The One Where I Become A Die-Hard Hockey Fan

Dedicated sports fan.

I don't like sport. And I certainly don't do sport. My years of secondary school PE follow this pattern: Year 7 - went, but used excuses so I could be a referee. Year 8 - same as the previous year. Year 9 - incapacitated for the majority of the year due to broken wrists. Year 10 - again, incapacitated. Year 11 - bunked off, hid in a Cockcroft science lab and worked on my GCSE Biology. I'm such a rebel. Then, the London 2012 Olympics happened I am became a sports addict, or at least for a couple of weeks in August I did. I watched every sport going: gymnastics, canoe slalom, rowing, boxing, female weightlifting, shooting, swimming - hey, Ryan Lochte, you can take a dip in my pool any day. You name it and, providing it isn't football, I watched it. I even had the total luck to get to go to Horseguards and hang out in Her Maj's backgarden and watch the beach volleyball, where the USA smashed the Netherlands and the Russian Federation.



Now it is not too cliched to say that Canada is obsessed by hockey. It even has a song with the lyric 'hockey is the game the land gave us.' (Insert insensitive colonialism joke here). Hockey is a big deal here in the Great White North. They are obsessed. There was recently some thing/dispute/argument/money problem going on with the NHL and it all stopped and many many Canadians had to enter Hockey Rehab for withdrawal symptoms. I wasn't really paying attention, y'know, I'm just not into sport that much. Yet, I could not move to Canada and not go see a hockey game. And who better to go and see than Ottawa's home team, the Ottawa Senators?



So as I have made abundantly clear, if you ask me a question about sport, I don't know the answer. However, I naively assumed that the Ottawa Sens are the cream of the crop when it comes to hockey. Although this is probably due to some warped logic that, as I'm living in Ottawa, obviously the hockey team for Ottawa will be amazing. Obviously. As far as I can tell, there aren't that many NHL teams, as opposed to say, how many zillion Premiership football teams there seem to be. Let's just say that, now I am a die-hard hockey fan, I will shout for the Sens all the way and they will always be the best, regardless of whether they actually are or not.



Look how enormous it is!

The home of the Sens is the Scotiabank Place. I am midly dyslexic, so I first read that as Scotiabank Palace and had a little laugh to myself about Canadian hockey obsession and how they cannot escape their monarchist tendencies, however hard they try to. And then I read the name of the arena properly and was sad that there was no longer a place for my colonial colony. The Scotiabank is huge.

Fair play to the Sens and the NHL, they know how to squeeze money out of their fans.  A quick peruse of the NHL website and its shop, and it transpires that there are rubber duck sets for every single NHL team. I collect rubber ducks, and I am so so desperate to get my hands on some Sens rubber ducks. So desperate! Please, any fair readers out there who would like to buy me some, I would be forever in your debt!



But it has to be said, the best purchases we made were for purple candy floss. You heard me, purple candy floss. Screw that pink stuff you can get in England, there was purple candy floss! And it was so delicious. I know, I know, I'm supposed to be telling you all about a major league hockey game, and instead I'm waxing lyrical about candy floss. But you had to taste it! Eventually we figured out it was grape flavoured, but it was just so good! Plus it made us hyperactive, turned our tongues the same shade of pink as Eliot the dragon in Disney's 'Pete's Dragon' and it also stained our finger tips. It's the little things, y'know? 



It's safe to say that structure doesn't seem to play an especially important role in a hockey game. Suddenly, both teams appeared doing some kind of warm up - Gabby thought the game had started already - and then they were both gone, and it was all a bit of a blur. In fact, it was hard to know when kick off, or should I say, puck off, even happened. But the pre-match hullabaloo reached its zenith in the singing of the national anthems of the USA and Canada. They wheeled out an opera singer to belt them both out, and we were exhorted to stand. I made like a true patriot and clamped my hand to my heart in a way that was totally genuine and in no way a sarcastic, gently mocking gesture. Star Spangled Banner didn't get rousingly sung, but the Pittsburgh Penguins fans were in the minority. O Canada was a different affair. Those Canadians belted it out like their lives depended on it. Even the random bit when hald way through it starts being sung in French. And towards the end, they all started wooping. I wooped. I like to join in. I tried singing God Save the Queen afterwards, but people stared and I was intimidated.



