figure when the Big One hits, they’ll outrun or outride Mother Earth. Not me. I never underestimate the power of nature or overestimate my own.

So, the best strategy I can think of is to keep calm and carry on sipping wine and reading books and put earthquakes out of my mind. My little life now registers 0.0 on the Richter Scale and that’s just how I like it. That being said, it never hurts to be prepared. It’s surprisingly pleasant sleeping in the ambulance I bought and I’ve gotten a lot of compliments on the hockey helmet I wear at all times.

Whoever coined the phrase “a change is as good as a rest” needs a firm slap. I’d volunteer to be the chief slapper only I’m too exhausted from every life change imaginable to do the honours.

I’m the shrink here, so I’ll dole out a bit of free advice for you: next time you decide to make an international move to a city you’ve never once visited, and return to an entirely new career after two and a half years spent eating and drinking your way through France and Switzerland, just stop what you are doing and seek professional help. And if you’ve convinced yourself that doing all that in the span of two weeks seems especially wise, just call an ambulance to come get you.

Between reverting back to a non-vampire schedule, getting dressed every day, learning the ropes at the new gig, sifting through a whole binder of HR regulations, and finding where Miracle Whip is on special, I’m all in. Continue reading “Storm Chaser” »

Oh but Canada is marvellous. The convenience I tell you! Grocery stores and malls and shops open until the wee hours of 9 p.m., plus the miracle of Sunday shopping. A gym (with a women only section), dental and medical clinics and a hardware store just up the street. And words fail me at the discovery of a Mexican cantina around the corner. Sour cream and salsa for everyone!

I must say, the living location we scouted entirely online (within walking distance to just about everything including my new office) is proving to be a stroke of genius, which means it was all my idea. Compared to moving to a foreign country, it’s just so…well…simple. But it hasn’t been all roses and sunshine.

We’ve run ourselves ragged getting set-up. I haven’t seen much of Victoria yet as I’ve spent most of my time at Home Outfitters. Neil’s work computer is still sitting in customs in Vancouver. I can’t even imagine how frustrating this is for him. The only thing I can use to relate is imagining all my built-for-a-giraffe pants sitting in a warehouse across the bay. At least I’d make the local news—”Middle-aged woman survives dramatic Pacific Ocean swim only to be shot multiple times in a fracas with customs officials. Film at 11.”

At least the new digs are working out well. I live in a veritable den of swank, two toilets and all—the key to avoiding divorce proceedings. Now I had seen it online, that is, most of it. The floor plan showed a large laundry room (as opposed to a washer and dryer crammed in a Swiss bathroom), so of course I’d been dreaming about a return to giant Canadian machines. My number 1 fantasy? Tossing in a duvet, back on the bed in under 2 hours.

So imagine my delight at opening the door to this mess…

A Swedish washer and dryer with half the capacity of my French set. There’s no fluff dryer cycle, you need training at NASA to figure out how much detergent to use and a personal bodybuilder to get the washer door open. Cripes, you could land a jet in the laundry room and this is what they went with. I mean what are the odds of being stuck with tiny euro machines in Victoria, B.C.? Turns out, pretty good. Irony is the theme du jour.

Just goes to show you: you can’t have it all. Out of respect for those around the world who have no fresh water, and those who still have to wash clothes by hand, I’ll keep my big yap shut. I’ll have plenty of time to practice gratitude and compassion all day Saturday and Sunday—I’m washing sheets and towels.

PS If you subscribed to the blog and haven’t received a confirmation email, be sure to check your junk/spam folder, it may be there. 

It appears I have landed in a strange land of all things athletic. The crowd here are either running just for the hell of it or racing around town on super cycles to yoga and pilates, after which they meet up to sip hemp/kale/algae smoothies and chow down on gluten-free tofu burgers with a side of organic quinoa. As for meat, well, apparently that’s a four letter word never to be uttered among the young and beautiful locals who plan to stay that way forever.

Cripes, I’m worn out from just watching them zoom past me as I sit on my marbled arse reading a book and scarfing down a load of chocolate with a chardonnay chaser. I thought Victoria was chock full of doddering biddies who take tea precisely at 5 with a generous nip of brandy and giant triangles of gâteau, you know, my people.

Instead I’ve been thrust into a bunch of supermodels poised to play beach volleyball between kayaking competitions and triathlons, done while pushing a stroller carrying their third child. A far cry from Vevey, where the gals take a Sunday stroll along Lake Geneva puffing a Marlboro, sporting designer sunglasses, 5 inch heels, painted on jeans, and carrying a bag of croissants and an open bottle of wine. Continue reading “Survival of the Fittest” »

Sometimes I wish I created a blog that was built on a platform of profanity, as now would be the perfect time to let every available expletive fly. But before I delve into the details where one finds the devil, let me first say that I have arrived in Victoria—safe and sound, well, in body at least. Of sound mind cannot be said. And, in the further interest of preliminary positivity, the weather has been beautiful and my first impression of the city is that it’s perhaps the loveliest one I’ve seen yet in Canada.

