Well… I made it. I remember a massive wind farm near Creemore, tacos from Momofuku, Sloan performing in a barn, I think my birthday was in there somewhere, and then it’s a blur of caffeinated four to five hours of sleep a night for three weeks, more trips to and from my apartment than I care to remember, and a bunch of stuff I don’t think I can remember. But somehow it all worked out. I’m here. My new home: the city I’ve always but never quite lived in. Let me explain…
My decision to move out of my apartment was mostly practical—but the other part, since there’s never been anything fun about a mostly practical decision made in the history of decisions ever, was made with a sense of fun in mind. I wanted it to be an adventure. I wanted a new way to live and experience the city. I wanted to be mobile. I wanted to be different as a result. And I lucked out. I found a room in a house near school where things feel out of time—Paris in the early thirties I’d say, when art nouveau and art deco had been overlapping for years, but if it were happening in a hundred year old house in Toronto with stainless steel appliances in 2016. It’s like living in a hotel at the end of the universe. Everything’s taken care of so there’s actually little for me to do when I’m at home except for write, and that’s the point. I’ve got two months to do as much as I can with my writing before school starts, so if I’m not working I’m at home writing, and if I’m not at home writing, I’m out exploring. I’m a happy time traveller.
Tomorrow marks a week since arriving. It’s amazing how quickly a place can start to feel like home after cooking a few meals, reading quietly, and hanging your underwear up to dry. I’ve left my car on the street and use transit to get to and from work now. I’m exploring a familiar but often only just passed through area of the city. There is a 24 hour diner where I had steak and eggs at 2AM after work yesterday. There was a pickup truck full of raccoons in traps I passed by on my way to work this morning. There’s a coffee shop where I can get a double Americano made with more coffee instead of just hot water, plus they put chocolate in it. There’s a dog park and fruit markets. There’s a fancy grocery store. There are several terrible ones. I haven’t even started on all the shawarma places. And it’s only been a week. Yeah… I’m a happy time traveller. Except maybe about the raccoons in traps. They were cute, but it was a sad sort of cute.
The best part so far, by far, is the sleep. It’s so good. It’s quiet here. I don’t need ear plugs. My room is cold and dark. I can even leave the window open if I want and listen to the sounds of the wind in the trees at nighttime. And I’m dreaming again—big, long vibrant dreams where I forget I’m sleeping and then wake up and remember I was. I rally for words and they are calling back. I hear them again. I don’t worry as much as I used to about coming back. I know I am. I don’t have to believe it anymore.
The night I arrived here for the first time it was late after work. The power was out, weirdly, and I’d stopped for a drink with a work buddy, so I was being extra careful in this ornately decorated, cramped, completely foreign, totally dark house in my giant work boots, many backpacks, and cellphone flashlight. I make it to my room, breathe a sigh of relief, and in the silence of the house hear the faintest of footsteps on the carpet.
Freddy? I ask to the darkness.
The lights come on as a black cat with two white whiskers chirps at me, purring.
Welcome.