A Christmas Update

" 'Twas the night before Christmas
And all I wanted to see
Was a letter from Halifax
With a new PNP! "

Alas, I am still waiting. I know that NS Immigration has been in touch with my past UK employers recently, but when I called them to see what news I was told that my caseworker was now on vacation until January 10th and had not seen fit to delegate her caseload to colleagues. So, until then, there will be nothing to be learned.

The last six months have passed with startling rapidity and the temporary import permit for the Big Blue Beastie (that is my Suburban) was set to expire at the end of the month. This provided the perfect excuse for a dash to McAllen and a break on the border. The Great American Cornucopia could be taken advantage for, for xmas gifts, and, furthermore, the mailbox rental for the forthcoming year was now overdue.

I had been a-tinkering with my truck in the last few months - varnishing the wooden floor in the load area, fitting new door strike bolts and hinge pins etc - and the 3B was now sporting fresh, new, white pin-striping on the outside as well as a new center console and speakers on the inside. The boosting of the stereo by means of an additional amplifier at least meant that the music could be heard over the roaring of thew wind, necessitated by driving with an open window as the AC still has yet to be repaired.

I set off, at a relaxed pace, in the mid-morning. Alannis Morissette was dripping venomously, yet catchily, and I found it hard to believe that she could ever have been marketed as a Canadian answer to Debbie Gibson. The road was as quiet as ever in the mild winter sunshine as I growled along, wearing my battered driving cap. At Soto la Marina, I stopped for refreshment and can happily report that Highway 180 is now widened and improved from that town to the Tres Palos junction - with the small exception of about 2Km in progress. I wonder if they will ever do the same to the 150Km from Soto back to Aldama?

Arriving at the Reynosa/Pharr border crossing, at around 3.45PM, the formalities were quickly dispensed with and I returned the truck's old permit to the Banjercito office. Arriving on the US side, I was very happy to see that each lane had only one or two vehicles waiting and I was soon speeding, on the silk-smooth American road, towards McAllen. The BBB ("mi camioneta") is perfectly happy, and supremely comfortable, growling along at a sedate 45mph along these luxurious American highways.

McAllen was as busy as ever, positively heaving with Mexican folk out spending their Christmas bonuses. The major stores all had long, snaking lines but such is the range of goods, the diversity of man's ingenuity in these jewel-boxes of consumption, that I actually enjoyed thronging and shopping. With a little single-mindedness, I managed to complete all my purchases by 9.30PM and sank gratefully in to my bed, at the usual hotel, after snacking sandwichly.

The next morning, I awoke early and made ready. By 9.00AM I was pulling in to a used tire dealer - as the truck needed a new spare tire - and on the road for Progresso, where I intended to cross back in to Mexico. The bridge there is only 100m long and only for cars and light trucks. There are just two entry lanes on the Mexican side and these open directly on to the long, dusty main street of Nuevo Progresso, Tamaulipas.

I had expected the traffic to be light but, in fact, there was a goodly crowd of people inside the immigration and customs building. The offices were small, awkwardly shaped and cramped (compared to the large, new facility at Reynosa/Pharr), and the lines were long, especially at the Banjercito payment windows.

I waited just short of a half-hour to see the immigration official. He looked at the truck's papers and announced that I could not enter Mexico with it due to the registration having expired back in August.

WTF?

Thinking fast, I explained to him that on Canadian vehicles, the license plates are permanent and one pays an annual tax to use the roads there. As I had left Canada in July I had not bothered to pay the tax as I was not using the roads there. The official was nonplussed and referred me to his compadres at the Banjercito counter.

So I waited in another line for another half hour and, when I made the head of the line, explained my position to the official there. Whilst he examined my documents and ruminated, a strong smell of burning was suddenly apparent. Alarmed, the official asked his colleague, seated at the next desk, if she could smell it. But as she sniffed, a man's loud voice came from behind a partition, telling all not to worry as he was responsible for the burning smell.

As my official turned his attention back to me, I raised a quizzical eyebrow and asked, "What happened? Did he burn the toast again?" This produced a mighty guffaw and the immediate sharing with co-workers of this example of gringo humour.
"Do you have insurance?", asked the official.
"Of course", I replied.
"OK. Tell the immigration officer we approve the import and come back here with your FMT."

And that was that - no proof was sought or offered and, after another 45 minutes of to-ing and fro-ing, I had a new six month tourist visa and vehicle import permit. I drove slowly down the rutted, potholed, dusty main street of Nuevo Progresso - wondering at the walking crowds of white Americans, and the proliferation of dental offices - and hit the toll road to Reynosa. I took out my cellphone and called SWMBO to report that all was well and I could be expected in about six hours, bearing gifts and sweetmeats from the Great American Cornucopia.

Stymied...but not for long (I hope!)

I called the Nova Scotia department of immigration the other day to see how things were coming along. I was given, at that time, a nasty surprise! It seems that they have two concerns. The first is an easy one to address - they need names, addresses and contact details of my last two UK employers and line managers. Despite the fact that those individuals have since moved on, thanks to "teh Interweb" they are easily found.

They are also concerned over our apparent lack of funds and how I might support my family whilst looking for work. This will be addressed by a transfer to a joint bank account and providing a translated statement. I also have to write them and explain our proposed time-line, as I had said we did not wish to remove our daughter from school before the end of her first academic year. Hence: I would go first; become established and then send for them.

Reasonable queries - it just puts the fear of gawd up me that this plan might not work.

Fall Would Be Coming...

...if there were such a season here. Instead, we have a season of "big rains" that give us a daily drenching. With the omnipresent pitter-patter, I thought I had perhaps better give an update.

The Nova Scotia Office of Immigration wrote me on 3rd September, requesting "further information". Practically, they just wanted translations of the two financial statements I had appended to our application, and some proof of prior employment in the UK (they gave, as examples, such things as references, contracts, performance reviews etc - alas, all I had were a few payslips and some tax notices). They also demanded an explanation of why we maintain a mailbox in the USA and asked that I resubmit three forms with some minor corrections that had slipped past my proof-reading.

Simple stuff, and praise be for scanners, email and the internet in making it even easier to comply with their requests. Yet it still took three weeks to organize a translator and dig up whatever documentation was to be discovered. No matter...all was sent and things progress in fervent hope of near completion.

In between teaching, and the afternoons in the market, things have once again settled in to a comfortable routine. Well, as comfortable as can be expected.

Those Who Can, Do...

...And those who can't, teach. So the old saying goes. A bit of hoary, folkish nonsense, to be sure, else I would find myself at a total, inarticulate loss, now that I am an English teacher.

Yes, it is true. The Third World Shopkeeper has morphed into the Mexican-by-naturalization teacher of English-as-a-foreign-language at a small, private school here in Tampico town. It came about from my wife asking a friend of hers (at the same school) if there were vacancies there or elsewhere. Indeed, said the friend, my employer needs a native-English speaker to take an intermediate-level class of secondary schoolkids. So, I went along to speak to the head of the English program (who, as it turned out, was related to my brother-in-law's partner), and the Director of the secondary school.

Long story short, I was duly hired to work for 10 hours a week (2 hours a day) at MN$100 per hour - not a princely sum, but not chump-change either. The first paycheck will be used to pay for repairs to the Suburban's AC system! I was sent on a three day, government-mandated course concerning competencies in basic education - which had material of a sufficiently Latinate structure and vocabulary that I was able to comprehend about 75% with ease.

So, I began my first day on the 24th, with a class of just five students, quickly reduced to four once it was realized that one was hopelessly out of her depth. The day, being a Monday, began with the flag ceremony, as always. There were introductory speeches wherein I, and the other members of staff, were presented to the watching parents and serried ranks of pupils. The Mexican tricolor was paraded to our salutes and we then sang the Himno Nacional. This was followed by the raised-arm 'Bellamy' salute to the flag, whilst reciting the 'Juramento a la Bandera' - the Mexican Pledge of Allegiance.

Stirring stuff, and all to inculcate national pride in those participating.

This initial week's classes are in preparation, as I get to know the strengths and weaknesses of my pupils. There is no homework, and we are jumping around various subjects in a fairly unstructured way so I can determine their interests. The structured, text-based lessons start next week. I am also required to teach a class of Basic Science, in English. This will cover the same material as the equivalent Spanish-language class but its emphasis is on the reinforcement of the linguistic aspects, rather than the scientific.

I am enjoying this hugely. Enthusiasm and conscientiousness make up for my lack of experience. The mental stimulation, after years of brain-mush work in el mercado is a most welcome stimulation.

So, I spend my mornings teaching. My afternoons, naturally, are still with the family business but, I most fervently hope, but for this brief period to the end of the year. By then, our CIC-PR application will be well advanced at the Federal level.

Something Old, Something New

"Well... and here we are again!", as the late maestro of Gonzo used to say. I am firmly back in Tampico town, but, hopefully, for no more than 9 months.

And so what's new here? The creeping Americanization continues apace as the 'zona dorada' district of Hidalgo Ave. gains both a Carls Jr. and an IHOP. I will be interested to see how long they last as new restaurant ventures oftem seem to fail after a year or so here. Our Indian restaurant (The Ganesh) didn't even last nine months, but then it was hideously expensive and aimed at the chic, rather than the masses.

Word is that ground will be broken soon on yet another planned mall - this one on lands just to the north of the Home Depot. However, given that this is the third such proposal in as many years, I am not holding my breath. The demand seems to be for exterior strip developments rather than high-rent, covered, climate controlled malls. Since the VIPS/Dixies restaurant chain pulled out of southern Tamaulipas, they have left many empty buildings.