Now. Let me be clear: I will not be making another international move anytime soon. In fact, I’m thinking about boycotting a move from my bed for at least 3-5 days.

The actual journey began with a first class flight on Lufthansa, booked on frequent flyer points—seats that morph into beds, caviar, fine wine, inflight service that was out of this world, the works. We even had personal escorts who held up signs with our names on them as we arrived in Geneva and Vancouver, and provided a limo ride from one terminal to the other and hauled luggage off carousels. Air Canada can kiss my arse. Continue reading “What Doesn’t Kill You…” »

Well, the Big French Adventure has come to an end. What an interesting, exhilarating (at times, frustrating), up, down, and all around time it has been. I’ll tell you this: I admire anyone who can live here and not spend every cent they have on Meursault wine and pastries, anyone who can master both spoken and written French in less than 15 years, and, most of all, anyone immigrating to a foreign country without a sidekick who’s willing and able to manage European bureaucracy.

You know, someone asked me the other day if I thought the project was a success. I suppose the answer depends on how you define success. I’ve had unforgettable experiences, and met equally unforgettable people. I’ve seen many beautiful places, and while I haven’t seen a fraction of what I’d like to see in this part of the world, Europe’s not going anywhere and I know I’ll be warmly welcomed back. Overall, I’m far better for it, despite the deleterious effects on my derrière. Continue reading “The Last Au Revoir” »

So much for soaking up Swiss culture. The list of continental transition tasks defies description, from the complex and important, like navigating Swiss tax regulations, to the incredibly mundane, like airing out the gigantic, dusty hockey bag that will carry my worldly possessions across an ocean—a fitting piece of luggage for a triumphant return to a country where “He shoots, he scores!” is a national motto (don’t even get me started on that one).

Now I did say triumphant, and I did so quite deliberately…

Triumphant (adjective)

• feeling or expressing jubilation after having won a victory or mastered a difficulty

No, I have not conquered the French subjunctive tense. That battle was conceded long ago—the French language won, I lost, and we live peacefully ignoring one another. The victory at hand is a much larger one: a fundamental piece of the Finding Me in France puzzle that has fallen into place. Continue reading “Veni, Vidi, Victoria.” »

I had planned to write a long and sappy, yet charming and witty post thanking Rusty/Big Red/My Better Two-Thirds for this adventure of mine (everything from funding the finding to feeding the giraffe), but then I remembered he doesn’t read my posts very often—bastard.

Regardless, I sat down to write my thank-you note, but I just couldn’t find the right words to convey my gratitude. I almost abandoned the whole thing, and then I got lucky. I found maybe the best thing I’ve ever seen on the internet, and rather than waxing poetic about my husband’s many gifts to me, I’ve decided to share someone else’s story—an ordinary couple who share an extraordinary love.

So, Neil, if you’re out there, you’re a first rate smartypants, a kind soul, and the best friend a girl could ever have. This one is for you: Click here, turn up the sound, enjoy, and then get busy with dinner, will ya?

Now that I know I’m leaving La Suisse, I’m trying to pay extra attention to the nuances of European culture before I resume my midnight Miracle Whip runs to the local Mac’s Convenience store.

This week I’m noting the union of culture and currency. To be sure, the Swiss are famous for a lot of things: watches, chocolate and cheese, the invention of Velcro and nifty pocket knives, but they’re also famous for banking and discretion, a handy pair given the amount of green floating about over here. It’s been interesting living a less is more life in a place where there’s a Rolls Royce, a Lamborghini and a Ferrari parked side by side outside my gym every other day.

This crowd may indeed have a lot of cash to play with, but they certainly don’t like to talk about it much, and they have interesting ways to deal with it—quite differently than the way things are done in North America. Here’s a perfect example: you can order something online, say shoes or clothing, and choose to pay upfront by credit card or by facture, meaning get your goodies now and pay later. It’s the first time I have ever encountered such fiscal faith. Continue reading “Trust Funds” »

Okay, for anyone who’s curious about where I’ll be finding me next: think ocean and mountains and vineyards. Think temperate climate, totem poles, Chinatown, orca whales, and people who say please a lot. Come the morning of May 1st, I’ll be opening my eyes on beautiful Vancouver Island. Not exotic or exciting enough? May I remind you that I have never once set foot on Vancouver Island, and that’s as exciting as I’m prepared to be at the moment.

While many locales were up for grabs, we decided an immigration to yet another foreign country was beyond our energy expenditure capacity—code phrase for too bloody lazy. We have friends and work contacts there, and I hear that English is spoken in all the respectable hair salons.

