The One With My Jewish Canadian Writers Class

I love you. You have been my favourite class ever ever in my whole life.

Assorted moments from class.

And now you're all over. Amazing prof, wonderful people - Samantha Colley you really are my favourite Canadian!

My favourite Canadian.

The thing with the British education system is it sucks out the very concept of knowledge just for the sake of knowledge, learning just for the very joy of learning. This class has re-ingited a passion for learning.

Possibly the piece of work I'm most proud of.

One of those once-in-a-lifetime things, thanks to my third year abroad.

The One Where Snow Is Falling

Look what's come to Ottawa!

 

 

(Prepare for imminent blog post titled 'The One Where I Slip on Ice and Break my Neck and End Up in a Canadian A&E).

 

Look at me all happy in the snow!

 

The One With My 21st Birthday

Birthday cake!

21/11/12. What a date, what a date. Not only was it a pallindrome, it was also my birthday, my 21st birthday to be precise. To Canadians, the 21st birthday means diddly squat, but it's a big deal in the UK and I was determined to make the most of it. Thanks to some incredible friends, it was a wonderful wonderful time.

You know you're old when you have to buy your own birthday cake, but I think I may have had the absolute best cake of my life. Loblaws did me proud. It was gorgeous and moist and chocolatey and there was fondant and sugar flowers and it was wonderful. Although, the waitress in Royal Oak did give me, Gabby and Lydia weird looks like she though we were going to eat the entire thing ourselves. Whilst that would have been well within our eating abilities, we only had a slice each - how restrained are we?



Cooper cuddles!

I guess 8.30am-8.30pm classes aren't the way many people would choose to celebrate their birthday, but those are my two favourite classes, and they have some of my favourite people in them, which was utterly joyous. In Jewish Lit, I shared around the cake, complete with Prof Mayne disappearing off to get napkins and forks. He didn't bring back the bottle of champagne in his office though, I'm obviously not his favourite student that much! Being in a billingual institution, I got sung two verses of Happy Birthday, one in English and one in French. It was glorious!

The day after was just an extension of my birthday. It began with cake for breakfast, which is always a bonus. I then got to spend the late afternoon with my favourite Canadian ever, Cooper the puppy and his owner, Sam. Okay, so Sam and Cooper might tie for favourite Canadian...Sam had even decorated her apartment in balloons and birthday banners and it was so heart-warming! Love her! Then we had a re-match of Disney Scene It 2, and this time she beat my ass big time. She wouldn't even let me have the birthday treat of winning. But I did get lots of Cooper cuddles!



Baby Jesus!

In the evening, I went to Zak's (obviously) for a birthday celebration. Team Exeter was complete with the wonderful addition of Jon; my favourite Dutch people in the world, Lisanne and Yvet came, as did Lihan AND we were joined by Emma. Emma I haven't seen since I was six and she was eight. We went to primary school and church together before she moved out to Montreal and it was so good to see her! But also so bizarre to hear her speak with a Canadian accent! Anyway, the evening was more than wonderful. People were so generous with their time and humour and cards and gifts and I felt thoroughly spoilt. Massive amount of love for the make-your-own Nativity set from the Dutch Posse, including the best picture of baby Jesus I have ever seen in my life.

Best birthday ever? I don't just think so, I know so.



Joy.

The One Where Santa Claus Comes To O-Town

It's winter, I'm in Canada, and yet I'm still in no coat and my tights and flats combo. Go figure. The Canadians, I have discovered, have been telling porky pies about them being hardy for the cold. Whilst they're all wrapped up warm, I'm basking in the 8 degrees C and loving coat-less and boot-less life! But, with winter comes Christmas! And Ottawa has gone a little bit Christmas crazy. First of all, Santa is now settled in the Rideau Centre every weekend for the forseeable future. I had to go for a compromise between social convention and my intimate desire when it came to Rideau Centre Santa. Social convention dictates that, age 20, it's not ok to go sit on Santa's lap and have a photot taken. But I like Santa, and he didn't set my dodgy-old-man radar off, so I wanted a picture with him. In the end, I went for the sneaky I've got an iPhone that I'm just holding up in the direction of something. Fortunately, Santa saw and gave a litte wave! See, Santa is great!

Santa!

The Rideau Centre fun was not over with Santa. Oh no. The food court is an interesting place; it's super-crowded and a haven for slightly dodgy, definitely-stodgy fast food, including a KFC which sells poutine. One of the problems with going on a Saturday is that it's impossible to get a seat, which means having to irritate the lone people taking up a whole table, and asking to sit there whilst just sitting and not taking no for an answer. So Team Exeter are chatting about life over dinner whilst this woman sits sulkily on her own, texting. Anyway, I say something about my period. This lone woman puts down her phone, gives me the dirtiest look I have ever seen, and then skulks off. So, if you ever find yourself trying to get rid of somebody, just start talking about your period. (This may not work for men).

I went to see Skyfall which was amazing - and my first ever Bond film. Daniel Craig's torso is a delight. Killing Judi Dench was not cool. I got very British in the cinema afterwards, bleeting on about how it must be some kind of capital crime to kill Judi Dench and all the Canadians thought I was adorable.

