Kate Hannah and the terrible, horrible, very bad working holiday

Will probably just be photos of various McDonald's that I visit on my trip.

[theangrydougnutdiaries]

It’s not always all Wanderlust and shit.

In times of inner-turmoil my brain tends to hone on the morbid side of my travels and I can't stop dwelling on the things that get me upset about being away from home (home is such a happy place, why am I so far from happy?). It doesn't take much to get me down over here (being homesick is KENT) and when I am instead of trying to make myself feel better, I sit in dark rooms listening to sad music thinking about things that make me sadder. 

At the end of this week I’ll be coming to the end of my contract with H&M and I finished up with Cirque Du Soleil last week when the show finished. I was hoping by this stage to be a little more settled (in my own apartment maybe and NOT living off the kindness of my friends). Alas, I’d rather be sleeping on my little air mattress in their den than living in a house full wayfarers and an unpredictable landlord. 

I was hoping by this stage I would be confident enough to spend a week or two solely on working out how to get a job in the industry and doing what was needed to be able to find work (short courses, getting the necessary accreditations etc. that sort of thing). Two years is an awfully short amount of time when you're under pressure to find something that can give you at least a year or two of experience by the time your visa runs out. Unfortunately things haven't panned out the way I had hoped they would, and I'm under pressure to make some quick decisions that could alter the path of my career altogether.

SO - when none of it is going right (and you add the lousy mood feeling homesick puts me in), I start to think about the journey home and even possibly ending it sooner than I had thought I would. Sometimes, my mind tricks me into thinking what’s easiest is best, that simple comfort and safety is better than reaching out and seeking a different adventure (risks are scary guys!).

That’s when things in my head sponge get really sour because I sit alone in that dark room, internalise all my feelings and dwell on all of the negatives. “Going home would be better than slogging it out any longer for an industry job, surely!” Stupid that my solution to “It’s too hard and I don't wanna!” is to morph into Negative Nelly (she’s just a horrible bitch, isn't she?) and convince myself that I’m shit and I can't do anything right (or good). 

So in one of my moods after a shit day at work last week sometime, I decided to think about packing it in, and it dawned on me why I can't. 

Technically I moved my entire life to Toronto. I may not have brought all of my stuff, but everything that I need to move forward with my life is here - so, when the going gets rough and the solution is to pack up and go home, I realise that it’s not as simple as just coming home. When I think about “home” to begin with, at this very moment, I don't have one.*  

While of course I can always stay at my parents place, in the room that was technically my bedroom, it’s not my room any more. 

The walls have been painted, new curtains put in, even my old bedspread is gone. While my leftover clothes are the wardrobe, I'm sure eventually if I'm away for long enough they’ll be cleared out too. I won't recognise what I walk back into. Not to mention the fact that someone new is already living in there. It’s technically his now. And technically I can't just come home and expect the room to be mine again... Hence - I don't have one.*

It hadn't entirely crossed my mind that that was what was happening. I was finally moving out of my parents house at 25. (Wait what?)

Why the fuck is my dad just dumping all my stuff into boxes? I’m still sitting here packing my bags? On a night when I couldn't sleep in LA I called the fam with a little jet-lag-induced-anxiety and the lot of them decided it was a GREAT time to show me how CLEAN my room was. Empty. They should have said empty.

I was gutted. I’d basically missed my own milestone because I didn’t realise it was happening. Aren’t you meant to celebrate these moments? And know what you're celebrating?

Over the next few weeks I was given updates on the room, as if I had a sentimental attachment to it (which, lets admit, I do). Yet, no one was really sensitive with these updates, in fact most of them had come with a more excited tone - “oh we’re throwing this away!”, “hey we cleared that thing out and all the stuff inside too!”. Like.. oh, okay thanks I guess? 

If I had realised I was technically moving out, I would been more ceremonious about it, ensured my sentimental items were put and stored in a safe place. I would have hidden my jewellery so particular people couldn't just walk in and borrowsteal it. Actually, I just wish it hadn’t dawned on me while I was laying on a communal couch in a hostel in Santa Monica, in my Toucan Sam pyjamas at 2:30am, that I was an independent (don't laugh Dad). What an awkward place to hang up the phone and start crying.

It’s not that I'm having trouble letting go of my past life, I’m so happy to be plodding along. It’s just hard to accept that my safe place is gone (my warm purple wall and Miss Oyster festival trophy). It’s awful realising too late that I won't recognise what I walk back into. And I’ve been thinking about that over and over and over again all week. Where is my safe place now? Where do I go to now to stop feeling like... this.