Meanwhile, we travelled to Cd.Victoria the other day to secure passports for both myself and daughter (Anglo-Mexicans that we are). The whole process, by appointment, took less than two hours and cost MX$885 for each three year passport. I am now, demonstrably, Mexican.

The old steam baths, at the side of our house, have been duly flattened but nothing, yet, has been placed in their stead. Downtown Tampico's last cinema, in front of the luxury hotel Mansion Real, has also been demolished to make way for a car park for the hotel. There used to be four cinemas downtown, now one has to travel out by the airport.

In the meantime, there are distractions aplenty from family and business. A maintenance backlog has built up in the house and at the business premises. One of my very first jobs, upon returning, was to level a depression at the rear of the parking area we use to allow my Big Blue Beastie of a Suburban to be parked all the way to the back - the store's Nissan truck having been banished to the warehouse, where it damn well belongs. Alas, thievery has struck my truck and jackdaws have stolen the shiny blue tire valve caps I put on the other day.

I have been listing the work I need to do to said vehicle before it returns to Canada. Prime importance is being given to the repair of the air conditioning, for which I will have to travel to McAllen for parts as my Flint-bought used compressor does not work! I am also putting in foam insulation and a thin plywood headliner to the interior roof as there was nothing.

Our Provincial Nominee Program Application was submitted today to the government of Nova Scotia. I expect there to be an acknowledgement of receipt within a couple of weeks and their answer within 3 months. I hope, and pray, that this succeeds.

I have discovered the joys of traditional wet shaving - with soap, brush and double-edged blade. I am enjoying it so much I am shaving twice daily, delighting in the choice of soaps, razor, blades and balms. This is part of a newer approach wherein I am making a greater effort with personal grooming and appearance on the basis that habits become character.

The Long Way Home
Day 6 - McAllen to Tampico & Afterword (310 miles)

There's no map for this one, as Google cannot hack directions on Mexico's roads. My route was the usual, well travelled one via Cd.Victoria as I know that the 'Angeles Verdes' - the 'Green Angels' breakdown service - patrol those roads.

I was wide awake whilst it was still dark - at 5.00AM. Oh well, I felt rested and thought I may as well get an early start by being at the front of the line to cross the bridge at Pharr (which opens at 6.00AM). After showering, packing and finding a gas station with good, fresh, hot coffee I arrived at the bridge at 6.30AM - feeling pleased with myself as the grey pre-dawn light began to fade into sunrise proper.

However, this feeling disspated quickly when I realized that the Federal administration office (which handles immigration, vehicle permits etc etc) did not open until 7.00AM! Que ridiculo, I could hear my wife exclaiming at such nonsense. So I sat on a low wall by the door to the office, drinking coffee and waiting. I was joined by others and soon there was a goodly crowd of people. I heard someone ask where was the line, to be told by another that it was more or less this way and 'he' (meaning, me) was first.

The doors opened. Processing for a 6 month tourist visa was swift. Remember, dear reader, I no longer have an FM2 as I am now, technically, Mexican. However, my British passport is the only travel document I still have and, additionally, I needed an import permit for the truck - which can only be gained whilst playing the foreigner.

The truck's permit took a little longer. I was required to post a bond of US$200 in cash or offer a credit card. No problem - I passed the official my Banco Serfin card, which he refused to accept. Why? Señor, he explained, we do not accept cards from domestic financial institutions as you are supposed to be visiting from outside. Hmmmm....well, I had an HSBC credit card but their machine required the card's PIN number (which I don't have - damn these new Chip/PIN cards!). However, when I offered my HSBC debit card it was accepted without problem and I was thankful that there was enough sterling in that account to cover the US$32 administration charge for the permit.

All this took almost an hour but, by 8.00AM, with permits affixed, passport stamped, visa attached, truck inspected by sullen soldier cadets working for Customs, I passed on towards Reynosa. I espied a new sign, saying that the new road direct from the bridge to the San Fernando/Cd. Victoria highway was open. Excellent news! Not only would this shave 20 minutes off the journey time, it would also allow me to avoid the infamous 'Retorno de Muerte' (the 'Turnout of Death', as I called it) - where one has to merge, without a separate lane, into fast moving traffic to change direction and take the southern highway.

But, the sign lied. The new highway was still under construction and not yet open. Fortunately, traffic was almost at a standstill at my least-favourite junction in all of Mexico and I was able to muscle in to the stream with ease. But, oh! Those roads! I had thought that Quebec was bad and my memory of driving to Tampico in our modern minivan had given me a false sense of the condition. The Beast's solid chassis, leaf springs and worn shock absorbers transmitted every bone-jarring fold of the road straight to my jaw - my teeth ached from the hideous, banging shocks. Unfortunately, conditions did not improve much once clear of Reynosa.

And so the miles and minutes ticked by. Window down, suncream applied, MP3 player playing, I rolled towards Tampico town at a steady 65mph, listening anxiously on the steep grades, cut through the rocky hills near Victoria, for the sound of the torque-converter lockup releasing.

I arrived home at around 2.15PM. Wife and I went to collect daughter from school who, literally, could not believe her eyes and, when realizing it really was Papi, clung to me, sobbingly.

It's good to be home - smells, yells, horns, loud 'thumpa-thumpa' music from every street corner, roaring buses, honking taxis, demolition next door, heat and humidity, the blatting roaring noise of our water pump, the shouting of pedlars in the street outside.

Get me outta ' here!

So - here are the statistics:
Total mileage (km): 3232m (5171Km)
Average mileage (km) per day: 538m (861Km)
Total fuel consumed US gals (Imperial gals./liters): 174 (135//609)
Avg. consumption miles/USgal. (miles/Imp. gals.//Km/liter): 18.6 (24//8.5)

The Long Way Home
Day 5 - Milano to McAllen (370 miles)

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I awoke uncomfortably at dawn. The night had been unsettled. The gas station was busy throughout the night and the high heat (and humidity) had made sleeping uneasy - despite being tired. I was looking forward to today as it meant that I could check in to a hotel for the night in McAllen and bask in air-conditioned splendour, after making liberal use of a hot shower and shaving many days growth from my face.

At least the gas station had semi-decent coffee and, after refueling, oil checking and the like, I hit the road again for the last few miles to Rockdale. I very neatly missed the turning for Highway 77, as the sun was in my eyes and the signage indistinct, but after a swift U-turn I caught the road to the border and was mightily heartened by the end of my journey being in sight.

The sun rose. The radio was tuned to a local AM station from San Antonio and twittered endlessly about the coming scorching weather with 100 degree sunshine. I slathered more suncream on my right arm and snickered at the folk calling-in to the radio show. I was sticking with AM as the previous day's drive, through Arkansas, had revealed an FM wasteland of country music stations, with the same limited play-list, or 'classic rock' stations (nearer large cities) playing The Eagles' "Hotel California". I ruefully reflected that little had changed in this respect since Bill Bryson had made the same observation some 23 years before.

The small towns along the highway had a certain quaintness. I stopped for more coffee in Schulenberg, although this place had a certain amount of 'ribbon development' to it, probably due to the need to service traffic on I-10 between San Antonio and Houston. Soon enough, I was on the new bypass road around Victoria and, from here, the names of the towns were a familiar roll-call, Refugio-Sinton-Odem-San Pedro and so towards Kingsville.

When my wife and I had first travelled to Houston, in the fall of 2003, we had passed through the small town of Kingsville to connect with Highway 281. I had been struck by it's American charm and dubbed it 'Smallville', in honour of the Superman-based TV show I had recently been introduced to. However, when stopping, this time, at a gas station to buy more water, I was confronted by a panhandling drunk, in a very un-Smallville like manner, despite it being just 10.00AM.

Highway 281 is a long, straight road to Edinburg (where it connects with Hwy.83 near McAllen). Passing through the strip-town of Falfurrias, I zealously stuck to the posted speed limit - having once been 'bitten' here for more than US$200 by local police. My wife continues to remind me, when I am driving rather fast, simply by saying the name of that damned place. No matter, the diesel-growly beastie cannot comfortably do more that 65mph for long periods so speeding is not usually an issue.

I made the hotel we usually stay at by 1.30PM. I showered, shaved, luxuriated in the polar blast from the room's A/C unit and connected the laptop PC (thanks to free wireless internet at this particular hotel) to report my whereabouts to SWMBO - who was surprised, to say the least, that I was already a day ahead and resting in McAllen. She took advantage by requesting I bring various items. I went out to re-arrange the cargo area of the truck (no need for air-mattresses now) and clean it up, ready for the final leg.

The Long Way Home
Day 4 - White Mills to Milano (838 miles)

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Once and again, I was caught out by the time zone change. At White Mills, Kentucky, I awoke in the chilly pre-dawn. My clock said 6.30AM - time to go. I hurried to clean myself up, check the oil and tires on the truck and refuel at the gas station where I had stayed overnight. The smell of breakfast in the small cafeteria was enticing and I bought a sausage & egg on a biscuit (what the Brits call a 'scone') and coffee.

Then I remembered the time zone change. Where was the zone border? I asked a mailman, who had entered for his wake-up coffee, and was told that it was just a few miles further down the road. So, in truth, it was nearer 5.30AM and I had gained an hour.