What to say about the match? The basic gist is, they each kept trying to score, but the goal keepers were too good. Then the Penguins did score, the Canadians clapped politely, and the Sens responded by trying to crush the Penguins into the crash barriers. This worked, until a couple of them got sent off for basically trying to slice the legs off people with their skates. And I got really in to the violence. I am ashamed to admit, but there's nothing more exhilarating than watching grown men openly brawl on the ice and try to make out they're just doing a tackle or something. It's very homoerotic! Especially as, from a distance, a tackle does look like a particularly vigorous cuddle.



Fight!

To this day, I am still none the wiser about the structure of a hockey match. There seem to be four periods, but the last one is only five minutes, and there seemed to be extra time, but I'm not sure. When the Sens finally did score, the arena errupted.  Eventually, the game ended, or so we thought, with a draw. Then it was penalties time. Essentially, the Sens drew. In reality, they lost on penalites. The Penguins rushed the rink and were all happy at having won, and I fell into a depression that our beloved team had lost. We may need counselling to overcome the trauma. Sens, how could you do this to us? How could you? We, your loyal loyal supporters feel betrayed by your inability to win that day.



Hockey aside, the whole experience was a thoroughly North American affair. The advertising was like being hit repeatedly over the head with a brick. There were weird dancers and t-shirt cannons, and a kiss camera. It did flash on two very burly guys who pretended to get it on, but apart from that, it just stuck to gorgeous young couples and a few old ones, who looked surprised and unsure of whether they remembered what to do for a kiss. The cameras also fell upon some guys who had brought homemade banners which read: "Our wifes are home cleaning." I don't know what makes me want to vom more, the misogyny or the bad grammar. Probably the grammar.

I know I have spent a lot of this blog as a whole gushing about living the Canadian dream and getting to experience so many new and exciting things, but I just can't shut up about it. I am loving life out here and loving the chance to be brave and out-going and feeling liberated to just live with abandon. It is amazing. I feel so blessed! And I really don't want it to ever end. 

The One With Post-Colonial Banter

Christina: Is Shakespeare British?

Me: Hannah, educating the colonies since 2012.

Christina: Jerk! I totally knew he was British. That's why I asked you! To make sure you knew your own darn history.

Me: At least we Brits have history. You Canadians and your recent past.

Christina: Yeah, we're young and fresh. Not like you old British farts.

Me: Sorry, whose queen is that on your money?

Christina: Like I said, old British fart.

Me: Colony-dweller say whut?

Christina: I believe it's 'what.' Jeeze, for a person who claims to know 'proper English' you sure do suck at spelling!

Me: I was using pidgin English so you'd understand seeing as that's what you speak.

Christina: Says the girl taking pictures of Justin Bieber.

Me: I'm just trying to engage with you weird Americans. Sorry, Canadians.

Christina: Why? We were hoping you'd just quite and leave our country.

Me: The British Empire will never quit.

Christina: Really? Cuz from where I'm standing, you already did.

Me: WE OWN YOU!

The One With uOttawa's Snow Festival

Happy Birthday Christina! I can't believe you didn't mention it was your birthday! Oh no wait, you mentioned it, a lot!

I address cards accurately.

Yes, it's Christina's 22nd birthday, and I'm honoured to have been allowed to steal her time for a few hours to insult her for being Canadian and also to tell her just how much I totally adore her for being wonderful and compassionate and hilarious. We can forgive her for being a colony-dweller. It is currently -40 here in Ottawa, thanks to that pesky windchill. My routine as soon as I step outside is to take a breath and immediately cough because it feels like my throat is being strangled by ice. I know that at some point I should probably stop talking about how cold it is, but the Canadians are just as obsessed with talking about the weather as us Brits are, and it's just so cold! Apparently the last few winters have been mild, and now it's back to normal and slightly colder than average. Hooray.

I have beautiful feet.

The University of Ottawa is holding its annual snow festival this week which means Tabaret lawn is now hosting maple taffy stalls, a beaver tails van and dog sled rides. The latter has nothing on the weekend's dog-sledding escapades as we're not driving, just sitting on the sled, we don't go fast and it's literally just going in one circle around half of the Tabaret lawn. But hey, it's still gloriously wintery and Canadian! I must confess that I'm not a huge fan of maple taffy; it's like a maple flavoured ice lolly, but after just a couple of weeks in Canada, I really couldn't stomach much more maple. But it's great how all-out uOttawa goes each year, and it's really great that basically every student participates in it.