So by Friday night last week I had hit rock bottom. Im guessing a combination of over-tiredness and the anxiety of finishing one job to start another got to me. But on Saturday I went pumpkin picking at a farm in Brampton and we carved pumpkins for halloween then nearly burnt the house down roasting the seeds. 

The funny thing about rock bottom is it’s where all the perspective is at. I’ll always have a place to go, a safe place to live when I need it. It might not be the same as what I left it, but it would be insane of me to expect my family to let my old room sit there like a shrine. Clear that shit out - THERE’S SO MUCH SPACE FOR ACTIVITIES.  When you move away you kind of hope that everyone at home just freezes, like “don't do anything without me while I'm gone!”. Last time I was away my sister and brother-in-law bought an apartment. This time they bought a house. STOP LIVING YOUR LIVES. I DON’T WANT TO MISS OUT.  You also wish that everything would stay the same, no one change while I'm gone! But what fun would that be, walking back into the same old life? I was so bored before! PERSPECTIVE, RIGHT? So to recap - last week, I made myself depressed by dwelling on privelaged-white-girl-first-world-problems then snapped out of it by going pumpkin picking with some really cool people. 

[theangrydougnutdiaries]

The Burger King Bandit

I wish the advice columns and blogs I read before I left had actually admitted how lonely moving alone can be. A lot of people only ever spoke about how many new people came into their lives, and how invigorating it was to live on the edge of their seat.  Those who made this move entirely on their own were either lying or omitting the truth about the dark side of this lifestyle. If I had read more about how lonely it can become, I may have reevaluated this entire trip.

 The story picks up just a day after the events of San Fran. I flew out the next evening.

Landing late at night, I got to the hostel well after hours. Awkwardly the room had no individual lights so instead of getting changed or brushing my teeth, even making the bed, I just laid down on the mattress didn’t move for 8 hours. HI is on Granville St, in one of Vancouver’s party districts. It was loud outside and our window was open allowing a plume of pot smoke into our dorm. I’m all for being 420 friendly, but that night I was not in the mood. I needed peace and quiet, I needed calm. I ended up not sleeping a wink. 

Right off the back of Topdeck and a terrifying experience in a foreign city, lack of sleep was the last thing I needed. The next morning brought rain, and I was starving hungry. By the time I made it out of the hostel with a $5 umbrella and my first Canadian dollar, I hadn’t eaten in 24 hours. Just down the road was a Burger King and I sat in a quiet corner facing away from the staff and other diners. I ate my burger through tears and sobs. I don’t even remember what brought it on, I just remember unwrapping my whopper, sliding out the cheese and then bursting into tears. If I had to guess, it was brought on by extreme exhaustion, but my mind was also swimming with all the things I needed to do in the next 22 days until my hostel booking ran out. There was a sense of panic probably pressuring my already sensitive state to the point that a foreign Burger King was overwhelming. Burger King. By the time I got my shit together and left the restaurant, it was late afternoon and I headed into a shopping mall for a few minutes. The number of people inside quickly became claustrophobic and I lasted all of 10 minutes in an H&M before rushing back outside. I headed back to HI on the opposite side of the road, walking by several groups of homeless men and women parked on the sidewalk. Anywhere else, at any time, this wouldn’t have bothered me. I may even have felt sorry for them. But just a day ago I was being chased and harassed by the most aggressive homeless people I have ever been around, so I wasn’t feeling very sympathetic. Sudden movements were jarring. There was no real cause for alarm but why the fuck was I so terrified? 

I got into the dorm, slammed the door, made my bed and switched ON the light (in that specific order) then sat on the edge of the bottom bunk and went back into a fit of distress. I was having another panic attack. This time, I hadn’t even run, but that wet sponge was back down my throat and I couldn’t breath. It was such an unfamiliar feeling still – in the back of my mind a completely lucid version of myself was screaming at this coward to get it together. I was actually safe, wasn’t I? I called around until someone answered and listened to whoever it was tell me about home until I was distracted enough to stop sobbing. In the meantime, the two German girls staying in the opposite bunks had walked in. I know they were talking about me, about the psycho Australian girl wheezing on the bottom bunk. At the end of my chat, they invited me out to dinner but I was so physically exhausted that I couldn’t even get up to brush my teeth. I don’t know how many hours it was until I actually saw my toothbrush again, but I bet you could have harvested a blanket out of the fuzz in my mouth.

That night, I slept sound. The window was closed, air conditioner on and no one turned the light on after I was in bed. I must have slept 13 or so hours because the next time I woke up, someone had pressed the reset button, and I saw everything in perspective. “You’re safe you dumb mole, go outside!”

