Christ all friggin’ mighty. At some point I have to stop with this starting my life over business. Never mind packing and moving and all that crap, which I will be doing again come September—somebody pass me a fork to stick in my eye when that day arrives. I’m talking about getting myself all set up in terms of the living essentials. It’s just as exhausting in Canada as it was in France, albeit the break from consulting a dictionary every 15 minutes is welcome.
I have yet to find a doctor here in fair Victoria. It’s all walk-in clinics, good enough I suppose, but as someone who used to play doctor for a living, I can tell you it’s not ideal. God knows how I’ll find a full time handler for my state of advanced decrepitude. It’s on my New Life To Do list. As is locating a new massage therapist to replace my beloved Mademoiselle Elodie. The search for a decent croissant continues.
I have managed to find a dentist. Now that was something. Two of the longest hours of my life, followed by several more hours of facial numbness and drooling. Apparently a couple of years of licking French bon-bons wreaks a bit of havoc on the old chompers.
While I may drop dead at any moment due to lack of medical care, the good news is that it seems I’ll have a few locals to invite to my wake. And really, isn’t that what life’s all about? I’ve somehow stumbled upon a crowd of coworkers who rival the best teams I’ve ever been part of. They’re teaching me, tolerating me, taking me out for drinks, and fish and chips, and Italian sandwiches. I shall endeavour to be worthy of my place among them.
And there’s more. I’ve had brunch with an inspiring woman who’s an entrepreneur/executive coach/super mom. I’ve had cocktails with two fascinating, brilliant, hilarious ladies whose work saves entire ecosystems, as well as a sushi lunch with a very savvy businesswoman who’s parachuted from a plane 750 times. I have yet another meet and greet arranged for next week. How did I make this happen? Well, my social success has been much like catching a social disease (lunch dates, gonorrhoea, it’s all the same)—it can all be traced back to one man: Neil’s buddy, Jeff, also known as Mr. Victoria.
Not only is he whip smart and funny as all get out, but this kind soul found us our apartment, brought us treats as we unpacked, loaned us his car for a week, pointed us toward J & J Wonton Noodle House, had an indirect hand in me finding my job, and now is hooking me up with every cool chick in the city. I think he should do this sort of thing for a living. He could just meet people at the airport and within a week, they’d be gainfully employed, stuffed with spring rolls, and clinking wine glasses with people who improve their lives within five minutes of meeting them. If only he could do my pap smear, life would be a dream. Merci, Monsieur.