I LOVE this girl!

The highlight, however, has to be the fact that sound sytem set up outside Tabaret is blasting out Justin Bieber. It is actually delightful. Now, as a closet Bieber-lover, I am loving having 'Boyfriend' thumping my eardrums. You've really gotta love Canada eh. It's just such an adorable country. And time spent with Christina, and then being joined by Jolene and Josh just makes me realise how many fantastic Canadians I have the fortune and privilege and joy to call friends. This study abroad malarky is a joy. 

Oh Justin...

The One With An Expletive

It's fecking cold. So so fecking cold. And it's only going to get worse!

A truer word has never been spoken.

My nose is froze and my toes are froze. My thighs feel like something you'd pull out of a Captain Birdseye packet. My nose has icicles hanging from it and I'm not totally sure I still have lips attached to my face.

It's fecking cold.

This is my cue to hibernate.

The One Where I Live The Canadian Dream

I'm sure if you asked each second year student who already has their year abroad plans in motion about why they want to go to their chosen destination, you will probably receive an answer that is heavy on romanticism and idyllic view of the far-off foreign land of adventure. Let me tell you, it's not a fairy tale - the adventure is real!

When I thought of Canada, images of snow-capped mountains, glistening lakes, stetson-wearing cowboys and furlined daredevils up to their chests in snow, mooses and beavers and bears and a painful cold under a smiling sun. When I lived in Canada, I discovered that was true! Or at the very least it was true when I got to partake in an awesome Canadian adventure. Snow shoeing and dog sledding sound innocent and quaint enough, but they must be two of the most thoroughly Canadian activities a person can partake of - and my day doing both is one I will truly never ever forget.

For starters, it was wonderful to be reunited with the amazing Stephane of Tadoussac fame, who was just as excited and energetic about a day in the freezing cold as he was about being on a glorified rubber dingy in the Atlantic Ocean. His jokes are just as surreal and hilarious and I cannot even begin to estimate just how many an international student has had their abroad in Ottawa experience brightened by the fantastic Stephane. Our day of living the Canadian dream took place just north of Gatineau Park, so we had to cross the border into La Belle Provence where bilingualism is thrown out of the window at le francais est la langue de premier importance. Oh yeah, A Level French wasn't wasted on me!

The absolute highlight of the drive has got to be Stephane referring to roundabouts as turn-abouts and how he doesn't understand them - oh Canada, if only you knew what your colonial parents are having to live with back on our island. Roundabouts galore! Another of the really nice things about the trip was that it was just a small number of us on it, so we got to know each well and it was brilliant to be with people from Tadoussac like Katherina, Alice and Georg and meeting new people like Pauline and Mia. The latter is from Norway, so we all expected her to be totally unfazed by the cold, but apparently Norway has nothing on Canada when it comes to low temperatures. What is this strange and hostile climate which threatens to divest me of my nose and toes?

Now, I'm not the best when it comes to dogs. Admittedly Canada seems to have performed some sort of miracle or exorcism on me and now I'm not that afraid of even big, somewhat scary dogs. But the old adage of a dog's bark being worse than its bite is certainly true for huskies who must be the most vocal dogs on the planet. To be confronted with a wall of overwhelming and endless barking and yelping was quite intimidating, especially when they howled and suddenly there really was not much to distinguish between huskies and wolves. Already there was something romantic about being knee-deep in snow and surrounded by howling wolves against a rugged landscape of thick forests and sprawling high hills, with mountains in the distance.

Charlie is the guy who owns the place where we were for the day, and he loves his dogs, including three utterly adorable and scrumptious six week old puppies who he pulled out from their kennel and passed to us cooing girls. The boys, I'm sure, equally had loin stirring feelings, but they did a better job of hiding them! They were so cute and small and fluffy and perfect it felt like my ovaries were hiccoughing violently. We never did find out their names, but I named mine Fluffy. I say 'mine', I ended up with the same one for over an hour and therefore he became mine. I even tried to steal him and he fitted perfectly in my backpack, but apparently Charlie would have noticed if I had tried to dognap Fluffy and take him back to Ottawa. In all seriousness, I nearly cried when Charlie took Fluffy away at the end of the day.