The rising sun blinded me in the rear view mirror as I munched my breakfast and carried on my journey along an empty highway. As Sol rose, so did the temperature in this part of rural Kentucky. By 9.30AM, I was on Highway 51, entering Tennessee and the sun was beginning to get uncomfortably hot on my right arm. Entering Union City, I spied a WalMart and stopped to buy a small tube of suncream - being burned on the whitest part of my upper arm was I thing I could do without.

I followed rural Highway 51 to Memphis (via Ripley and Covington - ignore the map at this point) and soon I was crossing the monumental iron bridges over the mighty Mississippi. How I wished I could have stopped and taken photos at this point! But, alas, the interstate highways of America (especially over bridges) are not places where one stop and play the tourist. So, unfulfilled, I passed through Little Rock and headed for Hope - birthplace of Bill Clinton.

Stopping to check the map against my proposed schedule, I realized I was already ahead by half a day. Passing Memphis in the afternoon was putting me ahead as the miles ticked by. Perhaps, if I pushed hard, I could make Texarkana by sundown stopping time.

I began to realize that it was, in fact, more important for me to hurry on home to wife and family as opposed to tarrying, seeing, pondering and picking at all the potentially interesting things along the way. The journey along Highway 59 from Texarkana had been tough with trucks and construction. Highway 79 was thoroughly rural and I had it to myself for long stretches.Looking at the clock, I began to wonder whether I could make Rockdale - my turning point for Highway 77 to the southern border.

Well, you probably know the answer. It was 9.30PM and thoroughly dark when I pulled in to a busy and brightly lit gas station in Milano, Texas - just 9 miles from Rockdale. I was beat. It was hot. I was sticky and sleepy. Enough driving for one day. I could now make McAllen a day early. It was dark and hot and a buzz of insects could be heard over the drone and roar of the gas station's business. I settled down and dozed uneasily in the humid night.

The Long Way Home
Day 3 - Toronto to White Mills (661 miles)

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I was the first to awake - an uncommon occurrence in a house with two young boys and a sibling of 1 year. I showered briefly and made coffee, biding my time by reading emails until the rest of the house woke up and made the usual familial preparations for the day.

I left just before 8.30AM and hit the road for the US border crossing at Sarnia. It was raining. The skies were leaden. I discovered that my truck had three minor leaks around the windshield. The rain became more intense. I praised my foresight at replacing the wiper blades but cursed the poor seal around the windshield = at least I now knew how the carpets had gotten wet.

The rain eased off after a while and I arrived at the border at about 11.00AM. There were 8 car lanes open, each with about 6 vehicles waiting, so I expected the wait to be brief. Relatively speaking, 25 minutes was a brief wait. I presented my passport, explained where I was going and why. I had to shut off the engine and hand the keys to the guard then open all the doors to allow the sniffity-sniffity sniffing dog to ingest the foul odour of dirty laundry. Then it was off to park on one side and go to the immigration office for an entry permit.

Wow! That was an eye-opener. Clearly, crossing in to Port Huron is preferred by many Canucks to the bridge and tunnels of Detroit. Why this should be, I do not know but it did mean that there was a snakingly long line to wait one's turn for an immigration officer. I had to wait in line for another half hour and then take more than 10 minutes to explain what I had been doing in Canada, where I was going and why. What was to be my address in the US? I had no idea, and told the officer I would be sleeping at interstate highway truck stops. He began to complete a green 'Visa Waiver' form, realized his mistake (I have a 10 year B1/B2 visa for the USA), and began peckingly entering my details on his computer. Finally, after the right-palm-right-thumb-look at the camera-routine, I was able to pay my US$6 and leave.

I had already made arrangements to go to a wrecking yard on the north Dort Highway in Flint, Michigan to collect a compressor for my truck's non-working A/C system. I was not looking forward to an A/C-less drive south but, unfortunately, the repair would have to wait until cheap-labour Mexico.

I had heard that Flint was a run-down, beat-up place. The giants of industry, having taken a beating, had Flint on the ropes. I saw a huge, empty mall complex with 'For Sale/Lease' signs prominent. Along the Dort Highway, on the eastern side of Flint, there were many derelict buildings, abandoned businesses, shuttered stores - a fairly typical milieu for an auto-wrecker. I passed the huge, monolithic GM Truck & Bus plant - where my Chevrolet Suburban had roared into newborn life some 24 years before. I did not see much else of Flint...perhaps I did not need to.

I headed south towards Toledo and Dayton. This part of Ohio was pleasant enough - even if part of the rust belt. At Dayton, I had toyed with the idea of looking for the old plant of National Cash Register Inc., where the brilliant engineer Joseph Desch had laboured to design and build a decryption machine to beat the Nazi Kriegsmarine cipher. But it was after lunchtime, and I felt that I needed to make more mileage that day.

I pushed on southwards towards Cincinnati. Scanning the radio, again, I decided to switch to AM and was assaulted by the strident tones of Michael Savage, a conservative talk show host in the Rush Limbaugh mould. I was transported back to early-90's Los Angeles and a workshop with a radio permanently tuned to KFI. Crackly, spitty and snarly, Savage's voice howled with the heterodyne but, ultimately, was entertaining.

Before I knew it, I was past Cincinnati and rolling towards the outskirts of Louisville. It was around 6.00PM by this time and I stopped for a refreshing coffee (which, actually, was quite foul). My attention was caught by a large map on the wall of the gas station's store. I had been in two minds whether to take I-65 to Nashville or cut off just past Elizabethtown and take the Wendell Ford Parkway towards Paducah.

I liked the idea of a 'parkway' as opposed to roaring along a multi-lane interstate. This was to be my first major diversion. I would take the back roads to Memphis but then the interstate to Little Rock and Texarkana - there I would take back roads again.

And so, in the hastening twilight, I turned off Interstate 65 and on to Highway 31. At the first junction that advertised a gas station, with lights on (for it was now past 9.00PM), I left the highway and found myself at a lonely intersection with an aged-looking Texaco station. But, wonder of wonders, it had a small cafeteria and pizzeria attached - with free wireless Internet! I asked the florid man on the cash desk if I might park around back for the night. He was friendly, and gave me a free coffee whilst I used their Internet access to let me nearest and dearest know where, and how, I was.

The Long Way Home
Day 2 - Cornwall to Toronto (246 miles)

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As is customary, I awoke with the birds greeting the first light - and promptly forgot that it was actually an hour earlier, due to the time change from Atlantic to Eastern time. No matter, an early start was OK. It was 6.30AM when I found the nearest Timmies, and tarried awhile with morning coffee as I had no desire to hit the rush hour of Toronto.

I had reckoned on being about four hours away and, even so, I still managed to hit the mother of all traffic jams by the Don Mills Parkway, on the eastern edge of the city of Toronto. Well, there was no rush. I turned off at Bloor Street, in order to make a valedictory drive through downtown, and headed towards Mississauga.

Even after completing the few errands I had, I still found myself in Burlington by 2.00PM - there to cadge a shower and bed for the night in return for taking a small mountain of gifts to Tampico. My hosts were kind enough to feed me and I sat chatting, with a beer or three and the man of the house - whose opinion I value highly on nearly all matters.

The Long Way Home
Day 1 - Truro to Cornwall (777 miles)

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I had already packed my bags, inflated the airbed, made lunchly sandwiches, checked the oil and fed the deaf cat by the time 8.00AM had rolled around. Truro was quiet in its Sunday morning slumber, apart from the usual joggers and dog-walkers (and dog-joggers). I decided to leave, after writing a note of thanks to the lady in whose house I had been made welcome.

I fueled up at the last gas station in town before joining the mighty Trans-Canadian Highway. I paid my C$4 toll, to take the shorter route, and was surprised at how quickly the scenery passed by and the tall towers of the Sackville RCI facility came in to view.Scanning the FM radio bands for distraction, I happened upon one advantage of the Sunday tranquility. CBC-1 played a continuation of programmes that were either entertaining or interesting - often both. It was publicly-funded talk radio at its Radio-4 influenced best and highly enjoyable.

The drive through New Brunswick was uneventful. The dramatic scenery, of pines and rivers, was mine to savour alone - it being a Sunday, there was almost no traffic. I had seen an example of Canadian wildlife the previous week - a deer had flashed across the road in a white-tailed fury, almost in front of me, near Brookfield - and I had heard that bears had been spotted on this section of the highway. Those canny ursae, however, remained hidden - perhaps they were partying with the moose, who were also conspicuously absent.

I rolled along at a steady pace - dictated by the need to keep the beastly, clattering diesel engine happy and not bellow clouds of roaring black smoke. After some six hours, I pulled in at the service station in Degelis, where I had stopped three weeks before. However, upon seeing the price of fuel - C$1.00 a litre (US$3.00 a US gallon), and an increase of 5 cents over just three weeks - I resolved to wait until I was closer to a major urban centre. However, I had forgotten that this would be Quebec City and that the fuel price was unlikely to be any lower. I gritted my teeth, pulled out my Santander-Serfin credit card, fueled and paid.

Now, I can well understand that the price of fuel may be higher in remote areas due to the difficulty of transport. However, fuel is uniformly expensive across Quebec and, as I found out later, this is due to high Provincial taxes being levied.

Well, they certainly were not spending that tax money on road maintenance! The Trans-Canadian becomes a miserable, two lane affair from the border with New Brunswick to Riviere-du-Loup. Pitted and potted, rutted and rotted, bumpy and wavy, it did not improve from Riviere onwards, but at least became two lanes in each direction - more like a proper expressway. My 24 year old truck is an elderly lady with weak springs, so the ride can be harshly jarring. Fortunately, I had put in extra seat padding some weeks before, whilst still in Toronto, so it was not too uncomfortable.

