A millenial pink can of 11.5% stout that promises peanut butter, chocolate chip and marshmallow pastry flavours. Three loose were the same as a six so of course there are now five more in the fridge.
It’s election week in the homeland. For a policy nerd, the campaigns have been underwhelming and a bit sad. Even the scandals have made leaders look like flaccid peanut butter sandwiches, leftover at the bottom of a bag lunch, that no one really wants. If one more person flogs a niche tax break*, I swear, I’m coming back there and moving into a swing ward and voting like an angry hen. Like, I’m going to tick boxes on boxes and have so much government issued ID you won’t be able refuse, you might even want me to vote twice (but I’ll say no because that’s illegal).
The actual results are going to be interesting, less so because they will represent a real voter sentiment of shared new ideals and more because no one seems to know what might happen. There are high profile, well funded independents. Some minority parties are having last minute surges in approval ratings. I’ll be eating my sunrise breakfast, many time zones ahead, and watching the votes tally.
*I’m here to tell you, if you take one thing away from reading this entire blog over the last ten years, it should be that niche tax breaks are terrible tax policy and even worse government policy. They’re incredibly inefficient to administer and largely misunderstood by the voting public in terms of value, they are effectively purchasing votes at an overall cost to the system. When that politician comes to you with a niche tax credit, or deduction, in hand you say confidently to that person “I only deal in marginal rates, and kindly get off my porch.”
Sitting, making coffee in the trusty french press, waiting to hear if the deal is done.
*
Not a lot of people have been to this apartment in four years. It was acquired through hot luck, google-fu and math.
The math part being that, aside from the deposit, it was as much to pay the mortgage as it was to rent (and it came with new perks like in-suite laundry and a dishwasher, which everyone should live without for awhile just to truly appreciate these marvels). The deposit was a solid chunk but nothing exceptional, an amount that could be recovered from if the market swan dived.
Google-fu because the listing was garbage. Figuring out the building led to figuring out what pictures were likely not shown and that it was actually a little beauty. It’s amazing what wrongly sized furniture, a bad feature wall and some ugly marketing can do to obscure potential.
Hot luck is the main one. A series of events, timing. In a few weeks going from not even thinking about buying to making offers. The right place at the right time.
*
One time, I owned a beautiful stained glass enclosed balcony with views of the port and the old city and the mountains, big enough to spend long summer nights on.
The apartment was a refuge from the grey days and the world, all clean bright design and comforting features. A deep tub, a gas range, ample closets and cupboards. Over time, furniture found its way in – from alleys and roadsides, other expats going home, a man who sold diamonds and retired hotel furniture, a couple making salvaged wood and metal benches. Everything now looks like it was put together, somehow it all finally matches, and now it’s time to go.
The neighborhood was an instant fit; the blend of high and low, the ultra modern alongside the very old, the weird and the welcoming. In a city that never made sense, these blocks did. Leaving it is like leaving a close friend you know you won’t keep in touch with. In these last few weeks, all the old haunts call out for one more visit, as though that last time could capture the exact way things taste and feel, smell and sound.
*
People have become mercenary about square footage in this city. This place is a good spot. Please enjoy it and take care of it.
When we moved here, the cab drivers from the suburb where there are regular gang shootings would say “you live in a bad neighborhood”.
Last week, a driver dropped me off and said “this neighborhood sure is changing.”
This morning I walked to the cafe that had good breakfast burritos and nanaimo bars, jonesing. It was gone. Brown paper in the windows advertising a new cafe. The same thing happened a few months back with the best grocery store in the hood. One day it was just shuttered, a sold sign outside. Strange small businesses have come and gone – taking a risk on cheap rent.
We were late comers to this hood – years ago, cabs wouldn’t come down at all. There’s no pretending to have true ownership here, we came to witness the end.
On arrival, it was perfect. A heady mix of things within walking distance. Sheltered from the crowds mostly due to incorrect fears. An incubator for the small and interesting, a repository for roughed-up history. It was friendly. A bit weird.
It was also very obvious what was coming.
Now. Upmarket spas and fitness options. Replicated cafes, almost indistinguishable from each other, on each corner. Other parts of the city reach tentacles into the storefronts, making everything just a bit more uniform. Tidy. Many sources for cold pressed juice, all the cold pressed juice you can handle. Little reference to what was before, spaces remodelled and wiped clean. Made boring.
Mainstream press starts to trumpet the area as a must-see.
Personally, this is not, financially, a bad thing. More people will consider buying this place because they are more comfortable in gentrified spaces. This hidden enclave will have more visibility, curb appeal.
And we will disappear along with the others.
Mexico. Going to Mexico. To sit on a beach, eat tacos, drink beer and horchata, be reminded of a lack of Spanish fluency. Because it’s reasonably priced in a year of currency chaos and one direct flight. Because the ocean is clear and moving. Because it’s been nearly twenty years?