For those who might not know a lot about Canada (Americans, I’m looking at you), perhaps describing Victoria as a mini San Francisco or Seattle with fewer guns and higher taxes will suffice, with apologies to my new home if the comparison is off. Of course, San Francisco, Seattle, and my bucket list restaurant—The French Laundry in the California vineyards—are just around the corner, and I’ll be plotting a plan for all 3 destinations as soon as I unpack. Continue reading “Island Girl” »

So, because my life simply isn’t messy enough at the moment (I now have more chaos in my life than chocolate, and that’s saying something), I decided to spice things up a little last week with a job interview. And not just any old interview. No, no, my Finders, as you well know, I live a rich and complex life full of adventure.

This interview required significant technological intervention—not some Skype chat in my living room, wearing a tailored jacket, slick shirt, and pajama bottoms. Instead,  a videoconference set-up found (after an exhaustive search I might add) in a business hotel in Lausanne. Continue reading “Civil Servant” »

For someone who has a clear penchant for planning and knowing, I sure seem to spend a lot of time in limbo land. I do know where I’m going, as do a select few of you. I’m impressed it hasn’t been ‘leaked’ yet, and you better keep your lips sealed as I aim to have a guessing game in the next few weeks. Groan all you like—I’m up to my eyeballs in chaos over here and blog material is hard to come by.

Anyway, my point is there’s an awful lot up in the air these days including me in exactly 30 days. The good news is that in typing “30 days” I’ve reached my target heart rate for the day. That sound you hear is me breathing in and out of the paper bag that carried home my ‘medicine’: 8 family size bars of chocolat noir. That should hold me for today.

It’s entirely possible that I’m overreacting. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t done this before, but still. I have to purge and pack. I have to ditch anything with a power cord attached to it (that’s the first clue about my destination). I have to unload my French blue bubble car and I have to ready the apartment for the new tenants. Plus, there’s the bureaucrazy both here and there to deal with, and I have to try at least 3 or 4 more Swiss wines before I go. A woman’s work is never done. Continue reading “The Witless Protection Program” »

I’ve been this tall (about 6 feet) since I was 12, so that’s over 3 decades of towering above the masses, and there’s no denying it: it’s generally a good thing. You can always spot me in a crowd and if you need someone to dust the top of the fridge, I’m your gal.

But today I say a thousand curses upon this giraffe-like physique of mine. This lament comes after a recent excursion that, for reasons I should be well acquainted with by now, left me wishing I could stuff myself in the dryer and come out shrunken to normal size. Yes, I went … clothes shopping.

After taking stock of my “wardrobe” and finding it heavy on sweatpants and light on attire fit for a return to the work world, I hit the stores. It’s been so long since I’ve done this, I forgot what an exasperating exercise in futility it is to clothe a woman who so closely resembles the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Continue reading “The Height of Fashion” »

Finders, it’s official: I’m moving. Again. I don’t mean across town, I mean to a different country. Exactly where is not important. For now, it’s enough simply to divulge the drama of the impending déménagement—that’s French for repeatedly doing things that might lead to complete physical and mental collapse.

In case I’m misunderstood, I’m in favour of further adventure; I just want the magical version of it, where someone waves a wand or wiggles a nose and it all comes into place while I’ve been off having a full body massage. 

To say this decision was not arrived at lightly would be the very definition of understatement. Rusty and I discussed and debated like never before and, like always, reached a consensus. We know how to do this by now. We celebrated 11 years together Monday past, and I was quick to point out that 132 months had passed and we’d managed to avoid killing each other, a major triumph in my view. We’ll see over the coming weeks whether I spoke too soon. Continue reading “Mama Was a Rolling Stone” »

Lately, every time I turn around, it’s March 16th. So what, right? Well, on this past March 16th, I found myself hitting 45 years on this Earth. 45. That’s halfway to 90. And yet, I don’t feel a day over 70. I’d launch into the whole 45 is the new 35 schtick, but I believe I mentioned my age, so I don’t have the energy or the time for that foolishness. Plus, I found a grey hair today, imagine how traumatized I am about that.

Speaking of old grey mares, in a recent magazine interview, the silvery state of my head was, as usual, a topic of interest. The journalist asked if I was surprised that some people thought it braver to bare my hair than to ditch a whole way of life. Answer: Hell, yes. I still don’t get that.

I can’t be the only one who thinks going au naturel is no big deal, but I might be in the minority. The other day a news item caught my eye. The BBC was investigating why there is a sea of black heads in the Chinese parliament. Most of them are over 50, yet not a hint of grey to be found in the lot. Genetics? Un-undiscovered anti-aging property found only in hot and sour soup? I think not. Continue reading “Aging Disgracefully” »