Soon, I was crossing the bridge in to Montreal. I had vowed to avoid this place, after the previous experience, but I had reckoned that it being Sunday, traffic would be light. I was correct. Traffic moved rapidly through the city centre. The expressways were fast, but in godawful condition, and I was soon on the 401 MacDonald-Cartier Freeway. I decided to stop, at around 8.30PM, and pulled in to a large, empty parking lot of a disused gas station. Soon, it was dark and quiet. I opened a window a little, for ventilation, completed my log of mileage and gas consumption, cleaned my teeth and settled down to sleep.

Leaving...Again

Bags are being packed, again. I have decided to leave tomorrow, after church (wherein I shall pray for safe deliv'rance). This is a day ahead of schedule, but it gives me more flexibility to meander from my planned route to examine the minutiae of small-town America - should I so desire. I have already planned a major deviation from Memphis onwards to avoid the Dallas-San Antonio corridor...which, as I know from a previous, bitterly slothful journey, is often choked with commuter traffic.

I also have errands to run in Toronto - buying a cloyingly sweet raspberry liqueur that wifey is partial to and taking gifts to Tampico from friends in Burlington - as well as in Flint, Michigan - there to buy a used air-conditioning compressor from a wrecker's yard and, hopefully, have them install it with a minimum of fuss and financial outlay.

Things have come to a natural pause in Truro. The regional development agency has agreed to support my application for Provincial nomination. I have been in touch with the human resource departments of several more major employers in the area - with varying results. I have had certain, key Spanish documents translated and notarized here to support our application - better than having it done in Mexico and it obviates the need for an apostille (which, god alone knows, would be difficult to secure in Mexico - to say nothing of the impending need for police reports there!).

So, my return journey begins in less than 24 hours and I expect to be back in this region, to return to 'British America' in about six months.

Return to British America

There was a time when they said, "The sun never sets on the British Empire", meaning that said empire spanned the globe and parts were always in daylight. Many colonial possessions of that era prefixed the country name with "British", as in: British India; British Palestine; British Yemen; British Aden; British Honduras; British Guyana; British Malaya.

So in this spirit, I have decided to 'rename' the former Dominion of Canada as "British America", for what it could have been.

Now, in some ways, Canada is more British than Britain. It certainly seems more socialist, in some respects, yet there is also a very definite American flavour of the wild-west in places such as Alberta and Newfoundland - where harsh conditions and sheer distance from the centres of political power have meant, by and large, people being left alone to get on with it.

But what's this? The obverse of the coinage bears the head of, "Elizabeth II, Dei Gratia Regina" - Queen by the grace of God. The country has a Prime Minister. Many words are spelled in their British forms: colour; centre; labour; kerb; aluminium. There is a publicly funded TV and radio network (that also seems to act as either a government mouthpiece or lapdog). The climate and appearance (at least in this part of Nova Scotia) of the place is reassuringly British. Even the place names and the pronunciation of 'about' make it feel like a strangely familiar home.

So, I am returning home to a place that is new yet combines elements of the familiar from many stages of my past.

Second Impressions - Deaf Cat & Grunge

The house I am currently staying in has a small, aged, marmalade cat. A passive creature, this cat labours under the disability of being profoundly deaf. What that means for its human keepers is being attentive to its ghastly shrieks, that pass for 'miaows', when it needs to enter or leave the house. Being deaf, it has no idea, presumably, of what it sounds like or how loud. I wonder if this has altered its perception of how best to communicate? I have taken to calling it 'el gatito sordo'.

On a different note, I went to a local careers counseling office the other day. This office is adjacent to a high school, from whence the students were leaving. Now, I realize that kids of 16 and 17 are generally not in the moulds of "High School Musical", or even "Beverley Hills 90210" but, quite frankly, these kids looked they were on their way to star as extras in a Nirvana video (OK, maybe not Nirvana, since Mr.Cobain ate his shotgun some 18 years ago, but you get the idea). The high school kids I have seen around Tampico are usually much better groomed, much tidier and conscious of their appearance, even if not in uniform.

I had a very positive meeting with the maintenance manager of one of the larger residential care homes in the area - surely, a growth industry. He was enthusiastic about my resume and has sent it to the corporate office in Halifax where, apparently, they have vacancies. My earlier idea of business investment and retraining has had its appeal dampened somewhat by the realization that I would have to spend many years at minimum wage (or just above) during training. The careers counsellor suggested that I have a strong skill-set for general commercial management and should not encounter undue difficulty finding work. I keep my fingers crossed, however...

Networking has been made somewhat easier, however, by the general desire of most people to help one. The name of the maintenance manager was given to me by a local realtor, for example, I am hoping that other connections may be forthcoming.

Looking forward, SWMBO ('She Who Must Be Obeyed', that is, my dear wife) has asked, and indicated a strong preference, for my being back in Tampico by July 9th. I have been looking at maps to see how this might be accomplished and conclude that I must leave NS on July 3rd (Truro-Quebec, Quebec-Toronto, Toronto-Cincinnati, Cincinnati-Memphis, Memphis-Dallas, Dallas-McAllen, a much needed night in a hotel then onwards to Tampico the following day). Too bad I won't be able to have the truck's air-conditioner repaired before venturing southwards to tropical climes.

So, many things still to accomplish and just two weeks left. Time to plan and get busy.

First Impressions & A Meeting

I have done a good deal of walking, these last few days, around this small and charming town. It is clean, orderly and tranquil - like most of the places I have seen in this country - and with a rural quaintness. Yet, it is far from being poor, or down-at-heel or slovenly. Naturally, it lacks aspects of public infrastructure (such as transport) that one may find in a large urban area, but, on the whole, everything the inhabitants could need, or want, is provided for.

Curiously, it was the very compactness of Truro that initially scared my wife in to thinking that it was the very centre of 'Bum-fu*k Egypt' - miles of nothingness ending in an oasis of emptiness. And yet, it seems, this small shire town has better facilities than Tampico - given the size difference. And even if we are lacking, Halifax is but an hour away and the Internet (thanks to an efficient and honest Canada Post service) may also bring the world to our door.

So - positive first impressions. And with the positive spirit these engendered, I had my first meeting with the local Regional Development Association. It is they who must approve, tune and channel my application to the Provincial government for Permanent Residency on the basis that I may make a net economic and social contribution to the community.

Our initial meeting lasted almost two hours and I was received positively. The individual with whom I spoke seemed genuinely committed to helping immigrants in to the area and introduced me to some valuable contacts. The next step is to formulate a 'Letter of Intent', which will form the basis for our application to the Provincial government, and my contact (and new ally) in this process has set up another meeting, for next week, so that we may discuss what may be said and how best to say it. This positive start to the final stages of my 'quest' has cheered me greatly.

New adventures are just around the corner...I can't see them yet, but I know they are there.

Toronto To Truro - Trip Of Past Lives
Day 1

Poring over maps, and consulting Google's distance calculator, I had reckoned on driving between 8 and 10 hours each day. This would have put me around Quebec City for the night's stop at the end of Day 1. Prior experience in long distance driving meant I thought I would become weary, with aching right knee (from holding the has pedal at a constant angle, without the benefit of cruise control), after 5 hours.

The day began early. I made coffee, showered, packed the last few bits and pieces and sent the last few email messages. I brought the truck, from where it had been parked 6 blocks away, owing to my parking permit being expired, around in front of the house and made ready. I set off just before 9.00AM, the first mile of many.

The initial part of the route on Hwy.401 was familiar. I listened to the news, scanned the FM bands for entertaining music (thanking all the while my foresight at fitting a new antenna) and watching the flatlands of southern Ontario pass by. The day was bright and warm and I had intended to stop for lunch in or near Montreal. However, I had not reckoned on the complexity of the road system around that city, nor the fact that much of it was under repair and choked with slow moving traffic. I cursed my lack of preparation in not researching alternative routes but then, I reflected, how was I to know?

So I relaxed, went with the flow, munched my prepared sandwiches, and crawled along with the traffic. I had bottles of water, chewy cereal bars and wanted for nothing. That said, I did stop near Drummondville, to refuel, and was momentarily nonplussed by being spoken to in French by the gas station cashier. Back on the road, and scanning the FM radio, I could not find any English language broadcasts and reflected on how strange it was that the whole of Canada was bilingual, with the exception of that very territory whose inhabitants had demanded such bilingualism. All the roadsigns were in French - good thing the accompanying pictograms were international!

So I pushed on, in the lengthening day. By late afternoon, and passing Quebec City, I checked the map and realized that I could reach Riviere du Loup, the junction for Hwy.2 through New Brunswick, before long. Cheered by the fact that I could be more than halfway, I resolved to drive until it was dark. This resolution actually took me past Riviere du Loup and 50 miles further on, to the town of Degelis. Here, at 9.00PM, I pulled in to a large, 24 hour gas station that had a big compound attached. I asked the attendant if it was OK to stay the night, "Mais oui, bien sur Monsiuer", said he.

I drove over to a corner of the compound, under a tall sodium lamp. There I set up my bedding in the rear of the truck and settled down to sleep. A long day. A journey of almost 600 miles and 12 hours at the wheel. Despite not feeling as tired as I had expected, I slept soundly.

Toronto To Truro - Trip Of Past Lives
Day 2

The day started when I awoke with the birds at daybreak - 5.30AM. Only, of course, it was only my clock telling me it was 05.30 as I had forgotten to take in to account that, as we were in the Atlantic time zone, it was really 6.30AM. No matter. I would have been woken by the cold anyway. My nose and face felt frozen, even if the rest of me was toasty in my sleeping bag, atop an air mattress, in the back of the belly of my Big Blue Beast.

