To Bear or Not To Bear… That is the Question

“There was a bear and 2 cubs here last night,” said our neighbour, and thus starts the terrible dilemma.  I have decided that this is the year I will see a bear, reasonably close up and not be terrified.  Cautious, yes, but not utterly freaked out.  After all, I am very nearly Canadian and all Canadians deal well with huge, clawed, jawed, hungry omnivores, don’t they?  Last year we (almost literally) bumped into a couple of small black bears on the cycle route in Whistler and the year before that, we stood in our sitting room and watched as a largish teenage bear crossed our lawn.  This year I am determined to do some real bear-watching.

So this afternoon when I heard that we had been visited, and might again, I was quite pleased.  Then I got to thinking.  The last bear in my garden tore apart my compost bin and I had to move them both into the shed (the bins, not the bear) for the summer to prevent tempting the bear back – luring or feeding bears is against the law, and once they become accustomed to garbage and compost, they are nearly always destroyed.  When I got home today, my compost bin was in 2 halves, but nothing had been taken out – was it bears last night, or the meter man who visited today and might have been really really clumsy?  If I close the gates, will that keep them out?  And if they get in, will they stamp all over my lovely garden, which has finally woken up and started growing? Worse, do they like peas?  Will they eat all my baby vegetables?

Perhaps if I string up bells and get an air horn, I can frighten them off if they come.  But I don’t want to frighten them off, I want to watch them and photograph them.  Argh!  What should I do?

I think tonight I shall sit out on my balcony, within easy reach of the door, with my camera , air horn, pepper spray, bear bells and camouflage netting and see if they come back.   If nothing else, I might be able to surprise the neighbours.

By Jingo!

Last week we took my brother and his family to the Rodeo.  They were visiting from the UK and the Lynden Rodeo, at the end of the Northwest Washington State Fair just across the US border, is fabulous.  It’s not too big, not too glitzy, just a local event for those who appreciate a cold beer, a corn dog and some curly fries while watching grown men and women eating dirt.  You can even do a bit of shopping at the few stalls, and get yourself a rhinestone studded belt, a ten gallon hat and some light-up boots, plus a giant pair of longhorns to hang over your door.  The cowboys and cowgirls are on the circuit, competing around the US and Canada, and the standard of roping and riding is just breathtaking.  Not bad for $12 admission fee.

Anyway, the start of the competition is a parade of the flags of the sponsors, then the flags of the military services, then the flag of the Prisoners of War and Missing In Action.  We all stood and sang the national anthems of Canada and the US.  Now, here’s the point – I love the Canadian National Anthem.  It’s catchy, stirring, easy to sing and very rousing.  Canadians are not as jingoistic as their immediate neighbours and, as with everything Canadian, if you don’t want to sing it, you don’t have to.  But I love it, and the girls sing it regularly at school so we all joined in and belted it out.  As we finished, the guy in front of us (also Canadian) shouted “Yeah!  Let’s play hockey!” and turned to us for a high five.  I think I heard a sharp intake of breath from our guests, and maybe felt a little shudder – how awfully colonial and thoroughly unBritish.

From a new immigrant’s point of view, there is definately more patriotism in Canada than in the UK, and some may feel uncomfortable with that.  When we first arrived, we noticed how many people wore teeshirts, hoodies, hats and badges clearly displaying “Canada” or the flag or just the maple leaf, and it seemed a bit weird.  However, as new immigrants, we are also profoundly grateful to our new country for welcoming us with open arms and I think, in a city of immigrants, that goes for a lot of the residents.  It is refreshing to feel that it is not uncool to be proud of your country, but also nice that even long term Vancouverites were surprised by the outpouring of loyalty that the Olympics produced.  Bottom line?  It’s a great anthem, so enjoy singing it and let the cynics find their own path.

The Burnaby Coffee Party

No Taxation Without Representation! Or The Coffee Gets It...

As a new immigrant you should be aware that you will be taxed.  You will be taxed when you finally get a job, when you shop, when you fill the car and when you sneeze.  You will be taxed by the Canadian Government, the Provincial Government, the old lady who lives down the road, her dog, her dog’s friend and you will also have to pay an exorbitant fee every year so that someone can help you through the minefield of the annual tax return so that you can pay a bit more tax.  And you’ll pay tax on the exorbitant fee.

You should also be aware that, when the excitement of the Federal Election or the Provincial Election rolls around (slightly overshadowed at this time by the Royal Wedding and the death of Osama Bin Laden), you will not be allowed to vote unless you have been paying the taxes for 3 years and paid the fee to become a Canadian citizen.  I seem to remember from history lessons that a similar gripe lead to a certain Tea Party in Boston.

If you need me, I’ll be in Starbucks, loading up the coffee sacks and driving them to the Burrard Inlet to tip them in, whilst shouting “No Taxation Without Representation!!”  I’ll do it as soon as I’ve finished this latte and scone….

Marmite and Bunting

Knit Your Own Royal Wedding by Fiona Goble

So here I am on the eve of another Royal Wedding, baking and slicing and prepping the marmite sandwiches, just as I fondly imagine my mother did before the last great Street Party Event.  At least, I remember her sewing miles of bunting out of old red, white and blue crimpolene on strings made out of old tights (what do you mean, you don’t know how to make string out of old tights?  Cut off the legs and start cutting in a spiral about an inch wide all the way to the toe.  Then pull.  Voila, instant strong and useful string. Tights are pantyhose to you Canucks, but that’s a word too close to Pantywaister for any true blooded Brit, hence the sniggering when you say it).