Didn't you get the memo?

Intro to Ab Soc this week has shown what may well have been an Inuit porn film, complete with an Inuit throat singing soundtrack. Turns out that groceries in Nunavut are extortionate. Like $80 for diapers extortionate. We also watched a mocumentary by an Inuit group which included the great conversation: "Does he walk fast?" "He walks fast because he's always late." You may have needed to be there. Yvet and I also played the "didn't you get the memo? Don't be so touristy!" gag in our uOttawa stash.

Christina turned up to Women in North American Christianity with ice cream, again. Love that girl! She then continued to abuse me in the Ressa meeting, voting against me in the ratification ceremony. So mean, so mean. I'm gonna have to get all colonial on her ass!

And, I am now coursework free for 2012! Thank goodness, I can't take much more of research when all the books use the bloody Oxford comma.

Loving life.

Yes it does.

 

The One With A Letter To Synod

You will hear many different opinions today and in the coming weeks and years about women bishops and today's vote by the General Synod. For the women who seek the, what I think is, a God-given right to be ordained bishop, there will be many many blogs reflecting on today. They shall be far more eloquent and humble and lack the typos I am renowned for, but here are my thoughts on today and its implications.

In terms of Christian journey, I am indebted to some of the mostly godly men I know: Hugh Boorman, Vaughn Lawfull, Larry Kavanagh, Gareth Wilde, Mike Pilavachi and a whole host of male clergy and Christians on Twitter. These people are the ones who first gave me the opportunities to preach in church and are the ones who send thousands of prayers up for me when I worry about who on earth I am to be speaking up in church.

As part of the Ladygrove Church in Didcot, Oxfordshire, I feel so blessed to have been brought up in a church where Spirit-led women leaders and preachers was not debated but lived. Consequently, I have in my 20 years of church-going, seen women used by God to bring healing and salvation on a massive scale.

Upon going to university, I first encountered Christians who held the opposing view of women in the church, to me. As a theology undergraduate, I encountered male students who scoff at my degree because of my gender, and because it is at a "normal" university as opposed to a theological college. Within the Christian Union, a university society, I witnessed leadership-gifted women sidelined by the belief that they were somehow inferior, and that this was a biblical truth.

I'm not going to get into Bible debates here.

I realised at the conclusion of my first year at university, that part of the very essence of who I am as a Christian had been effectively suffocated by my church/CU situation at university. Suddenly I had become meek and mild and too afraid to challenge "the big boys" who were "theologically sound." At a church weekend away, a third year student said to me, 'I just couldn't take a woman preacher seriously.' And I, to my shame, said nothing, I just smiled.

In second year, I developed a reputation for being...gobby. I break the mold of that perfect Christian girl and challenged the guys on what I saw as misogyny being passed off as theology. It didn't get me any friends, it got me a repuation; it got me the butt of jokes about rebuking and what have you.

If you follow me on Twitter then you know that I make jokes all the time about how people assume I'm going to be ordained and that I'm trying to avoid it. The thing is, God has threatened me with ordination. (Potentially wrong word choice there!) God has made it really quite clear that he's given me a gab for a reason, and it is for his use. But that gifting isn't acknowledged by the majority of Christians I know. It's frustrating and it's humbling and it really really hurts.

I thought the vote today would be a yes. Not out of arrogance but because I couldn't see how anyone could ignore women who have been so obviously called. I love the Church of England, which is why I think it just hurts so much right now that the church I love doesn't believe in me. That the church which contains the first men to affirm me as a person is the same church which has wounded me so much.

Because God, in his infinite wisdom, has given me a heart of the women of today; the ones like me who've endured utter rubbish. God has given me a divine kick up the backside to bring restoration and healing in His name to a hurting and broken generation.

Today, I've discovered that it's not just my generation of women God wants me to take the good news to. It's to the phenomenal women priests of today whose dog collars have just been spat on by Synod. To my generation of Christian girls: our female inspirations and affirmers need us to keep on fighting for restoration in Jesus' name.

Today's vote won't get rid of me from the Church of England. I love it too darn much, because I love a God who's made me, ordained me, that way.

Synod's decision wasn't a great 21st Birthday present for me.

The One With A Visit To Ottawa Police Station

uOttawa Protection Services.

What an ominous title...There's a great Twitter hashtag doing the rounds at the moment: #YOHOYA. It's like YOLO for year abroad-ers and it stands for You Only Have One Year Abroad. With that slogan, us year abroad-ers are officially given license to do as many crazy and weird and unique things as humanly possible on our years abroad. But I don't imagine that when this philosophy came into inception, that spending a Friday night in a police station was quite what it meant.

Now, I'm not going to go into details, but I do have permission to blog about this, fear not. Basically, a friend of mine was assaulted. First of all, we went to the Protection Services at uOttawa which is the kind of Exeter Estate Patrol equivalent. After the supreme bravery of my friend in giving a statement to protection, we were then advised to go to the police. Thanks for the life, Protection. Oh no wait, you didn't give us one.



Police Station.

