A Caledon Christmas

You never know when you might be experiencing something for the last time. If you did, you might not look ahead so quickly. Instead you might linger a little longer in that place, in that time, and with those people that are next to you. 

I didn't know that last year I would be celebrating my last Christmas in Caledon, a place I'd called home for 20 years. My family had talked about moving for a long time. "We might not be here next year" was a phrase I heard so often that I had started to drown it out. So when the time finally came it was too late to realize that my last Christmas in Caledon was in fact THE last Christmas. Now every Christmas in Caledon will be a memory, a ghost of Christmas past. 

The holidays in Caledon aren't more special than they are anywhere else. There is the lighting of trees, the baking of goods, the gathering of friends, and the exchanging of glad tidings, but now that it's all in the past it somehow seems more dear. So here I will share a memory with you...

I'd come home from university to celebrate the holidays with my family. It was Christmas Eve and it was the first time I'd paused from my academic circus of juggling course work and part-time jobs in months. I was beyond exhausted, but still wanted to put my all into celebrating. After feasting on tourtière and probably a bit too much wine, my parents and I retreated to the basement where we put up our Christmas tree every year. 

The room was like a postcard - lights dimmed, a roaring fire and candlelight created a warm glow, accompanied by the smell of woodsmoke, cinnamon, and pine. The tree was covered with multicoloured lights and heavy with ornaments, the presents underneath waiting to be unwrapped. I sat in the wooden rocking chair as my parents curled up on the sofa to watch one of our holiday classics, The Bishop's Wife. My cat, Daisy, leapt onto the back of the couch to snooze behind my parents as we settled in to watch a movie we all know by heart. 

The warmth from the fire and the wine we'd drunk made us all sleepy, but I managed to stay awake as Cary Grant came to lend a helping hand to Loretta Young, both of them preserved forever in black and white on our TV screen. Soft snoring drew my attention away from the movie and I looked over to see my parents fast asleep on the couch. They had followed Daisy's lead and were dreaming the night away. They looked so peaceful - Mom, Dad, and cat - that I didn't want to wake them to tell them they were missing the best parts of the movie. Instead I just watched them and made an effort to memorize the moment. 

As I sat there enjoying this tranquil scene, Daisy's furry form, heavy with sleep, slowly started to slide down the couch. She was in such a deep sleep that she didn't realize she was falling onto my parents below. Her body slumped right on top of my mother's head. 

Mom seized awake, legs kicking, voice screaming "what?! what?!", grabbing at my father, who was jolted awake by all this noise. In his confusion he also started yelling - "huh!? What?!" The cat, who was awoken by the fall that had her crashing into the laps of two screaming adults, started shrieking in a panic. She leapt from lap to lap in an attempt to escape the swinging arms and cries of terror she had inadvertently caused. For a second the three of them were yelling and grabbing at each other as they tried to figure out what the commotion was about and why they were suddenly awake. 

I was doubled over with laughter, so it took me a moment to explain what had occurred. Mom and Dad settled down eventually and went back to peacefully dozing by the fireside, but Daisy was miffed for the rest of the night. Skulking around the house with her tail puffed up, she was ready to take up a battle cry again if need be. 

That is one of my favourite memories of Christmas in a home that I no longer call my own. It's silly, and it's brief, but it sums up my little family quite well. 

This year I spent my first Christmas Eve in Rosemont. Celebrating the holidays with my boyfriend's family, I got to make new memories and practice different traditions. Their family also includes two cats and lots of laughter, which reminds me of my family, and therefore already feels like home. 

A view of Caledon one Christmas many years ago 

Wishing in Rome: A Visit to the Trevi Fountain

There are many places to make a wish - wells, on stars, on turkey bones. I've made a lot of wishes in my time because I'm a bit of a dreamer, but the most beautiful place I've ever wished is at the Trevi Fountain in Rome. 

A stunning structure, it looks like a story come to life, and then magically turned into stone, with fountains of water spilling down its rocky surface into a blue pool. Tourists from all over the world visit the Trevi Fountain to make wishes and they throw an estimated 3,000 euros a day into the fountain. It is said that if you throw a coin over your shoulder into the water you will one day return to Rome. I decided to throw four coins into the fountain in hopes of ensuring my return to the Eternal City and I made a wish on every one of them. 

My first wish was for the continued well being of my loved ones. I'd be no where good today if it wasn't for the support of my family and friends - their happiness means the world to me. So across the world, in a far away city, I wished for them to always be well.

Then I wished for happiness because I've been trying to live a life devoted to it. I used to try and be successful above all things, but I've found over the past year that my failures have made me the most happy and success is worth nothing if it only brings you grief.  

Thirdly, I wished for destiny, to find mine, and fulfil it. The coin I used for this wish was a Canadian dime and I hoped the etching of the legendary Bluenose on its face would strengthen my wish that my destiny and I would meet. 