Split into three groups to rotate around the activites of dog sledding, snow shoeing and cross country skiing, Team Exeter chose to forego the latter activity out of a great "sacrifice" to stay and look after the puppies. Best decision ever! Hello an interrupted hour with three cute puppies! There was a totally glorious and hilarious moment when we tried to see what would happen if we stopped cuddling them. Turns out that, at just six weeks old, walking isn't their forte, so we watched them bum shuffle their way around for a little bit before promptly picking them back up and holding them tightly and lavishing more love upon them than we probably will upon our own children one day. What is it about puppies that makes them so flipping adorable? I want one!

Stephane and Helene, another helper from uOttawa really went the extra mile for the day. We were supplied with brownies and hot chocolate and a welcome visitor from Tadoussac: Caribou! A shot of Caribou and its deadly infusion of wine and whiskey and that sure got the feeling back in the toes! I think a visit to the wine store is in order to try and sniff out some more Caribou - to protect from the harsh winter, you understand! We were also treated to another Quebecois tradition of mixing apple and sugar pie, homemade by Stephane himself, and it was a treat! Sitting round a roaring fire, puppy in arms and delicious pie springing the tastebuds with fantastic friends and a gorgeous snowy view - not even Disney could magic up such a scene.

Team Exeter and Pauline went snow shoeing with Stephane after lunch and it is a really bizarre feeling. It took a while to sink in that my feet had suddenly grown by about a foot and I ended up doing this crazy walk like a sumo wrestler going in for a fight. Snow shoes are essentially flat tennis rackets that give you a wide surface area so that you don't sink - no frozen knee caps for me then. I think I might need to get my hands on some and just strut about the uOttawa campus with them on. Admittedly, I might end up tripping people up and causing some injuries, but at least I wouldn't sink in the snow. We treked through a forest and even got to a precarious climb across a stream with just a log to balance on. With Pauline's camera in hand, it was like I was destined to fall in, but with feet wider than Canada itself, my balance was mightily improved. In his crazy ways, Stephane said we were like the Spice Girls and tried to make us sing one of their songs and dance around to try and get the feeling back in their toes. Eventually we ended up having to sing a French folk song complete with crazy dance moves. And I have no idea what the lyrics were! But snow shoeing is the most fun thing to do! You feel like you're one of the pioneers from many years ago going on some kind of exploration into the deep unknown. And to suddenly appear out of the forest into blazing sunshine was gorgeous.

It's fair to say I was pretty aprehensive about the dog sledding. Part of the reason was Charlie and his colleague/brother who whilst lovely were also intimidating, especially after this exchange: "You look like Adele!" "Thanks.' "You sound like Adele! Sing me a song, Adele!" This continued all day, and each time either of them saw me, they called me Adele and asked me to sing for them. I should point out for those who don't know me in real life, I sound nothing like Adele!

So Charlie plonks me on a sled and tells me to stand on the brakes. The two dogs give a lurch forward and I don't know how I mustered the strength to keep on the brakes.When Charlie's colleague gave the signal, we were off, with the dogs barking for all their worth and it was so fast and terrifying. Barely two minutes in and I was thrown off the sled. I hit a tree and landed facedown in four feet of snow. The dogs and the sled made a break for it, and I was all alone, trying and failing to chase after them. Then Charlie's colleague found me and told me to get on his quadbike. Although, he didn't actually wait for me to get on properly, so I ended up sitting backwards on it, and straddling the seat I should've been sat on. It was a moment of complete social awkwardness on my part, especially as I kept being told to sing.

Once we met up with the others and my runaway sled, I was put on a new sled, the front one. The reason being that the front sled was controlled by Charlie on the second sled. Literally, "All you have to do is hold on and sing, Adele." Charlie didn't let me know when he was going to start again, and I clung on with all my might when the dogs leapt forward. When you don't have to worry about anything other than slightly steering, then dog sledding is the most exhilarating activity ever! The dogs are insanely strong and run like athletes with the speed of Usain Bolt and the endurance of Mo Farrah. Without doubt, the hills were the most exciting part of the ride. Charlie took us down at full throttle and the wind blasted my face like a vacuum cleaner had been taken to my sinuses. On and on we went and as we came to another hill, I got the chills. Not from the cold, but from hurtling into a stunning sunset. As we journeyed on I couldn't think anything other than how supremely happy and blessed I was and how I was having such an adventure - and that I was loving every minute!