So it's Friday night and we're at Ottawa Police Station. Get this: you have to use a touch screen application to alert them of your presence and the nature of your visit. Yes, that means that if you turn up to report a sexual assault, you have to select that option on a computer screen. What. The. Hell? To make matters worse, my friend then had to recount the entire story again in front of the entire waiting room so that the person behind the counter could deal with her report. BUT, after telling him that Protection had told her to come to the Police, this guy then said he couldn't do anything without the statement she made first to Protection.

Back in the taxi we hop, back to Protection. Protection can't hand over the statement to the police without having a case number from the police. My friend then calls the police; but they have no record of the visit because they couldn't complete a report without having the initial statement. So now, my friend is caught between a rock and a hard place. Protection can't hand over her statement without a case number from the police and the police won't give a case number without the initial statement.

Bloody ticket machine.

Meanwhile, how many thousands of, sorry to generalize, women are being assaulted every single sodding day and then the police have the audacity to urge women to step forward and report it? Why should they report it when you don't care? When you put them through the humiliation of selecting 'sexual assault' on a computer screen? When you make them live the experience in front of everyone else in the waiting room? And when you won't then do anything about it?

Bloody hell, thank goodness my friend is strong enough that the actions of the Police haven't completely destroyed her after what happened on Wednesday night. Thank goodness she was able to confide in me and have someone to accompany her to the police station and tell her chicken anti-jokes. The whole situation has royally hacked me off. It's abominable the way my friend has been treated and I am furious. As someone who has been sexually assaulted (thank you Exeter FC fan for groping my breasts and giving my vagina a squeeze), it winds me right up that still the police could be so incompetent and insensitive. She wasn't reporting a missing cat, she was reporting a situation which, had she not been skilled in self defense, could have ended fatally. Moreover, how many women have been pulled into vans and then, y'know, murdered?

Turns out that injustice against women truly is a universal problem. Sort it out, Ottawa. Sort it out, World. I've had enough. My friend has had enough. Every single woman I know has had enough. Violence against women in abhorrent; it's unacceptable. And we can do something about it if every case is treated by Police with the severity and respect it deserves.

The One With An Ode To Zak's Diner

Wearing Ottawa across my heart.

In the past three days, I've written something like 10,023 words for two research papers, one on Kateri Tekakwitha and the other on Canada's response to Jews in World War Two. I really hope my prof isn't feeling too patriotic when she grades the latter one...Sorry, Canada, I do love you really. But only letting 5000 Jews into Canada throughout the whole of the Second World War, seriously? You had so much space you could have done so much good with!

Library sign fills me with rage.

Apart from discovering that Canada's historical closest is full of Jewish-shaped skeletons, contemporary Canada has a serious issue with stationery. Back in Exeter, Didcot - anywhere I go in England, I am able to own a decent hole punch and stapler, no problem. Not too big that you can't cart it around, but not too small that you can punch or staple anything without shattering your wrist in the process. I've been in Canada for over ten weeks now, and I am still yet to find a normal, simple hole punch. I've looked in every stationery aisle of every single store in Ottawa and Toronto, and I have only found a store selling hole punchers once - and it sold $50 industrial ones. What's more, I can't tell you the sheer number of Canadians I've asked for help in my quest for stationery, who just don't get what I'm on about. I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that normal-sized holed punchers just have not reached Canada yet. Don't even get me started on staplers. I bought this crappy small thing which doesn't know how to staple and probably couldn't attach thin sheets of paper together if its (inanimate) life depended on it. Yes, moving to another country was always going to throw up different ways of doing things, but stationery? Isn't stationery a universal need? CANADA: WHERE THE HECK IS YOUR NORMAL SIZED, FUNCTIONING STATIONERY?

I've got a chip on my shoulder.

As for Canadian wall tack...well, it's flipping well useless. Other useless Canadian things include my shoes bought less than a month ago from the Giant Tiger Store which have disintergrated and left me walking around campus with toes peeping out the front of the shoe. It wouldn't have been so bad if my tights didn't have holes in the toes. Can you tell it's been research paper deadline week? (It's also been womb lining expulsion week, but I didn't want to gross out any of my male readers...damn, periods suck in Canada when you can't console yourself with Chocolate because Canadian Cadbury's tastes like cardboard).

My doodles.

Shopping in general has been weird this week. The over-friendly guy in Mac's thinks I'm from Switzerland, and no matter how hard I try, I just can't convince him otherwise. Meanwhile, the univeristy bookstore is playing Christmas music. This would be wonderful if it wasn't a collection of dodgy covers. But, I am now proudly flaunting my "school spirit" in a uOttawa hoody. Represent. I am also displaying the remnants of a black eye after being hit in the face with an iPad. Yes, my iPad means I need an eyePatch. Punilicious. Word of advice: don't balance an iPad on your tits, it's not a stable surface, and when it falls, it hits you really hard in the face.

Sam's doodles.

Two Canadian friends in particular have been absolute gems this week. The first in Michael the autistic library worker who can't lie and knows a lot about geography. I will too by the end of the year. Also, he knows that I always go for the same seat and usually at the same time, and  he says he'll save it for me. Whilst this is brilliant, (I'm quite territorial over library seats), it does mean that I now have to go to the library each and every Saturday for fear of upsetting Michael. Then, in Jewish Canadian Writers, Sam and I had a doodle-off. I totes won.