I made a brief toilet, with wet-wipes and alcohol gel, before putting on clean underclothes. I went to get coffee from the truck stop store - machine made but very tasty at that time of the morning - and returned to the vehicle to check oil and tires, tidy up and make ready to leave - the promise of hot breakfast further ahead. Passing the diesel fuel pumps I was momentarily astounded by the, relatively, high price of 95 cents/liter - considerably more than in Toronto, pricier than even Quebec.

No matter, I refueled and hit the road again, the sun streaming across the hilly, pine-covered countryside of New Brunswick.

Climbing towards Edmundston, I spied a river, moving sluggishly below, the sun glinting strongly on its surface. Road signs warned of the danger of moose, especially at night, and advised vigilance - how I would love to see a moose! The air was crisp, and scented by the mountainous countryside. The road was hilly and in order to climb several long grades I had to drop gear and make the engine roar, watching anxiously in the mirrors for black smoke, but there was none.

Still thinking of coffee and breakfast, and becoming weary of the bad news on CBC-1 (so redolent of the sneering, left-liberal tones of BBC Radio 4 that I remembered so well), I pulled in to another large gas station, near the town of Perth-Andover, that had a restaurant attached. But, woe! The restaurant was but an empty room, bereft of fixtures and fittings. Once again, machine made coffee and a 'fresh' pastry from the attached gas station convenience store served to assuage my hunger pangs. No matter, onwards to lunch in Fredericton, where I would tarry a while.

And so the journey continued at leisurely pace. With my arm leaning insouciantly on the window sill, and my baseball cap (old, weathered and with a 'Cisco Systems' logo) at a jaunty angle, I purred along. Not being in any particular hurry, I reflected on past and present, listened to the radio, grew a little bored (occasionally), and (rarer till) wished I still smoked.

Presently, the town of Fredericton drew near but I decided to savour (as much as one can) a McDonalds burger, fries and shake. By this time, the gas stations and highway stops were thronging with vacationing families, children and dogs in tow, who jostled around the multitudes of RV's - clearly, this was serious tourist traffic building up. I ate quickly, refilled my soda and left.

Winding my way towards the southern butt-end of New Brunswick, I was approaching Sackville - a place I knew of by late night listening to the shortwaves, "This is Radio Canada International, broadcasting from Sackville", followed by the opening four notes of 'O, Canada!', before the same was repeated in French.

Cresting a long hill, I could see clearly the expanse of the Tantramar Marshes, and the antenna farm of the RCI facility loomed large in the distance as a series of towers. Upon driving close by, however, it was apparent that they were, indeed, towers of heroic proportions and connected by an intricate spiders-web of steel cablings, the whole topped by red beacon lights. From here, other shortwave stations, by exchange agreement, broadcast their programmes far and wide, including the BBC World Service and Radio China.

Immediately after Sackville came the border with Nova Scotia - suitably marked by a lighthouse and nautical theme...I was but 90 minutes from my destination at this point. I had already decided to approach Truro by a scenic route of the Wentworth Valley and made a small diversion to a pottery in the calmly quaint village of Tatamagouche - there to see (and purchase) a famed item of shaving equipment, the Moss Lather Scuttle, word of whose utility had been spread far and wide thanks to the Internet - making the potter a good deal in the process.

And so, crossing the Salmon River, I entered the trim and tidy town of Truro...journey's end, for now.

Toronto To Truro - Trip Of Past Lives Part I
Past is Prologue

Ever since I fell to reading Kerouac, as an earnest teenager working on a kibbutz in Israel, I had clouded fantasies of traveling by road. Driving, alone, crossing vast continents, swathes of cultures and peoples. I planned excursions worthy of Odysseus, and even contemplated, at one time, traveling from 'Cairo to Cape' - the African east coast - by Land Rover.

Later, and in a more 'beat' vein, and when I lived in the unreality of Los Angeles, I purchased a VW Camper, with plans of driving by minor roads across the great, aching vastness of the continental United States. Again, this was imagined, alone, with but a snub-nose .357 Police Special hidden under one seat and a baggie of fine mota under the other seat.

Again, these plans came to naught.

And, once I made long distance journeys across the southern Texas panhandle, from the border, across the Valley to Houston, I realized what boredom awaited a solitary traveler - especially one motoring by modern, reliable, rapid minivan. I read Bill Bryson's account of his trans-America driving, and reflected, that one has to have sufficient leisure that the destination itself is almost without meaning, when one can truly relax to enjoy the journey.

My dashing hither and thither across Texas was not enjoyable simply because I was focused on the clock and my destination. This time, I resolved to make an attempt to try and capture the spirit I had imagined I would make my earlier, youthful journeys in. A vehicle that is slow, heavy and noisy (yet comfortable) was a good start. Driving at 60mph, without cruise control, maintains the right state of mind for one to enjoy the passing scenery, and feel the freshness of the air, redolent with strange, non-urban smells, as one drives with window down and arm resting.

Making Ready...Again

Friday morning is 'M-Hour'. Bags packed, vehicle loaded and fueled, tire pressures and fluid levels checked, maps marked...a two day drive to Nova Scotia. I am reckoning on 5 hour sessions at the wheel. This should put me just north of Quebec City by Friday evening. I'll stay overnight in a truck stop - fortunately, my big blue beast of a Chevy Suburban is big enough to stretch out in - and hit the road again Saturday morning to cross New Brunswick, arriving in Truro, NS later afternoon.

And then I have just 2 months to make an impression and garner the support of the local government authorities for my intended application. This means having to establish some kind on connection to the community and research the potential for either paid employment or, my preferred option, an apprenticeship by means of investing in a business.

I have reached a painful awareness that I am not well suited for life as a salaryman in Toronto, simply because what experience I have parlayed thus far, is insufficient for the career field and skill level of a comparable position here. Hence, the plan of retraining into a concrete, manual trade that can be used wherever I may find myself. I am reasonably mechanically inclined and I have often wondered why I did not take this route in past...pues, ni modo.

Thoughts On The Great White Job Hunt - Part V
Moving

I have decided, although it has taken a while for the advantages of this course to have revealed themselves, that I shall move to Truro, Nova Scotia, at the end of this month.

There I will seek Permanent Residency via the Community Identified Stream of the NS Provincial Nominee Program. The ostensible purpose of my coming to Canada was to seek PR. The method I chose has turned out to be fraught with difficulties, some cultural and some economic. Hence, I owe it to myself and family to actively pursue alternative approaches that lead to the same goal.

The Canadian Federal Government has authorized its provinces to nominate individuals for Permanent Residency based on whatever criteria those Provincial Governments consider suitable for their particular circumstances. Almost without exception, these programs require one to have pre-arranged employment, or family members who can support the applicant. Nova Scotia, however, and, presumably, in an effort to repopulate certain parts of that province, has decreed that it will nominate individuals who can demonstrate a commitment to establishing themselves in a community without needing to have employment.

The initial approach must be done through a development authority authorized by the provincial government to select and nominate individual migrants. I have chosen Truro, the county town of Colchester County, on the advice of many other expatriates. Indeed, my first queries have been met with encouraging responses from the development authority of that part of Nova Scotia. I have sent them a resume, discussed our plans and indicated what we wish to do. They seem to be supportive.

I now have to move to that area and show that I wish to become a part of that community and that I can make a valid and worthwhile contribution to it. By the end of August, I should be in a position to file an application for nomination with the Provincial government. If this is approved, it allows me to work on a Temporary Work Permit whilst my application for PR is dealt with on a fast-track by the Canadian embassy in Mexico DF (the country I have to apply from). By all accounts, I should then have PR status with 6-9 months.

It almost sounds too good to be true. We shall see.

Sixth Impressions - The Humber River Trail

Many cities are established at the crossing point of a river. As the city grows, it straddles the river and makes it part of the urban landscape. Many such places allow the pedestrianization of the river banks, so one may promenade gracefully, and at one's leisure, contemplating the serenely flowing waters.

Tampico, unfortunately, was built up along one bank of the Rio Panuco and, because river banks are under federal control in Mexico, the navigable waterway is lined by wharves, docks, oil terminals, warehouses and other industrial detritus - it is not possible to walk along the banks of that river.

In western Toronto, the principal waterway, the Humber River, flows in to Lake Ontario through a long deep valley. It was never possible to develop the banks, due to the depth of the valley itself, and so a trail has been established alongside the river for public enjoyment of a few moments of calm.

Today, I walked this trail, from Eglington Avenue to Bloor Street, in the warm spring sunshine. The Humber river - burbling, bubbling and babbling along on my right - provided a restful backdrop to the unexpected solitude, interrupted only by birdsong. The trail was a level, compacted gravel path, for pedestrians, alongside a macadam roadway for bikes and skaters - yet I saw very few of either.

I sat on a low quayside, my feet just inches above a small weir, inhaling the scent of the river and reflecting on my great good fortune to be able to be in that place at such a time, relatively free of mundane concerns.

The sun was warm and felt good. I was peaceful.

Fifth Impressions - Spring Hath Sprung In Toronto

The other week, we had a few good downpours of rain followed by balmier weather. This seems to have encouraged the flora and fauna to go into annual growth mode and, as a result, we are seeing green lawns, croci and snowdrops. The temperatures are on the up and up and I think it is safe to say that spring has arrived in this part of the world.