What is it about a major UK event that turns every UK Expat into an instant expert?  Tonight I was asked my views on the latest tabloid opinion that the marriage won’t last.  Of course, I have a unique insight into the private life of the Royal couple, as my husband’s brother’s wife’s sister went to University with Wills and Kate.  Like the majority of their close friends, not so close friends and distant colleagues, the Sister remained discreet and close-lipped about anything she saw or heard and thus the air of purity and mystery is preserved.

Tomorrow, I am hosting a Royal Wedding Lunch, at which we are wearing large hats, eating English Tea Party food and calling each other by our new Royal Wedding Guest names (choose a title, the name of a grandparent, the name of your first pet and the name of the street you grew up on).  In the company of Baroness Harmke Peanuts-Montgomery and Lady Evangeline Fluffy-Gloucester, we will toast a modern fairy tale, and hope that, for once, this one will continue Happy Ever After.

First One Home…

I have fallen behind in my blogging duties for the simple reason that I haven’t been home, because I’ve been, well, Home.  The occasion was sad, but expected (Grandma passed away), and the timing was lousy (death is rarely convenient) but despite the fact that the whole family is flying to England in a few weeks, my sister and I decided to go to the funeral.

So, what is it like to go back to the UK more than 2 years after leaving?  My sister, a veteran expat of 10 years, has been my guide in matters of homesickness.  She, however, made the journey alone, travelling to a new marriage and the whole of the USA to choose from when setting up home.  She was very homesick at first, and plans to return to the UK every 2 years for a visit.  She describes this as The Cure – after 2 weeks you remember why you left, and can’t wait to get back across the Atlantic!

For me, it was different.  I don’t think any of us were homesick at all.  We heard of other new immigrants going home after 6 months, and we felt that would be very distruptive for the children, and for us.  Besides, we just didn’t want to; we were having far too much fun.  I planned a trip after 2 years, but even when we were booking the tickets, we were both asking why we were doing this, when we could spend the money on something fun (or a new furnace).

My expectation was this: I will hate leaving Vancouver, hate the rush and crowding and litter of England, cry with relief all the way home and skip off the plane with the scent of pine and snow in the air and joy in my heart.

The reality?  I didn’t like being surrounded by English voices on the plane.  I wanted to tell everyone “I live here – I’m not a tourist, I’m not going home.”  When we landed, my parents picked me up in their tiny little car and rocketed round the M25 like we were trying to achieve velocity for a slingshot round the sun (Trekkies will understand).  We rushed through towns where roads suddenly went to one lane, and nobody seemed to care who had right of way (if you have the Range Rover, you have right of way, apparently).  I remembered why Merge In Turn and 4-Way Stop Procedure would never work in the UK.

When we got to my parents’ house and I had unpeeled my fingers from the back of Dad’s chair, things started to veer away from my expectations.  Let’s face it, England is beautiful in the spring.  It is greener than BC, the broadleaf trees create a more lush landscape, and the wonderful noisy crowds of birds are almost overwhelming after our quiet, virtually bird-free yard.  Ancient thatched cottages surrounded by crowded colourful gardens, wonderful pubs with bitter shandy and chips (that’s fries) and real tasty cheese and chunky pickle sandwiches , green fields of lambs and mud pens of piglets – idyllic.  I was traveling the lanes of my very happy childhood, with so many memories of Pony Club, picnics and fishing in the ford, family hikes over the South Downs and, of course, my Gran in the middle of it all.  We spent an afternoon at Wisley Gardens, remembering her love of plants and how she inspired us all to take up gardening, and we planned to put a plaque in the Gardens in her memory.

When the time came to leave, parting was not too bad – my parents will be infested with weasels (the pet name for our tribe of giggling girls) in a few short weeks, and they will return the visit during the summer.  But, as I sat on the plane next to my sister, digesting my 8am Bloody Mary and Dramamine combo (her suggestion, I hasten to add), I asked her if she also felt a bit blue.  “Always.  You’ll be fine tomorrow, but it’s always hard to leave.”  I waited for my landing joy to start, and it didn’t – I felt depressed, and worried, and homesick.

But, dear reader, the ending is happy and my sister was right.  Within a day I was back on top of the world, gazing at my mountains and loving the scent of pine.  Vancouver is my home and I love it, but now I can accept that England will always be Home.

In memory of Gran, an important part of my Home

Emigrating to Vancouver

So, let’s start with the Big Question everyone asks – “Why Canada?”  Before we left England, I usually replied “We are not emigrating to Canada; 99% of Canada is completely uninhabitable.  We are emigrating to Vancouver because it scored highly in the Best Places in the World To Live survey (Mercer), we want an adventure, England is going to the dogs, we want to see whales, climb mountains in summer and ski down them in the winter – so many reasons”.

We arrived on a freezing March evening and staggered from our downtown hotel apartment on our first morning into the coldest wind we had ever felt.  We walked to the end of the street, looked north across Lost Lagoon to the snow covered mountains and breathed in the freshest, cleanest air we had ever tasted.  From that moment on, whenever anyone asked “Why Canada?” we simply replied “Have you SEEN it? Where else would we want to be?”  We are well and truly in love with our new home.  

We were right about some things, and utterly wrong about others.  We have been surprised at how quickly we have got used to some of the differences, and how slowly the kids are picking up Canadian accents.  Over the pages of this website, we aim to give you some ideas, steer you to useful resources and answer some of your questions.  Mostly, if you are set on this crazy course called emigration, we aim to give you hope that you can achieve it!