Feminst Prof Anderson is officially my hero. Not only did she describe Chinese religions by comparing them to different times of underwear - Daoism is boxers, Confucionism is corsets - but she also had a massive rant about why should she have to do the housework in preparation for her in-laws descending on her house? To quote: "I have a PhD, why do I have to vacuum?"

And Zak's, oh Zak's Diner. Here is my love song to you.

An Ode to Zak's Diner

Zak, of Zak, I love you so,

Just how much, you will never know.

Your soda on tap fills me with delight,

And your 24-hour opening means I never have to fight

My hunger pangs, and cravings for a burger.

Speaking of which, a Banquet Speical I could murder.

The water without asking is brought with a smile,

I tip you without fail for your service goes the extra mile.

You cater to my every need,

Your only desire is to feed

Me and my friends, you think our Britishness is quaint.

Quick - bring me a deep fried Mars Bar, I'm feeling quite faint!

From your burgers and sauces and well-seasoned fries,

The complentary buble gum is a delightful surprise.

Oh Zak, what will I do without you, I do not know.

I guess, Canada, Zak, I'll just never go.

Copyright Sleek HB Pencil.

Blog post dedicated to Charlotte Knipe.

The One With Mission Moose-Stealer

With bears it's safe to cuddle.

When you think of Canada, you think of three things: maple, Mounties and moose...meese...mooses, or whatever the plural of 'moose' is. Well, on Saturday, I saw my first ever moose and Mission Moose-Stealer was officially a-go! Parc Omega is a Canadian safari-esque experience about an hour or so away from Ottawa, near Montebello in Quebec. Upon first getting the Facebook invitation to go, I frantically thumped Gabby in the arm as we were in the library and it is generally frowned upon to emit loud, high-pitched sqeals. Mind you, it's also socially unacceptable to eat crips in the library, but I laugh in the face of danger, like animated lion cubs in Disney epics. The problem with events run by uOttawa's International Office, is that they are massively over-subscribed, which inevitably leads to tickets being sold out within hours and then much whining ensues on the Facebook group about how desperate they are to go and how 'it is their only chance to see these kind of animals.' Well, it is all our only chance to see these animals. I know there aren't many moose a-wandering around Brazil, but there aren't that many in Blighty either. To quote Tina Fey, 'suck it.'

Sexy the wapiti.

Probably the best part of Parc Omega is that you get to feed some of the animals carrots as you travel around in your vehicle. Now, I don't know whether you've ever tried to feed a wapiti out of a North American school bus, but it is a challenge and a half. First of all, to prevent moronic parents suing the school bus company if their obnoxious child chooses to jump out of bus window, the windows only open a tiny bit, and right at the top part of the window. This meant that if you were short, you basically couldn't feed any of the animals. And if you were of awkward height, like myself, it meants constantly slamming my head against the ceiling and slicing my armpit open as I tried to get my carrot to reach various deer and wapitis. The wild boar just got carrots thrown at them. Not that I was playing target practice, but quite a few got carrots bouncing off the old boar bottom...



After a while, the novelty of deer wandering passed my window wore off. I mean, we have deer in the UK. Granted, they are usually dead by the side of the McDonalds off the Milton Interchange of the A34, and don't look like they've just leapt straight out of 'Bambi' but still, you can only see so many deer. There were wapitis. Yeah, I had to Google them before I went to the parc because I didn't know what they were. I still don't. I think they're glorified deer. They're bigger, have bigger antlers. The most impressive wapiti in the parc is called Sexy. Yes, Sexy. Have you ever looked at a deer-like creature and thought, 'you are one sexy beast?' After 'Bambi' is it even possible to think of a deer being sexy? There's a reason why there is no Bambi porn movie. Have you ever heard of sexual fetishes involving antlers? Sexy the wapiti isn't what I'd call sexy, but then again, I'm not tempted by bestiality. Another issue I have with naming a wapiti Sexy, is that it is really rather unfair on the other wapitis. (Note to self: find out what the plural of wapiti is). Just because their antlers aren't as big doesn't mean they're not sexy. It's just promoting unhealthy body image amongst the wapiti community. And it's just not on.



There were beaver dams. There were no beavers. I swear, the presence of beavers in Canada is a complete and utter fabrication. There were Canada geese. There were chipmunks. There were black squirrels. The Dutch and Aussies went mental at this point as, apparently, Holland and Australia don't have squirrels. Please, take our grey ones! And there were wild boar which made me think of Pumba, and then I remembered that was set in a completely different continent and with a completely different species of animal. Got to admit though, baby wild boars are cute!

Too cute!

Just not as cute as artic foxes. These must be the most adorable and the most fluffy animals to have ever roamed God's wonderful earth. It was, er, so fluffy I could die. I've asked the mother if I could have one for Christmas, but the spoilsport that she is, she replied in the negative. What is it with small, fluffy animals? Can you imagine the population problem if babies were small and fluffy? Boy, it would tempt this unmarried woman to pre-marital breeding. I should get a puppy to keep me occupied.