 My second day in Vancouver involved a lot of toothpaste and a (much needed) long hot shower. I looked forward to calling mum and dad.

I only explored a little more of Granville St, not wanting to go too far and get too tired (or lost). I had resumes to polish and jobs to find, not to mention accommodation. I still had a few days before orientation, and since it was the weekend I couldn’t even go to apply for a SIN number and in turn, a mobile phone. There wasn’t a lot I could do if I got an interview, I didn’t even have a number they could call. After a few hours of just preparing applications and resumes, I decided to focus on the house hunt. I maybe put in 100 applications? Craigslist, kijiji, facebook groups – every avenue I could think of, I walked down. I asked everyone I knew who had or did live in Canada. Out of 100, 3 or 4 people replied, and in that only 2 offered me viewings. They weren’t for a couple of days. I got over excited, thinking I was spoiled for choice and I put all my eggs in one basket. I stopped looking and decided to just try and enjoy some time off. I spent the next few days mostly calming down, watching a lot of Netflix and chatting to anyone from Australia who answered my call. The day of the viewings came, the day before orientation. The events of San Fran were still in the back of mind unfortunately, so I was still carrying some of that fear and wariness everywhere I went in Vancouver. I found the first house pretty easily. I was full of hope and confidence until I was brought around back and downstairs to a dank cold basement apartment (which this country is obsessed with) and alarm bells started going off immediately. Though it wasn’t the room I was to be scared of, it was the tenants and my potential landlords. What should have been a friendly meet and greet, felt like more of an interrogation. I was asked previously to add them both of facebook, and I only realized in the moment this was so that they could stalk my profile and question me about my lifestyle choices. For example, it took several attempts for me to feel confident that they understood – my cat lives in Australia, and isn’t coming to Vancouver to live with me. Stop worrying. I get it. You have bad allergies. My cat is thousands of kilometres away, he’s not going to get you with his deadly fur.

It was such a strange encounter, and had I had a friend with me, I would have walked out of there laughing, but it was such an unusual way to be treated. Was I auditioning for this room? I feel like they should have been doing more to sell it to me - if I were to try and shower I would have had to have been kneeling, there was a fuse box built into the dirt in a box in the wall in what would be my room. When it opened there was a lovely nest of spiders and centerpeids having a grand ol’ party. Not to mention the uneven cement floor, lack of heating and “no shoes in the house!” rule that made no sense - the entire house was covered in a fine dust already (probably blown in from the ground just outside the unsealed windows). I made an early escape from the scary dirt dungeon as non-awkwardly as I could, and although I was back outside in the safe city, I still managed to cry a little. Is this what I am to expect of every apartment viewing I go to? It was so intimidating. The second apartment was a quick viewing. It was on the way back towards the station I needed to go to. Both apartments happened to be a few minutes apart. What were the chances? A young gentlemen opened the door and greeted me. Before he even let me in, he was informing me that my roles and duties while living in the house included being a companion to his uncle, helping him to look after the young children who lived there also, but mostly being good company and a friendly face to see when he came home at the end of a long day. If I recall, other misgivings about that house were given, especially the rent, but it’s hard to recall them when the main exchange was full of CREEP. Without a goodbye (“no thank you please!”) I was out of there. What the hell had I applied for? A room or an escort job? I promptly deleted the first couple from my Facebook page, and blocked the second the minute I was back at HI.

Running through the shopping mall making a bee line for the train station I realized how alone I was. For a long time this was what I wanted. When I was booking this trip and planning for my visa’s and which city I wanted to live in, I wanted space from everyone. Independence can feel so lonely.  It didn’t matter what advice anyone gave me. In the moment I was running through the mall, I had already made up my mind. Call Laura and ask if I can come live with her and Court for a while. I needed friends to lean on, because without the support that I was used to, I had fallen far and lost so much of the confidence I had been building since London (2011). The scars left by San Fran weren’t healing because I hadn’t accepted how truly scared I was by the event, nor had I accepted the fact that it’s perfectly okay to be that scared. In my mind, I was supposed to just deal with this on my own, that’s what you do when you move countries by yourself. Everyone thinks you’re so brave for moving, so that’s what you have to be.

By the end of that night I had a flight booked to Toronto.

 The next day was orientation. I met a girl from York called Sam, who’s hilarious. She had just arrived in Canada herself and was going through the rush and jetlag inducing panic that I myself had just been in. It was such a relief to find someone who was experiencing this country the same way I was. I wasn’t a coward. I was like every other lone traveller. It was starting to dawn on me that it was actually some-what normal to respond to extreme stress this way. Why couldn’t I have realized this sooner?