The third year abroad adventure is a real one, one to be lived and loved. And you don't realise just how alive you are until you've been thrown off a sled but have climbed back on, and are flying into the sunset. Life is wonderful, the adventure is exhilarating - and I am so happy.

The One With Jewish Canadians

If I was overwhelming cool and alternative, I could tell you that I am so excited to be taking an entire class dedicated to Leonard Cohen. But, as you may have figured if you're an avid reader of this blog or know me in real life, I am about as alternative as vanilla ice cream. Whilst Leonard Cohen is great, I am mainly taking this course because I like having Professor Mayne as a teacher, and because I am trying to become the first British Christian to be an expert on Jewish Canadians. In all seriousness, if I did my entire degree at uOttawa, I would definitely make my minor Jewish Canadian Studies - I could learn Yiddish! I want to learn Yiddish!

And Prof Mayne is completely to blame for this interest! Maybe if I ever go on Mastermind (why would I ever go on it?), I can having Jewish Canadians as my specialist topic.

Also, Native Writing in Canada is out to be replaced with History of Jews in Canada. Why? Because the prof for the former was kind of dull and because the latter is my academic opium. I may have a problem; is there such a thing as Jewish Canadian rehab?

I can't articulate succinctly why I find the area so fascinating, but I like being able to study a group which has such an ancient history and yet has always had to adapt to the contemporary situation it finds itself in. Plus, it comes with a wealth of literature and art and music and what have you and it's so striking and so poignant.

There are moments when you realise that the year abroad cliches are true. Getting to study something I would never have imagined in a million years I would ever study, let alone find interesting, and loving every minute of it - and it's all thanks to study abroad.

When I found these stuck all around campus, I thought they were cheesy. Now I think they're brilliant.

The One With Nose Hair

Random notes in Jock Turcot goading me.

It's cold. Really cold. Whilst my Facebook and Twitter feeds are full of British wimps whinging about the two centimetres on snow and pathetic -5 and how they can't cope, I am here in a climate so cold that every breath I take is like snorting a razor blade. But yesterday, something especially curious began. I was walking to uni, and suddenly became aware that I needed a tissue. Paranoia of potential snot explosions kept increasing, but upon reaching campus and tissues, there was no feeling of imminent grossness. The next time I stepped outside, I once again became aware that there was something in my nose, and ended up walking along trying to discretely cover my nose with my hand. Well, this is a symptom of the Canadian winter: freezing nose hair. It's the most disconcerting and unnerving thing to have and it feels like there's an obses woodlouse crawling in my nose every time I go outside.

What is this weather?

Who knew winter could be so cruel?

Why do freezing nose hairs feel so grim?

When is this going to end?

The One Where I Rep Exeter So Hard

British love.

The University of Exeter, probably (read definitely) the best university in the world. True story. Yesterday was the delight that was the University of Ottawa's international student exchange fair thing, not quite sure what grand title it was they gave it in the end. But it was an opportunity to spread the Exeter love. And boy did we get our message across.



No representatives from other British unis saw fit to come and represent, so sorry Birmingham, Reading and Kent but we made sure that anyone who was considering putting you as first choice changed their mind at put Exeter instead. In a way, it was the kindest thing to do. Who in good conscience could let a poor Canadian soul live in Birmingham for a year? The fair was a really bad day for denouncing ethnic stereotypes: the Brazillians were giving out coffee; the French turned up in berets; the Russians had a doll collection; the Spanish fell asleep and us Brits were demonstrably sarcastic. We were just prepping hopefull exchange students for what awaits them in good old England!