Parc Omega contains one of the most beautiful cliches known to man: the lone wolf. There is a lone wolf. He's old and the rest of his pack died, so now he's living out his last days in solitude, metres away from a herd of bison with just a metal gate protecting him. But I'm sure he's endowed with many of the qualities associated with lone wolves, namely an inate sociopathy.

Chilling with Bambi.

There was one point on the safari when we were let loose from the bus and allowed to go feed some animals in a way that didn't kill our limbs. It was more deer. As if we hadn't fed enough sodding deer by that point. Yet, the photos betray me, as they show my face full of pure joy at feeding a deer a gross carrot from LobLaws. I kept reffering to all the deer I tried to coax my way as 'Bambi.' What else would you call a deer? I also discovered that my talking-to-deer voice is the same as my talking-to-babies voice which I used at St Len's creche last year. In other words, I talk to the 18 month old daughter of two Oxford graduates the same way I talk to a Canadian deer.

A bit too close for comfort.

One of my major character flaws upon being in the presence of animals, is recounting tales of the animals I have eaten. This happened upon seeing the bison. Shockingly, we weren't allowed to feed them because they would ram the bus, killing us all and I don't think my insurance covers me for bison attacks in Quebec. Bison is tasty. Massive heffing bison standing in front of your bus is annoying. Have you ever tried to get a 7000 pound bison to move without making it want to kill you? It's a challenge.



Where still the mighty moose wanders at will?

My favourite song, my favourite even above any Shania Twain song, is 'Land of the Silver Birch' which features the line 'where still the mighty moose wanders at will.' Well, I've been waiting my whole life for this image to be fulfilled. And it was - ish. Fog the moose, (named thus because it was foggy the day he arrived), is a lazy moose. There was no mightiness, and certainly no wandering. He just lay on the ground. To be fair, he's probably suffering from depression and seasonal affective disorder as the name Fog confers upon him. (I'm an expert in moose mental health.) I was tempted to steal him, but he had a goat for a body guard (no joke), called Copine or Friend. Why? Because Fog is an orphan so they felt he needed a friend, and they got a goat and just named him according to his purpose. Now, if we all did that, my name would me Keep Me In The Retirement I Want To Become Accustomed To. I can't help but feel a little bit dejected about the whole moose thing. I don't want to steal a grump moose, I want a mighty moose like in the song!



Hey cutie!

I also want a black bear. But a domesticated one that won't rip my head off when I cuddle it. From the safety of the bus, I auditioned the black bears at Parc Omega, but they were all just a tad too violent when meat was thrown their way. They may look cute and cuddly, but post-mortem photos after being mauled by one won't look so adorable. That's the problem with nature, you want to cuddle them and they want to kill you. Unless you're a hunter, in which case it's the other way round.

Other animals included one coyote; arctic wolves, alpine ibeks and more and more deer/wapiti/wild boar. There were also two baby moose. They also didn't look mighty or wandering, but give it a few months, and I may return and see if they are ready to fulfill my childish need to have some folk song become a reality. I think I need to head West for this mission!

Mission Moose-Stealer is still in operation. And as for you, beaver population of Canada, I will find you before the year is out.

The One With A Canadian Euphemism.

Picture this: I'm in Morisset Library, where I have temporarily moved in. I'm on the Second Floor so I am in easy distance of my new best friend, the library fines lady, and Second Cup and its brownies are just seconds away. I'm not in my favourite seat, but it's ok, because I've spread my stuff out in such a way that it sends a strong signal along the lines of, you can sit in one of the three other seats around this desk, but if you do, I will rip off both your arms and beat you with them. I digress. I'm studying hard on Kateri Tekakwitha, when I turn the page in one of the books to find this chapter:

It's either an essay on a native woman who married a French fur trader; or an erotic novel referencing either lesbianism, bestiality or both. I think it's the latter.

The One Where Your Stupidity Offends Me

I know what you're thinking, but no, this isn't going to be a post on my Religion and Culture class.

Do you remember way back when, when I went to an event styled as a comedy evening, but was actually a weird, short man giving terrible relationship advice and not having the awareness to understand when something is a joke question? Well, the uOttawa community life people service thing, ran another event billed as a comedy evening, and Gabby and I went to go check it out. First off though, Gabby and I went for dinner at the Royal Oak. It's like the Impy in Exeter but smaller and without toffee apple cider. Our food took nearly an hour to arrive, due in no small part, I imagine, to Gabby nearly killing the waiter with her ginormous bag.

Fortunately, the evening's event did turn out to be a comedy evening. There were two comedians: a warm-up guy called Danny who was Jewish and was consequently justified in making lots of Jewish jokes including this beautiful one where he compared Jews to antelope. The gist is that whenever you watch a nature documentary and it mentions an antelope, you know something bad is going to happen to the antelope. In the same way, whenever you read about the Jews in history, you know something bad is going to happen.



Our headliner was one Steve Hoffstetter, who is well worth checking out on good old YouTube. He started off my saying that it was a great time for him to visit Canada, because he figured that, if Mitt Romney had won the election, he could just hide in Canada until it was all over. I got to do my first ever heckle (and won) after Hoffstetter made a joke about the Queen and I replied. It was a moment of utter affirmation of my Britishness and I expect an MBE at least in the Queen's New Year Honours List. Anyway, at the end, he was selling t-shirts with various slogans on, including "your stupidity offends me" which Gabby and I both bought and then proceded to act stupidly whilst wearing them.  Because why act your age when you can behave like a small child?