I took a walk today, in the pleasantly warm sunshine, around our neighbourhood. On quiet side streets, small children were playing outside, riding their bikes, chalking hopscotch grids on the pavements and enjoying the boisterousness of dodging their older siblings, who were playing street hockey and rushing pell-mell in roller skates.

Many older folk had exhumed their 'summer' cars, whence they had been garaged against the salt and ravages of the winter, and were busy washing and polishing. Convertibles had their tops down, treasured vehicles were being lovingly shined, and fat-tail Harley Davidsons were being roared around, in that gutturally hoggish way they have, by middle-aged and bearded men, bearing their wistfulness for lost youth like a shield.

Many younger folk could be seen in shorts and sandals. I smiled somewhat ruefully at such public displays of bone-white flesh, but they seemed to be enjoying it. Not once did I see a hot cup of Timmie's best brew in hand, nor winter caps, reddened noses or heavy boots. Joggers were about and aplenty - weekend masochists, all of them.

Spring has come to Toronto. I love it.

Thoughts On The Great White Job Hunt - Part IV
A Realignment

Over the past few weeks, I have come to understand a good deal more about the process I find myself involved in, with regard to securing employment, and the differing opinions that can influence one's strategy. Generally, it is accepted that the great majority of the vacancies in the typical job-market here are the ones that go unadvertised. These are only heard about through one's social and professional networks. Hence, the potential migrant is encouraged to develop such networks in order to access those 'hidden' vacancies.

However, I have discerned that this approach carries certain disadvantages for those in my position - a potential migrant staying on a visitor visa and seeking employment via a Temporary Work Permit (TWP).

As a visitor seeking a TWP, I am limited to those employers who are prepared to deal with the application for a federal permission to hire a foreigner - a "Labour Market Opinion" (LMO). Additionally, as I intend to use my TWP as a basis for an application for Permanent Residency (PR), I am further limited to applying for positions that fall within a narrow range of skill categories and employment types - the constraints being imposed by the PR application process itself.

All this would be complex enough, but there are additional important requirements. Any employer seeking an LMO must have advertised the vacancy Canada-wide for at least 14 days prior to the LMO application being made. Furthermore, the LMO application has to give details on the numbers of suitable Canadian applicants that came forward, and state why it is preferable to hire the foreigner.

The advertising requirement is easily met by the use of the federal 'Job-Bank' service, but it exposes the knowledge of the vacancy to a very large pool of job-seekers. This in itself might be no bad thing, but let us consider that a small company may lack sufficient resources to screen and interview from such a large pool of candidates, and may prefer to hire from within their own professional network, or via candidates selectively introduced to them.

So, the potential migrant, hoping to secure employment whilst staying on a visitor visa, is already disadvantaged. If he establishes a social-professional network and this offers employment opportunities, then they must be opportunities that have been previously advertised publicly, or are with organizations that can handle the potential volume of applicants from such advertising. Additionally, the migrant can only seek employment in those fields where he can verify his prior experience to the required federal standard.

In effect, I am prevented from walking in to my nearest Tim Hortons and asking for a job to tide me over whilst I seek other opportunities in fields that may not be directly related to what I have been doing these last 10 years or so.

The realignment, then, comes in the longer-term approach to the issue of gaining PR. It has come to my attention that there are other schemes, at Provincial level, that may offer opportunities. I am researching some of them and expect to be able to report in the near future.

Fourth Impressions - A Long Walk Home

Yesterday evening, I attended a mass meet-up of fellow British expatriates in a bar downtown. As with all such places, smoking was forbidden - hence small groups standing on the sidewalk outside, shivering in the sub-zero temperature and their nicotine haze. The gathering was congenial and I thoroughly enjoyed hearing accents I have not heard in many years, partaking of quantities of very expensive Newcastle Brown Ale, and conversing on common experiences.

Upon leaving at 11.30PM, itself a late hour by my British standard, I decided to walk along Bloor Street a ways, intending to catch the subway from Spadina, or at some point, to complete the journey home. The downtown area was lively, but not overly so. There was none of the rowdiness and latent violence that characterises a late Friday night in London.

The night air was crisp and still and I passed through the Koreatown district, with its riot of strange symbols on the shopfronts. I saw trash trucks and taxis, late restaurants and small bars. The retail activity began to thin out and the hour progressed. Still I kept on walking and observing, thoughts of the subway now to the back of my mind.

By 12.30AM I was still strolling along Bloor, but now all was closed and still. I heard the singing and hissing of gas pressure regulators in front of darkened buildings. I heard the rushing of effluvia through subterranean channels at the gratings of sidestreet intersections. I heard the distant crashing boom of dumspters being emptied by the ever-busy trash collectors.

Soon, I was at Dundas Street and I decided that I may as well complete my journey on foot. The streets were empty. The streetlights bright in the cold, dry night air. My head was clear and I swung my arms in a purposeful gait, thinking about similar circumstances in my past...

Passing Thoughts On The Immigrant Experience - Part I

Having been here almost five weeks, I have had the opportunity to interact with a good many people involved in diverse areas of the society here. One thing that has struck me is that the question, "How long have you been in Canada?" may be safely asked, with reasonable certitude, of any person who does not have an sub-american accent or an Anglo-Saxon name. I make this observation in a fraternal spirit, being that I am recently arrived.

Yesterday, due to a niggling misfortune, I awaited a tow-truck. The driver of this vehicle was a burly man with skin of a dark shade that I have not seen in many years. I complimented his vehicle (it was new and he was obviously proud of it), and joked that I would like one too. We chatted about life here and he was surprised when I told him that I was 'fresh off the boat', having lived in Mexico for the last few years. We compared experiences amiably, bonded by neither of us being indigenous to the place. With broad grins and wishes for good fortune, we concluded our business upon arrival at the garage I had specified.

The auto-repair shop was owned and operated by an rotund, elderly, yet spry, Greek gentleman - another recent arrival with not yet five years in the country. His English was excellent and, upon learning I had come from Mexico, launched into a series of tales about the travels he and his wife had enjoyed around the Yucatan. In turn, I told of my life in north London in a neighborhood with a historical and extensive Greek community, of my immediate neighbor who had never bothered to learn English and, at 82 years old, was not likely to given that she could visit her brethren for all her needs. We shared coffee and experiences and, when I told him I had been a mechanic's assistant in California, he beamed widely and invited me to inspect the workshop and tools while we discussed the best approach for my vehicle's repair.

Despite my wallet being lightened by the day's misfortunes, I felt immensely cheered by these simple human interactions and heartened that I could speak freely of my concerns with like-minded folk. It did my soul a power of good.

Thoughts On The Great White Job Hunt - Part III

I have come to notice an interesting behaviour on the part of those who wish to employ one. Simply put, there seems to be very little sense of urgency in the speed of their response, even though an advertisement may specify an immediate start.

Why does this appear to be so?

I had heard that the Canadian employment culture had a tendency towards being somewhat laid-back, even though one was advised to present oneself as a 'go-getter' in interview. However, I seem to be on a thin line between laid-back and comatose. It does nothing for one's confidence.

However, a contrary view could be that one is supposed to take an active role and chase, rather than a passive one that awaits a response. I shall report on the outcome of this strategy in due course.

Return Of The 'Whenwe'

I saw this article on a blog that I occasionally visit. It seemed to me to offer an updated explanation of Orwell's famed wistfulness on what it meant to be English, and why Britain was best.

Enjoy "The Best Eleven Things About England"

Thoughts On The Great White Job Hunt - Part II

There was some good news recently when HRSDC (Human Resources and Skills Development Canada) lowered the bar for the prior advertising of job vacancies for employers seeking permission to hire a foreigner on a temporary work permit. Advertising a vacancy for 14 days on the Job Bank website is now considered sufficient.

The downside is, naturally, that more Canadians are being laid off as the recession continues to bite. Hence, obtaining that permission might actually be now more difficult than before.

As a "compare and contrast" exercise, though, I do want to comment on some of the differences in the job searching and hiring culture here, as opposed to that I experienced in the UK. In Canada, it seems very difficult to obtain a speculative interview with an employment agent. Generally, they will ask that one sends a resume in order to cross-check against their client requirements. They do not seem that interested in meeting with one as a potential candidate. My experience in London was usually the opposite in this regard.

But why is this important? Given that the two principal sources of leads for advertised vacancies are the aforementioned Job Bank, and aggregator sites such as Workopolis, there are many instances where the use of employment agencies is the preferred option. Despite the claims about the "hidden job market", supposedly only accessible by networking contacts, it seems that agencies still command a large portion of the market and their apparent sloth in establishing relationships with promising candidates does no bode well.

Snow

It's snowing here right now. 10.15AM, mid-February. Incredible.

The recent thaw had ensured, with the help of the local municipality, that the only large piles of rock-solid snow were those shrinking on people's front lawns. Sidewalks, gutters, roads, alleys, parking-lots and other rights-of-way had been cleared.

Now everything is being dusted again, like God's Pastrycook is sprinkling icing sugar over everything at a leisurely pace. The skies are a leaden, ashen, lowering, filled with dread (at least, to my eyes), even though very little snow is actually forecast.

It looks nice from in here. I like it.

Third Impressions

Tim Hortons coffee is not to my liking. It has a strangely burnt, caramel taste to it - no matter from whence it was served. However, to judge by the winter-wrapped multitudes, with lidded cup of Hortons brew welded to one hand, many seem to like it. In fact, walking whilst carrying a hot drink seems to be something of a national pastime here. I wonder if summer will see the appearance of frappucinos?