 We spent the next few days together, opening bank accounts, getting our SIN numbers and mobile phones sorted. I actually started to relax and I was having a lot of fun. My favourite part of orientation was when the girls at SWAP said “being so new to the city and country, I wouldn’t recommend going to viewings alone. Always take a friend.” Now you tell me.

With my trip to Toronto to look forward to, I was finally enjoying the experience. I took the time to take all of Vancouver in. We took a trip to North Vancouver and ate at some food truck night markets. My last day in Vancouver was looming. I was completely excited but sad to leave Sam, the first friend I actually made in this country. Alas, Toronto was calling. Unfortunately I think the San Fran experience rubbed off on Vancouver and negatively influenced my impression. I wish it hadn’t, Vancouver is just the victim, I’m sure it’s far more beautiful than I remember it. I spent my last day Kayaking around Granville Island with Sam, Brent and Jack (all from SWAP) catching an incredible up close glimpse of some local seals and seabirds, ending my time in Vancouver on a high.

 By the time I landed in Toronto and saw Laura’s face for the first time, I let it all out again. For once it wasn’t fear or homesickness, I was crying with relief. In that moment I felt so safe seeing someone I knew.

It became abundantly clear that what I was missing from the equation was a partner in crime – everyone I know who has successfully moved to this country has done it with someone else. In Toronto I could actually hear them when they were telling me how brave I was – because they couldn’t have done it without their other half. This was the first time I actually felt brave and I was so proud of myself for getting through those first few weeks alone. Most of all, I was thankful for not feeling lonely anymore.

While not everything has been peachy in Toronto, it’s certainly starting to feel like a home away from home. I can feel that I’m going to miss it when I eventually leave.

 This morning I moved out of the apartment from HELL and back into Laura and Courts after just a month and a half. It has been an exhausting month and half to say the least, but I’m mostly glad to be out a toxic situation and back somewhere that I feel safe and happy. That story later.

Bye for now!

 *Side note – have not been in or around a Burger King since Vancouver. Craving them whoopers, but too worried embarrassing flashbacks will only ensue.

[theangrydougnutdiaries]

San Francisc-NO.

If you’ve ever travelled, TopDeck’ed, Contiki’d or moved countries alone, you’ll agree with me when I say that everyone’s first reaction is “You’re so brave!” and “That’s so crazy, I could never do it alone”. While there is a combination of fear, adrenaline, excitement and prosperity that you may have never felt before, at no point do you feel brave.  If anything, once you're out there you suddenly feel incredibly small (but excited all the same). The path literally unwinds before you. You don't know exactly how anything will go, you can plan down to the slightest detail but sometimes big moves throw even bigger curve balls. All you can do is go with the flow, roll with the punches.  I want to tell you about the last few months that I’ve experienced, because it’s so exciting until it feels like it’s all falling apart. Not everything goes right, and there are some days where you just want to scream “Fuck it!” and go home. A part of me never wants to talk about the bad days, because I don't want to be the only loser not enjoying their summer holiday.  To say the least it has been incredibly turbulent, and emotionally exhausting. This month alone has left me in tears more nights than ever (but that’s a story for another time, sorry August!). No part of me ever thought this would be easy, but I have a few friends who started their big journeys just a few months ahead of me. They were loving it - so I thought as hard it could be, I would at least be loving every second of my new life and the challenges a new home would throw at me. I was so naive, completely unaware of just how vulnerable I was (well, am).  So here’s part 1;