Anyway, here's uOttawa trying to be funny about sexual health, but coming across as slightly predatory.

The One Where "You Need To Let Me Off The Bus!"

Salt and pepper in light bulbs? Genius.

Since the beginning of time (slight exageration), I have been dying (again, slight exageration), to go to Ottawa's The Works Burger. I didn't know anything about it, other than it's not in the Downtown area and it sells burgers, but I just knew of the legend of The Works.

Well friends, on Friday night, I got to go to The Works. Myself, Gabby, Claire, Amy and Lydia got to experience the actual joy of waiting ages in the freezing cold for a bus to come along. Our resident Canadians, Claire and Amy, did warn us that public transport in Canada is a bit of a nuisance. But that's ok, that means it's just like home...In the time we waited, supposedly three buses should have arrived, and we did consider sacking off the standing around in the cold and just walking to The Works. With hindsight, I really really wish we had gone for that option.



After my first experience with Canadian buses, I sincerely hope that it shall be my last. Once the bus arrived, then did the problems begin. Firstly, the bus driver doesn't take your money, you just have to drop it into a box with a small slit. This means that if you don't have any change on you - you can guess where this is going - you lose all your money because you're screwed if you've not put in exactly $3.30. Well that's $1.70 I'm never going to get back. As I tearfully (not as slight an exageration as earlier), parted with my crisp $5, the bus journey went from bad to worse and the malevolent bus driver jerkily drove off whilst I was still trying to get to my seat.

The worse was yet to come.

We shouldn't have had the Canadians sit behind us. Not only did we not realise it was our stop, to be fair, they didn't tell us, but then as everybody else saw the side door to the bus and got off there, I went for the front door. Then the doors slammed shut. The rest is a bit of a blur, but I am reliably informed that I then hammered on the door, yelling "you need to let me off the bus!" This went on for an agonising five minutes. And all that time, I just kept hammering and crying, "let me off the bus!" Finally, she let me off the bus. All of my "friends" found the whole thing hilarious. I beg to differ. It was traumatising and now, even the sight of an OC Transpo bus in the distance sparks a panic attack. The experience will haunt me until the day I die.

Best name ever for a salad.

Fortunately, The Works made everything better.  Ordering at The Works is an overwhelming experience. There are five steps: meat, filling, side, bread and extras. If you're interested, I went for chicken, Ho Hum #5, brocoli, wholeweat and no extras. Kudos to whoever wrote the menu for giving everything pun-tastic names, such as the salad side: leafing on a jet plane. Someone give that person a job in TV.

Other great parts about The Works include drinks served in measuring jobs. It's a somewhat unnerving experience, drinking Diet Coke out of the same kind of jug which your mum makes gravy in. Our server was enchanted by my English accent and we had a little chat about Tunbridge Wells. We even shared some banter about how snobbish people from that place are. (Not you, Jess Maunder, you're a wonder.)

Soon to be added to!

As we finished our meal, my heart started to race, and my palms secreted more sweat than an X Factor contestant excretes tears. The bus ride was imminent. However, my mental wellbeing was saved by Amy who suggested we go for gelato, which meant we got to avoid the bus. The gelato place was what I imagine Heaven to be like: white, clean and with a lot of chocolate strawberry gelato. There were so many different flavours - seriously, Canada, what is with the peanut butter gelato? But I have an addition to Rose's strawberry dreams, hence the decision to go for chocoalte strawberry. It was the best decision I have ever made, second only to the decision to go to Canada. And it more than made up for the earlier trauma of the evening with the bus.

The problem with the gelato was the resulting sugar high. And the fact that it sparked off the hiccoughs, which everyone else found hilarious as my hiccoughs resemble the noise made my frogs near loudspeakers. As we crossed a bridge over the Rideau Canal to head back onto campus, I had to let out an audible gasp at the beauty of Ottawa at night. Attached to the bridge were lots of padlocks, mainly locked there by couples, and quite a few of them were engraved with names and love hearts. Right there and then, Team Exeter resolved to leave one there at the end of the year, to attach ourselves to Ottawa forever.

Thank goodness I was let off the bus.

The One About Akwesasne

Excited foreigners.

Since as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to visit an Indian reserve. (Please note, I am using Indian as the correct, legal term and not as the racist ethnic term.) On Wednesday, I was fortunate enough to finally get to visit one, thanks to my Introduction to Aboriginal Societies and Cultures class. Prof Sioui did choose what must have been the coldest day of the year to go, admittedly I didn't help matters by not drying my hair before leaving the house and some horrendously early time in the morning, and ended up with actual, tangible icicles in my hair, which Yvet and Prod Sioui found hilarious.

Please let us in!

What can I say about Prof Sioui? I can tell you that he is from the Huron-Wendat, he's forever getting arrested by the Quebec government even though he's in the right and he is a phenomenal writer and advocate of First Nations rights. Moreover, he is the kindest, gentlest soul you will ever meet, who is deeply moved by his students showing an interest in his people. But he does speak like an injured person, the very tone of his voice and his eyes are a testament to the appalling treatment meted out to him in his life. He was brought up on a poor reservation, taught degrading and inaccurate history of his relatives and is forced to carry a card to prove his DNA. The more I learn about the indigenous people of the world, the more I am sickened by the actions of the people whose skin colour I have inherited. When did the white man lose our compassion?