Lastly, I wished for passion. Life is nothing if you don't have passion and love is not worth having if there's no passion in it. Maybe it's because I'm getting older, but I've started to notice people settling for a life devoid of passion. They go back to relationships and jobs that don't work for them, but they feel comfortable in. They sacrifice passion for the safety of the known and they wonder why they're unhappy. Travelling through Europe was me fulfilling my passion for adventure and on my trip I made a promise to myself never to settle for anything less again. This wish into the fountain was a physical act to solidify that promise to myself. 

Four coins, four wishes, and four hopes that I would one day return to Rome to tell the fountain its magic worked and my wishes came true. 

No, I'm not American. Yes, I'm from Toronto: A travelling Canadian's most frequent responses.

After five weeks abroad I got used to repeating myself.

My voice betrayed me around the world. It's hard to sound Canadian when there's no real Canadian accent. Our land is too diverse for that distinction. As soon as I spoke people would ask: Are you American?

I don't blame them for their misinterpretation of the way my English sounds. Of course they'd assume that I'm from the States - it's big, it's well-known, and it makes a point of being present in every situation (wanted or not.)

When my response would clarify that I'm from the North of North America their first question would always be: Are you from Toronto?

There are two things I learned about my own country while visiting other peoples':

1) Canada is associated with winter -- nothing else.
2) They think everyone is from Toronto.

My interactions became predictable to the point of hilarious. People would first comment on the cold and then ask me about Toronto. The amount of times I heard "Canada? You get a lot of snow there, don't you." was remarkable.

I was expecting to discuss hockey, correct typical Canuck stereotypes, and maybe hear a couple jokes about maple syrup, but I got nothing but winter related queries. Why? Because the only people who know stuff about Canada and make fun of Canada are Canadians.

At first I was shocked (how could everyone know nothing about my vast land?!), then I was sad (I know tons of stuff about other countries. Why is my own so ignored?), and finally I was pleased. Being not well known has its advantages and it's kind of romantic to be mysterious. If I were American they'd know everything about my culture and predict my stereotypical behaviour, but as a Canadian, they didn't know what to expect, so I could be whomever I wanted.

I toyed with the idea of telling people about my dog-sled team. How they're world champions and trained with the best coaches in the Yukon. Born and bred under the northern lights, they eat nothing but the best seal meat. They're really great at getting me to and from the maple sugar bush where I work, and the local Tim Horton's. It's hard work tapping trees all day, so I often need a double-double and an apple fritter to get me through. They also don't mind the long run up to the Mountie dispatch office where my boyfriend works. He may be a full-time Mountie, but being a lumberjack is his real passion. Look out, balsam firs! The only thing that grinds my gears is trying to find good dog sled parking in downtown Toronto during a Leafs game. It's madness, I tell you.

Although that would have been fun, I ended up being polite, clean, and conversational, because I'm Canadian. And yes, I'm from Toronto.

A license plate souvenir I found in Paris. Cause, you know, 

nothing says Canada like snowflakes, bears, and moose.

One for sorrow, two for joy - Magpies across Europe

You can be followed by your shadow. You can be haunted by a ghost. But how about a combination of the two in the form of a bird?

The black and white feathers of the magpie reminded me of shadows and spectres, but while these strange birds seemed to follow me around Europe, I was not afraid of their dark omens. Their old rhyme goes:

One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret never to be told.

My British friend teased me continuously about the amount of magpies we encountered as he drove me around the English countryside. He said he'd never seen so many in his life, so they must be following me. Either because I was a magpie in disguise, or because they were drawn to my sparkly personality. Whatever it may have been, the birds were there at every turn of my journey. Down small country roads, they perched by fields; in London, a city engulfed in pigeons, I saw magpies pecking in the Leathermarket Park; by the shore, they watched as I passed.

I thought the sightings would stop once I left England, but I continued to see them in Amsterdam, Berlin, and Hanau.

British folklore dictates that seeing a solitary magpie is unlucky, and the only way to reverse the bad luck is to salute the bird, or ask after its wife. This makes it seem that although the magpie is alone, he does have a mate, so the one for sorrow rule can be translated into two for joy. In Scotland, it's believed that seeing a solo magpie by a window of a house means death is on its way. The bird is considered a trickster and a thief all over Europe because of its cunning intellect and fondness for stealing shiny objects. The Ancient Romans associated the magpie with Bacchus, the god of wine, and considered it an animal of reasoning powers and intelligence. While in China, it is considered lucky and its name translates to "happiness magpie."

No matter the continent, magpies seem to capture the imagination and have inspired folklore and superstition for hundreds of years. Their intelligence and ritualistic behaviours might have something to do with that.

The magpie is part of the corvid family, which also includes ravens and crows. They're not only considered one of the smartest birds, but one of the smartest animals in general, with their brains being compared to those of primates. Their use of tools, mimicry, social rituals, teamwork, and strategy, put them in a class of their own. They have been known to pass self-recognition tests, the only non-mammal to have done so. With their crafty brains, striking black and white plumage, and ability to outsmart their friends and foes, is it any wonder that they've been associated with witchcraft and effect superstition.

I saw an innumerable amount of magpies during my travels, and no rhyme or lore can predict the uncountable. One for sorrow, two for joy... a hundred for endless possibility. I choose to side with the Chinese belief that the magpie is a messenger of good fortune and happiness. If my British friend thinks these birds were following me, and that I might be one in disguise, I'll take it as the highest compliment.