As much as we love Exeter, we did have to be somewhat economical with the truth in order to completely sell our uni. For starters, we said that it never rains in the South West. Which is about as true as saying that blue frogs are addicted to crystal meth. Plus we shaved off an hour of the time distance between Exeter and London and said that railway transport in Britain is phenomenal. Look, by the time the exchange students get there, it'll be too late to turn back and go home. The Canadians we met at Exeter pre-departure meeting told us some non-truths, we're just engaging in a circular conspiracy of exchange students.

The main thing I realised is just how much I love Exeter, and I really do mean love it. Flicking through all the promotional literature, I felt a pang of longing to be on the Lopes lawns, or strolling through the Forum, panting my way past Peter Chalk and ambling romantically past Reed House. Exeter is a beautiful place and not just in its architecture and landscaping, but in all the wonderful memories that it holds. I just love it. I just love it!

But NB to The Guardian who provided the quote that Exeter students always have a smile on their face, take your cameras to Cardiac Hill and see what kind of facial expressions you get.

This is me with my permanent smile.

The One Where Canada Is Tasty

There is no real point to this blog post apart from the fact that I am in the library ON A MONDAY MORNING in the SECOND WEEK OF THE SEMESTER and I'm taking a break from work. Because it's 10.15 and I've already written an assignment. I'm one step away from a total metamorphis into Hermione Granger.

Anyway, here is a picture of a cookie which says 'Canada' on it and which the bakery proudly refers to as 'Obama Cookies' because Obama once ate one or something. For a country which detests the USA, this one bakery in Byward Market is a massive Obama fan.

Tasty eh.

The One With Creative Writing

I'm hipster, so I Instagram my coffee.

Trigger Warning: Heavy sarcasm.

The views expressed satirically in this post are not genuinely held by the wonderful, warm-hearted and utterly beautiful author of this post.

I'm taking a creative writing class. I'm massively intimidated by classmates. They're so much better than me. I feel so inferior, and not even being British makes me feel any better. Imperialism is well and truly dead.

Should I be writing this post in rhyme? I'm working on the basis we're now in this post-postmodern world where rhyme is back in. Hannah, you do creative writing? Yes, yes I do or rather did. I used to never be seen without a pen and pad to be scribbling down ideas, but then people and their general rubbishness and meanness got in the way and I stopped - I'm looking at you [censored]. But now I'm back with a vengeance. And where better to start than with a class on writing the short story with Seymour Mayne, of Jewish Canadian Writers class fame. Bit intimidating, however, just chuck your story down for everyone to read and pull apart and that creeping fear of judgment.



Also, does anyone else ever wonder if they are, how shall I put it, warped? I quite like writing about somewhat macabre things; death, depression, dickhead fathers and the like. The story I'm submitting for next week deals with war, homelessness and prostitution. But it does double-up as a step-by-step guide of how to get rid of evangelical Christians who acost you in the street. You're welcome! I'm currently in the revision stage where I try to iron out the typos and plot inconsistencies. I'm very good at plot inconsistencies because I have no grasp of numbers. I'm genuinely not being self-depracating here. I am an idiot when it comes to numbers. I may have two GCSEs in maths at grade B, but that means nothing. I can't count and don't know how much of stuff makes up one thing of stuff. For example, I think that something that happened in 1823 happened a thousand years ago - seriously, I cannot do numbers.

My intellect, or lack of, is fundamentally unbalanced. I can read and write, hopefully, or this class is going to go badly; but I just can't deal with anything remotely number-orientated. I also have no spatial awareness. When the sat nav says, "Turn left in 300 yards" I'm like, how long is 300 yards? It's why I can't park and can't cope with this conversion faff that living abroad requires.



Should probably take fewer pictures of my coffee...

Back to creative writing, if you're lucky or horrendously unlucky, I may share some with you. Just not the story I'm submitting next week, because I may have used some people who read this blog as character inspiration, and there are subtler, more loving ways to break it to them that demonising the working class is vile. If it's any consolation, my characterisation is pretty accurate!

I'm actually a horrible person, aren't I?

To the land of Hispter, shall I fly.

I think I'm so mainstream I'm inadvertently hipster. Quick, someone find me some over-large glasses and shove a piercing through an impractical bit of my nose, I want to be so alternative I fit in.

Note to self: be less sarcastic.