It is certainly very pleasant to have good bookstores around once again. There are two used book emporia just minutes from my front door, shelves stacked and racked with pulp paperbacks, serious literature, dusty tomes and longshot poems (of the kind for broke players and Mr. Bukowski), and an ever-helpful, stooped owner willing to chat of this and that.

So many things to wonder at, to gaze upon fondly and reminisce to see if, verily, their absence has made the heart grow fonder. Cleanliness, order, discipline, trust, civility, tranquility...such things cannot simply be dismissed as being a part of a Protestant work ethic and yet, my senses tell me that the people here have made such a better place with what they have than my former abode.

Second Impressions

My first full day of solitude in this strangely familiar place that will be called home - at least for the foreseeable future.

I am now installed on the top floor (the attic that was) of a refurbished Victorian house, close by Dundas & Runnymede and about a 20 minute walk to the nearest subway station. The area is eerily reminiscent of that part of North London that I had lived in during a former life. The architectural style of the houses, their age, the gentrification of fashionable eateries placed cheek-by-jowl with the now run-down businesses of former generations. The houses here are often expensive, even when not refurbished, and priced even higher when refitted for the next generation.

So I walked, this morning, to the subway, along wide, clean streets in good order and repair. At Bloor Street, there is much commercial activity, stretching in to the distance. The subway car was much wider and taller than those found in London but the stations were plainer. The journey was smoothly rapid and I alighted at Bathurst station, to walk further along Bloor Street. Despite Canada's generous welfare system and the multitude of luxury stores along this stretch of Bloor, I encountered many beggars, more than in downtown Tampico, in fact.

The day was a relatively mild three degrees above freezing as I walked past the Royal Ontario Museum towards the Bloor & Yonge intersection. Here, just on the northern edge of Toronto's downtown hub of commerce, there were many business people about, clad in dark suits and hurrying purposely. I could have been standing at the corner Cheapside and Moorgate in the heart of the City of London, such was the familiarity of the scene.

The walking was enjoyable exercise yet the day was cold. I returned home, by the same means, with only a brief detour via a used book merchant to browse a little and reflect on the wholly unexpected sense of deja-vu that had followed me this day.

First Impressions

We've had a busy few days, seeing some sights (like any other tourists) and getting out and about. I have been to a couple of different supermarkets and a nearby mall. I have heard many accents, especially sub-British, and I think this may be biasing my initial opinion that this is a place with a definite British cultural flavour (eg: Queen Elizabeth II on the coins, British English spellings, British influenced institutions) but with an American openness in personal dealings and urban development.

Saturday, it was up the CN Tower, monument to the productive energy of man. It was certainly an interesting visit, with fantastic views as would befit the world's tallest structure being used as a viewing platform. Sunday, we visited the Royal Ontario Museum and took a brief stroll around downtown. The museum was interesting but of limited scope. The original brick, neo-classical building has been appallingly disfigured by a modern extension to its facade. It is of such stark hideousness that Prince Charles's comments about architectural carbuncles sprang to mind.

Yesterday, we took daughter to the Toronto Zoo. Sadly, most of the larger animals were tucked away for the winter but, on the bright side, it was a clear, sunny day and we had great fun with snowball fights. That made it an expensive day for snow-play but great fun, nonetheless.

Today, after buying a new a pay-as-you-go cellphone at that Great Temple to Capitalism that is Walmart, I began the hunt for accommodation via Craigslist. This is an eye-opener in itself and makes me realize just how big and spread out the Greater Toronto Area is. Fortunately, I have inside information on what areas are good and which are to be avoided.

Time is a ticking and the serious business has to start soon.

Landed

We arrived this afternoon, after a two-and-a-half hour flight from Houston, to sub-zero temperatures in Toronto. After hiring a car we hit the Queen Elizabeth expressway for Burlington. The expressways and principal streets were all ploughed and salted, but side-streets had large, banked snow deposits and inches of snowfall.

I was immediately struck by the fact that the service personnel we dealt with in this initial stage were all non-white. I understand that this is a nation of immigrants and, today, that ethereality was made real.

The cold (minus 7 Centigrade) does not seem too debilitating. It is dry. There is no wind.

Tomorrow, the supermarket. I am beginning to think that this place combines Anglo-American culture and first-world infrastructure. More later...

Prequel III - Making Ready & Tying Loose Ends

It's a week of completing unfinished business and incomplete tasks.

Yesterday, it was re-arranging the smaller store to condense everything in to half the existing space (as we have sold the other half to another merchant who will soon erect a partition). Today, I was building storage racking in the main store's upper storage areas - something that should have been done twenty years ago. This task was completed in half a day and work was only halted when a power drill bit (being used as a screwdriver) jumped and bit a chunk from the fleshy tip of my left thumb - ouch!

Tomorrow, it's more rack building and a visit to the dentist - the better to head off any trouble. Winter coats have been exhumed, from whence they have lain these last five tropical cold-seasons, to be sent for dry-cleaning...I expect they will get a good deal of use in the strongly negative temperatures in Toronto!

I have also been stocking up on various medications that will, almost certainly, prescription only in Canada - such as antibiotics - and have enlisted the help of a family member (a licensed physician) to write the correct prescriptions for those items.

Around the house, I have been completing the usual kind of "man's" work - cleaning drains and sink traps, replacing flexible hoses, changing vehicle fluids etc. I have also been having a general tidy up in my workshop lest the gathering dust further obscure the form and function of the vintage electronics I have surrounded myself with.

Meanwhile, the SRE tells me that my Naturalization Certificate has been authorized and printed and is awaiting collection at the sub-delegation in Cd.Victoria. However, the office in Victoria cannot, or will not, say when I might attend their office to take possession of my new nationality. In an attempt to move things along, BiL has offered to speak with a friend of his who is close to those with sufficient authority to pull strings and get things done.

Prequel II - Some Thoughts On The Great White Job Hunt

A friend of mine used to say, apropos looking for work, "Don't worry about the competition - the competition is crap! But never underestimate the competition!". By this, he meant that one should be confident, but not overly so.

The job-hunting culture in England is naturally unique in itself. English social history has affected it in many subtle ways and, as a result, one must not present oneself as pushy, ambitious or self-confident. One should be diffident, quietly confident of one's own abilities without being a drum-beater or horn-blower. Contrast this with the expectation found in the USA where one has to do more than the other fellow and the job goes to he who stands out, who makes the extra effort, who makes the most persuasive argument as to the benefits of being hired.

In Canada, as I understand thus far, the approach is different again. Here, it seems, one is expected to present oneself as a pushy, go-getter even if the corporate culture of one's employment target is not so. It appears that personal contact and networking play a larger part in one's search and many sources strongly advise cold-calling any potential employers to secure interview and build on one's network of contacts.

And yet, for the immigrant, or potential migrant, approaching potential employers via internet-advertised opportunities seems to be the only tenable approach - at least until he lands in Canada and is able to establish a base with phone and transport.

However, since the potential volume of internet-based applicants is very high then an employer must take steps to coarsely screen those applicants so that his time is not wasted perusing the biographies of the unsuitable. Some larger corporate employers have automated this process so that one's uploaded resume is machine scanned for certain keywords. the number of keywords present will determine whether further contact is made. I daresay this is considered and objective process, despite it being a computerized application that can still incorporate human foibles. It is entirely possible that all out-of-country applicants are summarily rejected - one has no way of knowing and no way of making personal contact.

And here we come to the argument in favour of the Canadian approach for it can be used to the advantage of those currently residing outside that country. personal contact with the decision maker is always to be preferred when one desires to stand head-and-shoulders above the local competition.

But it's still a scary prospect...

Prequel I - Lists

With just three weeks to go before we leave these shores for Burlington, Ontario (our flights are booked for the 29th January), I have been giving much forethought as to what needs to be done last here and once there. The result of all this have been lists: "To Do" lists; "To Take" lists; "Order of Events" lists; lists of sources; lists of costs; lists of preferred places to live; lists of people and organizations...a farrago of lists, a gallimaufry, a panoply.

I have been turning my attention to countering any objections a potential employer might have concerning my age, or my national status, or my lack of 'Canadian Experience' or any other obstacle they may be tempted to place. I have been busy listing my positive attributes and how they might be brought to bear on a chosen field of employment, to the advantage of a potential employer.

All this, and more, is part of my effort to organize my preparation, yo be methodical in the hope that it may ease the transition and allow me to focus on the priority of finding work. I have also been thinking of how we might move an entire household from here to there. This is jumping the gun, admittedly, but does provide for an amusing distraction.

In this regard, having enough time to be free of outside distractions is an important thing. I can often maintain a line of thought whilst working in the store, with occasional difficulty. But, as always, there is a risk of circularity, of getting lost in one's own clockwork, of being stuck in an unjumpable groove.

A Name Change

Certain folk thought that expressing myself as a 'reluctant' anything was, perhaps, not the best idea and as I wanted to use this new blog as a platform for writing about my experiences in Canada from January 2009 onwards, I thought that discretion was in order.

In any case, I am not 'reluctant'. Hesitant, perhaps....

Monday, December 1, 2008

Plan B - Nixed And Deep Six'd

Applications for Permanent Residency ('PR') in Canada are accepted out-of-country and have experienced backlogs at many embassies for many years. If one applied for PR as a Federal Skilled Worker ('FSW') then one could expect to wait up to seven years in the UK - ten years in India - before one's application was processed. In Mexico, DF, the delay was around three years.