Superstitious or not, they are welcome at my window any day.

A magpie sits across the street from the house I stayed at in Canterbury. 

The Basic Laws of Cologne - a code to live by

I spent only one sunny afternoon in Cologne, but it was enough time to learn their basic laws and decided to bring them home and adopt them as my own. 

I learned about the laws in an art shop. The windows full of prints of clowns fooling around the streets of the city caught my eye, so my friend and I went in to browse. Almost every print in the shop had a clown in it. We asked the girl behind the counter to explain it to us - was it a theme? Did the artist specialize in clowns? Did the art shop sell anything without clowns? The girl explained that the clowns represented the spirit of Cologne and how the people who live there don't take life too seriously. This a city out to have a good time. 

Then she showed us a print with the 11 basic laws of Cologne written down the centre and said the laws were like a code to live by. The print said:

The Cologne Basic Law:

1. Things are as they are
2. That doesn't matter
3. Everything will take its course
4. If it's gone, it's gone
5. Be open minded to the new and unknown 
6. Haven't got one, don't need one, get rid of it
7. No two clowns are alike
8. We have always done things this way
9. What's the fuss about?
10. Have another drink with us!
11. Laugh until you break

Reading these laws was like getting punched in the chest. I had been trying to live my life by a similar set of rules that I had outlined for myself and now I was sitting in an art shop having these familiar principles translated from the local German dialect into English. Cologne had it figured out this whole time. I suddenly felt a sense of belonging so strong that it was like falling in love with a stranger you've lived beside your whole life - newly familiar. I had found a place on the other side of the world that felt the same way about life as I did and they'd written rules about it. 

I wanted to laugh until I broke, but instead I bought the print. I left the shop smiling and made a promises to myself that day that I would return to Cologne for their carnival, and then would visit New Orleans for their carnival, and Venice for theirs... because no two clowns are alike.

Friends forever, fooling about on the streets of Cologne.

My Canada; his Quebec - two versions of the maple leaf

The morning I left Belgium, a man approached me in a cafe and asked if I was Canadian. He'd seen the flag on my backpack as he'd held the door for me and my friend.

I told him I was, then he asked if I was from Toronto, and again I said "yes."

He pointed at the middle of my Canadian flag patch and said "but this is from Quebec."

There was a moment of confusion, and a back and forth dialogue, as I thought he was saying the flag was from Quebec. I finally realized that he meant the maple leaf on the flag. He explained that he'd worked in Quebec for a while and that these leaves were everywhere - to him the maple leaf was a regional phenomenon.

I explained that the maple leaf is everywhere in Canada, as a tree, and a symbol we all share. He put his hands up in wonder and we all went back to our croissants.

How big must our country seem to outsiders. One man's experience of the maple leaf was so tied to his time in Quebec that he couldn't imagine these red trees being anywhere else but in that province. To imagine a country lined with maple trees and all its people identifying with it as a symbol of home made this Belgian bewildered and he needed to pause for a moment to consider it. To me, a red leaf on a snow-white background is a tell-tale sign of unity, but to the many people who visit Canada it may be how they remember that one place at that one time - it's their impression of the Vancouver Winter Games, Toronto's Pride Parade, or, in this man's case, a work visa to Quebec. Our national symbol became a token for his memories of his time spent working abroad.

He held the door again for us as we left the cafe. I bid him goodbye in French and he said "see you later" in Spanish. I knew then that I would definitely return to this place - with a maple leaf secured to my backpack.

Great Expectations; England to Belgium

My first glimpse of Belgium was of fields and a spot of sun through a dark bank of clouds. It could have been anywhere, but a French flag was flying beside the train tracks, so I knew I was someplace different.

Exploring England the week before was surreal. It was like finally coming to a place I had been to so many times as a mental traveller. I grew up in love with U.K. authors - Beatrix Potter, C.S. Lewis, Lewis Carroll, Kenneth Grahame, Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, The Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, J.R.R. Tolkien, J.K. Rowling, Rudyard Kipling, Roald Dahl, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Their England was the one I expected to see when I arrived and they did not disappoint.

England was a country of mythical status in my mind, built upon page after page of stories written over hundreds of years, but I saw it all just as I had pictured it in my mind. The fields of green countryside filled with bunnies that were in the Peter Rabbit stories I treasured as a child, the ancient and gnarled trees that reminded me of Tolkien, the riverbanks that brought me right back to the pages of The Wind in the Willows, and Baker Street in London where a character so beloved and admired has been made real with his own museum. Sherlock Holmes might as well have really lived for all the detail that has been put into supporting his legend.

England was familiar before I even got there, but at the same time everything felt new as I was seeing what I'd only imagined for the first time. Now, as I ride the train into Belgium, I'm about to experience a whole new level of 'new'. I know very little about Brussels, Bruges, and Ghent, but I'm so excited to see more - past the fields and sun peaking out of dark clouds, past the French flag to the people who live under it. I'm prepared to fall in love with this new place.