For the first time as an adult, staying at a resort. Not just a resort, an all-inclusive resort. Please hand your rough travel credentials in at the door, bourgie life.
It’s pragmatism. The hypothetical of having everything set up to run smoothly, of not calculating exchange rates and whether more cash needs to be converted, of in-room conveniences like beach towels. It’s not having to decide at the airport to spend cash on a cab versus spend a hour on local transport with a significant language barrier praying you’re not actually off to an inaccessible part of the city where it may be dark and you may be robbed. It’s the option of pre-travel research without the sense that if you fail to put the research in you may well not know about the entry visa/ridiculous airport ATMs that charge high fees and only let you withdraw $30/ferry that only runs on Tuesday at 3pm from the town with no accomodation.
…
Three years four months in one place has made the world feel smaller. Quiet comparisons to how things are done elsewhere have faded. An index of places to go and return to has more question marks than clarity, the world is not static. A former sense of being able to critically evaluate information diseminated by the media is dulled, too few points of reference.
As though nothing else is out there.
In three years, four months, a complete summary. A long weekend taking all forms of transit through the PNW until Portland. About seventeen days on Oahu, mostly North Shore, split over two trips. A day trip to Washington state, a wedding in Ohio and a flyby few days in Vegas. No passport stamps, no new continents. All Anglo. Not enough time, less than ten days per year, which is not even 3%.
Maybe this creates opportunities in the future, deferring the short and inevitably expensive long haul trips in favor of the better part of a year. Maybe the world shifts and it doesn’t work out, or there’s another dream to chase. I guess we’ll see.
There’s a quit window, a free bag and some inspirational reading material. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?
It’s been… awhile… like eight or nine years. And the last one was free, because, post secondary.
But the assortment of no-impact cardio is one of the only solutions.
While this knee gets fixed.
And there are classes. It’s easier to keep going if someone is watching. Commanding one more set.
And if this goes well, it will justify owning ridiculous patterned leggings. Leggings all day every day. I work out.
Right now, eating cheddar and thyme shortbread and red onion marmalade from Niagara, like fancy.
So many highways lately, which is actually a good thing – we had been here so long and had not done certain things, guests are a good reason to get out, drink the wine. Not worry so much.
The Most Fun Thing, lately, has been bobsledding. If you go to Whistler, there is a non-profit that will throw you down the pro track, staffed by competitors and track maintenance people. It was kind of wild.
We also finally went to the Highly Ranked Scandinavian baths for massages and relaxation. No one is allowed to speak around the grounds or in the pools, everyone moves around slowly in white robes being Very Serious about eucalyptus steam and cold showers. There were bliss balls.
One quick blink and it was mid-July.
Last month was 13% less productive than usual.
There is this expectation of being mechanical, that every month will be the same (or better). This is month 31.
The to-do list is going okay. Eat the frog first, all that.
Today is punctuated like a lot have been lately, by a sub sandwich, “pizza” or ham, ham or pizza. Two or three times per week.
No calculations have been analyzed with respect to sandwich, and sandwich variety, indexed to productivity.
Or so.
A girl I went to high school with died last week, after a decade of a degenerative disease. I can’t remember if I liked her or not; I actually can’t remember much about high school at all. I flipped through about fifty Facebook profiles, the voyeur’s virtual reunion. Does anyone every pull my profile? Doubtful. Looking through the pictures, there was an entire world in that small town that I was oblivious to, which was probably oblivious to me, neither of us at fault. I think, though, I can generally surmise the trajectories of most of the people I skimmed through – because they still live in that town, married people that we all knew, and started having kids a few years ago. A lot of them went into the family business, or work for places in town that I grew up going to. The world turned.
My own profile is deliberately trimmed, probably boring, unclear. I remembered this place, where you’re reading, right now, and flipped back to it. It was much clearer. I had forgotten.
*
What happened next is that LG and I landed on the West Coast, moved into a friend’s living room, made a go of it, and I’ve been living in the same place for more or less thirty-one months (albeit not in someone’s living room). This is he longest continuous stretch, ever, in any place, as an adult.
It wasn’t well planned but there were pragmatic reasons. Paperwork, money, and living out a bit of an experiment. The start was insane, moving to an expensive part of a first world country is no guarantee of success, and on arrival the market for both of our jobs was flat. I knew what we were getting into, but the come down was still tricky, as was stepping back into a world kind-of put to rest in my mind.
Eighteen months after arriving, we bought a studio, downtown. The realtor was wary we could live in a studio, but everything felt kind of right. Considering I had spent recent years living in: some semi-communes, an ancient motel strip, an unheated fishing shack, and a friend’s living room – zero concerns. A lot of people have unplanned pregnancies, this was like that, but instead of a baby, an apartment popped out a month later.
Wait, what? Is this how this ends?
Clearly not. Which is part of the reason the need to add to this repository of thoughts came up.
Underthecurrent 