This meant that one had to wait a long time for permission to live in Canada and look for a job on a permanent basis but, given the degree of freedom this permit gave, the wait was considered worthwhile.

However, due to concern over the high numbers of folk wishing to migrate and the length of the line, a decision was made governmentally to cap the numbers in some way.

Applications received after 28th February 2008, therefore, were placed on hold pending a decision on new rules. Applications received before this date were to be dealt with in the usual manner but at an accelerated pace.

On Friday 28th November, 2008, the Canadian Federal Government published its decsion concerning PR applications received after the cut-off date. They would be subject to a new set of stringent requirements. Amongst other requirements, the applicant was to have pre-arranged employment or be in possession of a certain kind of professional experience that was provable.

Applicants not meeting these requirements would have their applications summarily rejected.

Bummer - there goes Plan B!

The only hope now is to stick to Plan A and get a job from within Canada on a Temporary Work Permit and set to converting it to a PR once established. Not easy, but do-able.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Caesura

There's a lull, an expectant pause, in things at the moment. I have researched the topics of interest, and of note, and I have answered most of the questions I had set myself. I have considered scenarios, formulated approaches, made plans. What now?

I am aware of processes, I have cognizance of the procedures, I have realized the issues at stake. Where to from here?

Plan B has been implemented and a tentative date set for Plan A. Which will bear fruit?

The principal determinant for this sequence of events has already been considered and we are able to say, with some degree of confidence, exactly Why we are doing this.

There remains but one question, a keystone on which everything rests; When do we go?

I had been wondering, in a general sense, what qualities of his 'native' culture, if any, the immigrant takes with him to a new country and a new start. Undoubtedly, and as I have written elsewhere, the average migrant is different to his fellows he left behind. He is, ipso facto, a more adventurous type, willing to risk, to embrace change. But change can be disconcerting and there is usually a need for comforts that may be easily found where others of the same ilk have gathered. Hence, the concentrations of British certain parts of Canada are analogous to those same concentrations, in certain British cities, of folk from the Indian sub-continent.

Which leads me to ask...what are my comforts? What would I seek, given the opportunity?

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Weekly Summary - 8 November 2008

This week:
A quiet week with little activity on the job front. I downloaded the Simplified Application Process forms for the 'Skilled Worker' class as Plan B (so to speak) is to wait out the backlog of 3 years if 'on the ground' job hunting fails. The forms have been completed but I am awaiting daughter's new passport to add those details.

I have also been tweaking the resume (again) and thinking how I might describe the last five years as 'Retail Management' without making a fool of myself. Fortunately, I still have all my degree-level textbooks on marketing and related subjects so I can still bullshit about FMCGs with some panache!

Onwards and upwards!

Monday, November 3, 2008

A Passing Thought On Wistfulness

I had heard of the expression, 'whenwe' before - I think from a PJ O'Rourke essay - as it was used to describe a certain wistful air amongst former colonial expatriates. There were examples in plays and books - Alan Bennett springs to mind - wherein a figure of fun, an object, presumably, of the audience's derision, was to be an upper-class patrician, constantly declaiming, "When we lived in K.L.", or, "When we lived in Rhodesia" as a means to establish a social superiority that was already becoming faded, unfashionable and moth-eaten.

As time trickles along, and I contemplate yet another move, am I in danger of ever beginning a sentence thus? God forbid, that ever should we have to return to England, that I would speak of, "When we lived in Tampico" or "When we lived in California", and to have become a 'whenwe', a species of colonial bore.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Bum-Fu*k Egypt

Or. as they say in Britain, more politely, 'the middle of nowhere'.

That's what I might have considered such places as Moose Jaw and Medicine Hat, had my mother told me about them in times past - quite how she knows of them is beyond explanation.

Now, they seem to offer a kind of rurally civilized peace that I could, at one time, have never imagined actively seeking. In part, this is coming about as a reaction against the near-anarchic and ill-disciplined life of our part of Mexico.

Weekly Summary - 25 October 2008

This week:
Applied for 4 positions via Jobbank, 2 in NOC Category #0721 and two in #1224. In other words, two positions at mid-manager level and two at administrator level. Two of these were in Ontario, the other two in Alberta.

I am concentrating on positions at grade #0721 as this falls into Skill Category '0' and, therefore, attracts expedited processing for Temporary Work Permits and Provincial Nominee Programs for permanent residency...they also pay more!

That said, I fully accept (nay, expect) to have to take a step down the ladder from my previous level due to being out of the job market for these last five years.

Onwards and upwards!

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Research Results Thus Far (Pt.1)

Well, after more heavy googling, intense reading, deep thinking, much listening to Bach and Soler, I have come to some fairly firm conclusions about how we are moving forward on all this.

There seem to be two widely travelled routes to permanent immigration to Canada as the 'principal applicant'.

• One can file an application with the Embassy in one's normal country of residence for admission as a 'Skilled Worker' (as long as one meets the selection criteria - which I do) and then sit back and wait between 5 to 8 YEARS for the application to be processed...changes to immigration law notwithstanding. At this moment, October 2008, all applications are on hold and new applications, although they are being accepted, are simply being dumped in an IN-tray pending proposed changes to the federal immigration laws and federal elections.

• One can apply for a temporary work permit of up to 2 years duration, and, once in the country, apply for it to be converted to permanent resident status.

• This is conditional on having a valid job offer from a Canadian employer and his having received permission (called an 'LMO' - Labour Market Opinion) from the federal government to employ a foreigner. Granting of LMO's takes anything up to six weeks, although, allegedly, some firms have a blanket permission to employ foreigners. It also means that permanent employment must be offered.
  

• The work permit itself must be applied for OUTSIDE Canada although one seems to be able to make an application 'on the spot' when entering by land. That process, allegedly, is tough but only takes around three hours - compared to 3-7 weeks at an embassy.

So, this would seem to indicate that the best approach is to be on the ground, networking and getting an idea of who is looking and where. A Canadian 'base' seems to offer advantages and some sort of 'Canadian work experience' would be a plus. However, six months is the MAXIMUM stay on a tourist visa and return is prohibited for a further 6 months. That means one has a relatively short length of time to secure employment with an employer who is sympathetic to having to jump through some bureaucratic hoops. I won't say it's do-able (it would certainly be difficult) and there's no guarantee that one would be given the full six months of visa when one enters the country as a tourist.

Now, this leads us to another potential path - a fork, if you will.

Some Provinces, such as Alberta, are so desperate for warm bodies (if you believe what their governments are saying) that they have been granted certain dispensations to the recruitment process. This means that, potentially, it might be easier to secure employment in such places as Calgary and Edmonton.

So - the choices seem rather stark. Attempt to find employment over the web - where competition is greater - or get onto the ground for as long as possible and, with planning, preparation and forethought, hope that persistence pays off.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

There's an Ikea in Burlington

Yes, there is. I know, because I Googled it.

I spent hours a-googling yesterday on various topics. The prices of houses and apartments to rent and buy, the marginal tax rates (Ontario 31% versus the UK's 28%), the state of the job market as shown by recruitment websites, maps, satellite pictures, the price of cars (cheaper than Mexico for the Nissan we were thinking of buying here), road conditions, public transport in the Greater Toronto Area (or 'GTA' as I am learning, already, to call it)...etc etc.

My point is that all these things were knowable, with 100% certainty in most cases, with just a few mouse clicks from the comfort and safety of my workshop here in Tampico. I didn't have to wait months for letters to get there and brochures to make their way to me, as one might have even done in the early Internet years such as when I first went on-line in 2 B.G. ('Before Google').

The knowledge of such things may certainly help sway the decision and forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes. I think I am suffering a need to gather material with which to rationally defeat any emotionalist objections (mine or wife's) to the tabled proposal. But, ultimately, it could well be that final decisions may well rest on such intangibles as the taste of Ikea meatballs versus another Iron Heel of state socialism.

Living under the jackboot may have been what I wanted all along...I just didn't know it until now.

Monday, October 13, 2008

First At The Post

Well, firstly, Hello and Welcome if you have been sent here by the 'Third World Shopkeeper'.

As this is the first post, I thought that some explanation might be in order, so that the blow is softened for those who thought that I had thoroughly rejected the ideals of first world countries and descended in to the chaos that is Mexico in order to bear the White Man's Burden as penance!

As I had explained earlier, the rising level of narco violence seems to be spreading to the quieter provinces of Mexico, as the narcos use their money and influence to counteract the pressure from the federalist forces of law-and-order. However, to add to the potent FUD mix (and I am not talking about that brand of deli meats but 'Fear, Uncertainty, Doubt') is the rising level of seemingly casual kidnappings and telephone extortions going on - the two things are likely connected as the narcos may well be using kidnappings in terrorem as a means of keeping the populace cowering.

So, the missus is getting a little antsy and has been speaking with friends who live to the southwest of Toronto about the likelihood of being able to migrate there. I have been charged with the task of researching the possibility of becoming the principal breadwinner (in my old field of Facilities Management) and, I am heartened to say, the initial signs are encouraging.

At this stage, we are planning a vacation for the New Year (ug! the coldest part of the year as well!) to see how the land lies in that part of the world and for me to put out feelers to the job market. If all goes well, I may well stay there for a while longer, find a job and process a work permit application whilst wifey liquidates the business holdings in Tampico.

It's all very early. I have much to think about, write about, think about some more and rationalize. Lot's of whys, wherefores, why art thous? etc

Keep reading folks! Comments are open.