Hey Akwesasne.

Aside from Prof, the other hero of the day was our bus driver, Darlene, this amazing older woman who is like a foul-mouthed yet loving grandmother. One thing the journey demonstrated, was that Canada sure does need to invest more in its roads as the sheer number of potholes on our two-hour trip nearly reaquainted me with my breakfast. The trip involved crossing the US/Canada border, and, as a result, myself, Yvet and Angelique had to play the role of the irritating forgeigners who held the entire class up as we were interrogated by US border officials. I have never seen my passport be so violently stamped.

Road signs in Mohawk.

Akwesasne is tangible proof of this idiocy and inhumanity of white people. Despite the fact there was an enormous patch of Indian land in the way, Canada and US drew the border right through Indian territory, thinking that the people who lived there would die out pretty quickly. Consequently, the people of Akwesasne are torn between New York State and the provinces of Ontario and Quebec. This means that whilst your next door neighbour can send their kid to a New York school board, they can't get free healthcare. And you may have a Quebec postcode, but an Ontario phone number. It also means that you can walk five minutes down the street and incur the most extortionate roaming charges from your cell phone company because you have to cross into a different country, despite staying in the same town. Other knock on effects are the sheer amount of time it takes to actually get anywhere, because you have to factor in going to each new place via the border control office. This means that a five year old from Akwesasne will have done more international travelling than a Canadian will do in their entire long lifetime. It is actually absurd.

Revealing tensions.

Yet, it is how they have to live. It is hard to do justice to the people of Akwesasne without coming across as condescening, and yet, I have to be honest and admit that the problems most commonly associated with the indigenous peoples of North America, are prevelant in Akwesasne. It is common to see signs which prohibit drugs and alcohol, and signs which beg people to try to raise a smoke-free generation. However, you turn a corner and there is billboard after billboard promoting tabacco. HIV-AIDS is a huge problem, and whilst there may be jokes made out Indians and gambling, it is actually no laughing matter. It is a huge social problem in Akwesasne. In fact, the director of education for some of the schools in Askwesasne is not allowed to schedule anything for Tuesdays after school because it is Radio Bingo night, and he knows that he will get  no parents to any meeting or event when there is gambling to be done. It is a sorry state of affairs.

Dream catchers.

A few weeks back, the Daily Fail, also known as that piece of gekko excrement, the Daily Mail, ran an article about a reservation in Wisconsin, I think, where its members had been banned from drinking by their chiefs, only to travel several miles beyond the border of their land to buy alcohol. The reader comments were abhorrent to look at; effectively, they were all blaming the Native Americans themselves for their social predicament. Let me tell you, Daily Mail readers, it was your gross ancestors who brought the AIDS and the alcohol to the Americas. How do you like them apples?

The great story teller!

The reserve bears the marks of its poverty. Many of the buildings are pretty basic and quite a few of the houses are in various delapedated states. But, the tour guides and speakers we had just go to show the dedication within the community to turn their fortunes around and to dispell the damaging myths of the Disney-fied portrayal of the indigenous Americas we have been spoon-fed. The director of education who gave us a talk is an amazing man, who should be commended for the work he is doing for the young people of Akwesasne, including having a program designed to get people back into education.

The scarily high bridge the people of Akwesasne hate.

One of the highlights of the day was the aforementioned director of education teaching us how to say 'shit' and 'genitals' in Mohawk, as well as informing us that if you don't accent a word properly, you end up saying the wrong thing. You must be very careful how you pronounce 'groceries' because otherwise you will tell people to put their 'arse' in the fridge. You have been warned! Another highlight was being told the Mohawk creation story by a man in traditional Mohawk atire. I think he embelleshed the story somewhat, but the effects were hilarious. We finished the day by holding hands in a circle and dancing around. I say dancing, in actual fact we just awkwardly walked whilst the people who knew what they were doing did the proper shuffle dance.

It was days like this that made me want to study abroad, and that make me so passionate about the third year abroad experience. I know that many language learning abroaders will scoff at me for going abroad to an English-speaking country, but Canada really is such a different place, such a different culture and the opportunity to engage with people from its First Nations has been my utter privilege. My trip to Akwesasne was an opportunity to have an intimate insight into one of the oldest civilisations in the world, and I feel so unbelievably lucky to have had such an experience.

I love my life out here. I love the people I've met and the things I've seen and I just feel so lucky to be here.

The One With Presidential Elections and Bra Experiements

Canada: America, but better.

Canada - it's like America, just smaller and slightly less obnoxious. (To all my Canadian readers I am, of course, joking. Ish...). Anyway, the US Presidential Election did have a profound importance for Canada, as the two countries have such a complex relationship. It's hard to say who my Canadian friends, and who the general mood of the country, seemed to be rooting for. They currently have a Conservative government, led by Stephen Harper, and yet, they absolutely hate him, hence a bit of Canadian-Obama loving. Chatting with one of my professors yesterday, who is a Canadian First Nations (Huron-Wendat), he was so pleased that Obama won and expressed to me his concern about the increasing prominence of the right-wing in Canada, and how detrimental it is to human rights. Yes, the First Nations, Metis and Inuits are humans with rights.