The One With #IdleNoMore

#IdleNoMore

Continuing my induction to aboriginal education from last semester with the course that has the official title: Colonialism of Indigenous Peoples. However, it comes with an unofficial, unpithy but more pertenent title: Indigenous Peoples, Settler, Colonization, Decolonizing and Healing Reconstruction. Deep, eh? The course content and assignments in all honesty, is petrifying. Learning journals to presentations to class discussions to international networks to massive long reading lists - with the added pressure of trying to avoid colonial insensitivity and the morbid fear of being in contravention of political correctness as the British education system has drilled into me - basically, I'm not quite sure how I'm ever going to be able to say anything in this class!

Although, there was a particularly brilliant moment when one guy piped up complaining about Europeans being rubbish, at which point I had two options: either out myself as a Brit or stay silent. I chose the latter. See, sometimes I'm not controversial! It's nice to be in a large group of friends in the class though, including Devon, Beth, Victoria and Kelsey. At the moment it's just all overwhelming.



Rising sound.

After class on Wednesday, there was a demonstration by First Nations people involved in the #IdleNoMore campaign which is First Nations, Metis and Inuits, and indigenous groups around the world, forcing the settlers of Canada to wake up and smell the racist, isolating, fatal coffee they've been dishing out to First Nations since they accidentally wound up these shores however many hundreds of years ago. I hope to get involved with the campaign as a settler in solidarity, because Canada, enough really is enough. Oh and Ottawa Citizen, anyone with half a brain cell can see through your sensationalist techniques attempting to discredit Chief Spence. You're not going to get away with it.



I'm in Canada right as things are changing, right as a new phase and a new force is rising up from the reservations - and it's exciting and humbling and wonderful - and I'm hoping for so much good to come out of it.



Taking over Tabaret.

The One That Is Utterly Self-Indulgant

Fall semester grades are in...enjoying the unanimous As, but miffed about the A- which doesn't quite sit comfortably in my anal fear of failure. Can't complain though when it comes to the A+ for Jewish Canadian Writers, coming top of the class and getting a book prize for the result! Seymour Mayne being brilliant as ever.

A-, A+, A, A+

If it's any consolation, I feel really stressed and I've only had one week back of classes. Plus, I'm in Canada. I wasn't at all stressed last semester, but this one, I'm just really feeling the pressure. For some reason my course selection is just stressing me out big time and weighing heavily on my anxious anal-ness. Is anality a word? I might make it a word if not. Just call me Shakespeare. You know that courage quest that this third year abroad thing is? Well, I'm slightly worried that I may have exhausted my courage supplies last semester. History of Religion is with the same prof who gave me the A and one the A+s and yet I'm approaching her class with trepidation. Similarly, I have two classes this semester with the prof who gave me the other A+ and yet I'm bricking it. Admittedly though, one of those aforementioned classes is creative writing, so no Hermion Granger-esque books and cleverness, just exposure. Did someone hear a fearful squeak? And I have A- prof for another class, but why am I worried?

I refuse to countenance my anxiety as having a place in Canada. I absolutely refuse. So I tell thee, Anxiety to bog off whilst I too-bog with squitty anxiety...

 

 

The One With The History of Religion in Canada

There is a possibility that I may be stalking a University of Ottawa professor. That's an exaggeration, but I am in a third class with Emma Anderson after my two with her last semester. To be fair, I didn't realise this until towards the end of the Fall Semester, but if the poor thing is sick of me then, well, she's stuck with my until the end of April. In all seriousness though, she is fantastic. She has all those qualities that you could possibly want in a professor: she's engaging and a tremendous teacher; she's dedicated to and dilligent in her research and there's an evident passion for her academic interests. Although, whilst I have caught from her the contagion of academic delight that is Roman Catholic colonial encounters, I don't think I have the balls to choose her book for the book review assignment. What exactly can some theology undergraduate have to say against a book from a Havard-educated professor?

Stationary at the ready.

The class is The History of Religion in Canada. I won't spoil it for you, but it goes something along the lines of "I have lived here for gazillions of years and I do ancestor worship and stuff, oh, who are these people? Let's be hospitable." "You are savages, we're going to kill you until you start following a celibate fool in Rome." That's quite a bad summary, and doesn't disguise my, er, healthy dislike of Roman Catholicism.