My productive library time.

Now, for those of you who don't know me, let me tell you that I have enormous boobs. They're not as massive and weird as those plastic monstrosities the likes of Katie Price try to cart around, but compared to my irritatingly skinny friends, they're enormous. I could probably sustain an entire village of children from them.

This morning, I figured I would experiment, and see what would happen if I wore two bras. Now, this was, in hindsight, never going to go that well. The main reason for this is that I need to go bra shopping because my bras are at least one cup size too small for my, as Beyonce would say, jelly. With much much difficultyand pain for my arthritic wrists, I just managed to pour myself into a second bra. What can I say? My boobs looked enormous. I grabbed my bag, locked my room and went to leave for uni. Now, the front of my house as some glass doors, which are always left slightly ajar so that you can squeeze through them sideways if you're too lazy to actually pull them open. I am one of those too lazy people. So, I turn to the side, go to slip through, catch my tits on the door, try to pull myself through harder, then fall out of the door right in front of passers by.

The moral of the story: I do not have the spacial awareness to be any bustier than I am already blessed with.

The One With Hurricane Sandy



I remember checking the British Consulate's advice page for people travelling to Canada before I left here. In order of seriousness and likelyhood, it listed terrorism, winter and animals. I wasn't too concerned. I mean, Canada has managed to piss off Iran a bit since I've been here, (smooth, Canada, real smooth), but I figured I'd be relatively safe.

And then there was Hurricane Sandy. Now, Ottawa wasn't really badly affected by her. In fact, it just rained and was windy. Still, it did warrant a red alert email from my travel insurance providers and a note of concern from Anne Worth. Anyway, it's over now and I've survived by first hurricane. Not that I ever really had anything to survive in the end because it petered out before it got here...

This week:



A professor with laryngitis meant the joy that is the postgrad student teacher. (Read absolute pain in the arse for joy). Aforementioned prof did, however, so a seal impression. I swear she's like an un-Hollywood Tina Fey. Jewish Lit. class descended into biblical joke telling and I rocked out the classic constipated men of the Bible joke. Lydia and I ate ice cream straight from the tub and watched 'Bridesmaids' and the infinite number of cute puppies made my ovaries ache. Team Exeter went to Zak's. Again. And we had banter with the waitress over deep fried mars bars. In the two months I've been in Canada, I've eaten more of those calorific bad boys than I have in my entire life previously. They're so good. Although if I have a post mortem in the near future, they will be listed as my cause of death.

Yes, it was hard to take her seriously.

Hallowe'en also happened. Dear Canada, dressing up in full-on costumes for a made-up day celebrating nothing but tacky commercialisation and total greed is not socially acceptable. I mean, who goes to class with a face made up to look like a cross between a leper and Voldemort caught in a deep fat fryer? I'll tell you who: the girl in my Jewish Lit. class who gave a presenation dressed as a Mexican Day of the Dead mask. Facepalm.

Rolling home from Zak's, we became aware of a British voice behind us. Being the shy, retiring person that I am, I immediately turned round and called out the Brit. He responded with utter sarcasm that it was a Canadian accent and he was from Prince Edward Island, until his lovely (Canadian) friend told him to stop being such an idiot. Anyway, he's a postgrad from Sussex. He wanted to know what we were doing in this "Godforsaken place studying at a Godforsaken uni." Charming Brit. Mind you, we then found out he did his undergrad at Plymouth. I'm surprised he even admitted such a thing. I wouldn't. I'd be mortified if I had gone to Plymouth. No degree is better than a degree from Plymouth. #ExeterstudentshatePlymouthstudents.



Now, I do have some complaints to make about Exeter. Their lack of communication is staggering for what is otherwise such a well-organised university. Obviously, I don't want to slag off the university I adore completely and utterly, but this week, they have been anything but rosy and delightful. I cried writing an email to my head of department. I actually cried.

uOttawa's certainly not perfect either though. Their refusal to open their library at weekends before 10am is utterly ridiculous. You shouldn't have to queue to get in to the library if you're a student! 10am is too late, at least open at 9, preferably at 8. I'm aware this makes me sound like a total geek, but not opening until 10 really cuts into a morning of work.

Whales, in a cinema.

Team Exeter - which now includes Lydia's housemate Collome - went to see The Perks of Being a Wallflower this evening. For some reason, the cinema had beluga whales suspended from its ceiling. As for the film, well, it was wonderful. In fact, I really want to see it again. And I loathe Emma Watson. So it must be good if I willingly want to see her "act" again. Ooo, use of speech marks was bitchy! The film has also made me realise how much I like older men - hello, Paul Rudd.

So anyway, whilst this post may seem like my life has become suddenly dull, it really hasn't. I'm just enjoying the routine and the small things, plus, sometimes I do actually have to do work. Life is good. Canada is as amazing and wonderful and brilliant as always.

Third year abroad, please don't ever end.