As for new year resolutions, I will will will do the reading for this class. (Even though not doing the reading didn't have any adverse effects last semester). I resolve to be a good student. Why waste the phenomenal teaching I'm receiving?

The One With The Bible And Film

New semester means new classes! And, because this year does somehow, supposedly count towards my final degree, I do actually have to some work, occasionally. So first new class is The Bible and Film. Sounds exciting. This is where I have to confess that I don't really like movies. I have quite a short attention span and have been programmed by social networking sites to operate like Twitter: grab me in 140 characters or less otherwise, I won't pay attention. If I get a degree, it will be a miracle. Actually, I'm selling myself short here. I do have quite a long attention span and I do like films, but I only really like a certain type of film. So, as the prof started asking us all who'd seen this and that film, I tried to shrink in my seat. Apparently no-one else is taking the class for the Bible stuff. I just think the Bible trumps Shawshank Redemption.





Don't tell Christina I like this.

 

Also, I know there are movies that are of their time, but the biblical or Ancient Greek epics such as The Ten Commandments or that Jason golden fleece thing, really distress me, for wont of a better word. There's just something about the colour and staging and filming that really unsettles me. Like norovirus, only more violent.

Why am I taking this class?

Especially as it's running until 10pm on a Monday evening and requires watching a film a week and doing actual tangible work - I never signed up for that in my degree! (Kidding, obviously; very geeky and conscientious am I). Fortunately, there's Christina to give me chocolate each class and a new friend in Rebecca and who know, I may become a film buff yet. (Probably not).

The One Where I'm Back In Canada

I'm back! Did you miss me? Of course you missed me. And, of course, you missed my third year abroad blog. So what has happened since I was last here in this humble corner of Tim Berners-Lee's brain child? Well...



Airport pride.

I saw Yvet for the last time, perhaps ever; although I may just rock up in Amsterdam and surprise her. We got to take the Intro to Ab Soc exam early and had the most surreal moment where we were in our own tiny room with no supervision. What would you do in that situation? We kept our integrity... After finishing the exam, I told Prof Sioui that I loved him and it wasn't awkward in way, shape or form. I just like telling academic authority figures how much I love them it seems. Should really get some kind of brain to mouth filter.

A plane ride back to England happened. There were turbulents. There was also a complete inability to sleep. Furthermore, upon touching down on British soil, any attempts at returning as some obnixous pseudo-Canadian went out of the window and my frustratingly Home Counties accent made an unwelcome reappearance. But anyway, England was England, Didcot was Didcot and now I am back to living the dream here in Canada. Sorry Didcot, but you do warrant your place at number 20 on the list of 50 Crap Towns UK.

Stunner.

Flying back to Canadia, my plane was in the hands of Bruce Nolan. I laughed out loud at this and no-one else found it in anyway amusing. Bruce Nolan. Bruce Nolan. Anyone? Nevermind. For some reason, Air Canada classifies 'Billy Elliot' as a childrens' film, because nothing screams family friendly like an eleven year old asking another eleven year old if he wants to see her fanny. Now, I'm not the best at flying. Surprisingly, being trapped in a metal tube hundreds of thousands of feet in the air in a contraption which could get hijacked, doesn't really put me in a peaceful frame of mind. But as we were landing at Ottawa, I was gripping the arm rests like my life depended on it, and this man was just laughing at me and said I was pulling a face like I was watching a horror film. Sorry, what kind of facial expressions should I be displaying when hurtling towards concrete?

Immigration isn't scary in Canada. For one, they don't appear to have guns and secondly, they're cuddly Canadians. Bag drop took an age thanks to plane doors freezing shut - what a gloriously cliched return to Canada!

Massive fear.

Ottawa is currently covered in more snow than I have seen in my entire life! It gets piled up to the edge of sidewalks, and some of it is actually taller than I am, leading to terrifying visions of being trapped in snow like a packet of Birds Eye fish fingers in my grandparents' freezer. But it is so good and joyful to be home. Because that is what Canada is. 

Since being back I've gone to another home which is All Nations; brunch with Julia, Keegan (best name ever, may have ear-marked it for future procreating use), Dan and Matt; seen Les Mis twice; been reunited with the wonderful Christina and been to Zak's - twice.

To sum up: joy. All encompassing wonderful overwhelming ridiculous joy.