It all started with a bad few days in San Francisco to cap off a wonderful TopDeck trip with a fantastic bunch of people. The tour ended on such a high, nothing was going to kick me in the pants. Then I headed to my accomodation in the Tenderloin (the only district in all of San Francisco that EVERYONE tells you to avoid - at all cost). Even tour buses try not to drive through it. Every district has its homeless community, but The Tenderloin has the most “savagely dangerous” homeless community in the entire city (a local’s words, not mine). And I was staying in a hostel in the heart of The Tenderloin - on my own. The first night was fine. My roommate from TopDeck changed her plans and stayed with me, one last hurrah together. We were on such a high, the room was comfortable and the hostel itself was beautiful. Nidala is the type of woman to roll with the punches, “so it’s a bad neighbourhood? We’re here together and we won't be spending much time here anyway”. At first I agreed blindly, nothing could get us down! We’re TopDeckers! Tour sisters! Then later, I couldn't help but wonder, what about the second night? We slept fairly alright that night. While in the shower what sounded like a series of gunshots went off, followed by sirens. Later we heard a fight break out on the street below, followed by more sirens and in the early hours of the next morning someone was happily throwing glass bottles against the wall just to watch them smash.  After farewelling Nidala the next morning, I headed into the city alone to explore and after a day of trekking around with the leftover TopDeck crew I decided to walk home alone back to my room. This day I walked the safe way, and made it back well before dark. That night was filled with some old and some new sounds. People fighting again, glass smashing, and all the sirens that followed, but soon after I was awoken again, this time by the smell of burning plastic or rubber. Eventually the smoke was so intense in our room, the other 2 girls staying in the bunks surrounding me were trying to determine if what was burning was a bag of someones dirty laundry or a dead body (yes, one of the guests thought the smell was that of burning flesh).  The fire engines were right outside our window, sirens blaring, lights flashing and all. When I woke up later and was walking out to leave for the day, one of the hostel workers was speaking to a colleague about how the fire had damaged one of their back doors or windows. How were we not evacuated?  I don't think I really understood how anxious I was by this stage. Not to mention the exhaustion - I had probably only slept for 4 hours that night because of the fracas outside the dorm window. I must have been right on the edge. I should have stayed in and got more sleep. Instead, I left for the day and headed around to explore more of San Fran, wearing myself incredibly thin. By the afternoon I was ready to head home for bed.  I strolled home down Ellis St alone, a street I was told to avoid if possible, especially at night. The street my hostel was on. I was supposed to walk two blocks north and head around and down to my hostel, rather than directly to it from Union Square. But this one afternoon, in broad daylight I thought I would be fine. Boy was I wrong.  A few blocks in everything was calm. Eventually, the crowd I had immersed myself into started to veer off in different directions and at this one particular intersection, the last remaining (safe-looking) strangers were suddenly gone. I should have followed them earlier, (actually - I should have listened to all of the previous advice I was given about Ellis St), but I stayed on the path for one more block (it was the most direct route back). Apparently I had walked directly into a particularly vile man’s territory - a square of pavement he protects with all of his physical strength (and saliva). A few of the gruff-looking homeless men moved themselves off the wall they were leaning against towards me, scowling and looking defensive, so I halted on the spot. I had turned to stand by the crossing lights, (I could feel the men moving towards me still) but the moment I felt a wad of hot spit hit my leggings and drip down onto my ankle, I was running up a hill, heading two blocks north to safety. I hadn't even been aware of the fact that I’d just run across a busy road without looking. Thinking I was in the clear, I turned around to check my surroundings and another gentlemen in what I can only describe as a snuggie worn backwards, torn pants and electrical taped shoes, was suddenly chasing after me yelling at me for “disrespecting his space”. I hadn't even seen where I had passed him, but I didn't have time to think about that, I was running up that hill for my life.  By the time I got back to my room I was in a state of panic. My sports-induced asthma was well induced, (thankfully Nidala left me with her spare inhalers) and it felt like I was breathing through a wet sponge. To make matters worse - the next 6 hours was just me crying and wheezing while i tried to call anyone in Australia with FaceTime. For a while, no one answered (damn timezones!) I was homesick, tired, terrified and completely alone. Just as I faced the chills and started to shake and shiver uncontrollably, Mel’s face popped up on my phone. Saved. She spent the next few minutes talking me down, and at the end off all my phone calls, I realised how painful and sore my chest was, I’d pulled a muscle in my leg (again) and I looked like a crazy person - my mascara was not on my eyes, just all over my cheeks and chin. 

In hindsight; when the lady at the front desk marks on a map the area to avoid in the city right outside your hostel door, tells you if it gets to twilight and you're not back in the hostel to only come via cab or Uber and you need security passes just to get back inside - take it as a warning - AND MOVE HOSTELS. Listen to the alarm bells going off in your head. We were given gut instincts for a reason.   I never really calmed down from this event, it followed me on the next leg of my journey. I was suddenly so suspicious and overtly aware of my surroundings, to the point of never really relaxing. I didn’t feel safe in America anymore, and when I landed in Vancouver I couldn't relax enough to experience the joy of another new city. That moment, though only 6 or 7 minutes long, was the most terrifying moment of my trip so far. I was genuinely scared for my safety, and when I came to, I was so shocked to realise how my brain and body reacted to the panic and fear. I looked back on those previous hours and felt like it had all been an out of body experience. It has never taken me that long to put myself back together and this was a new physical experience I never want to experience again.  In saying that, I still don't know why I made light of the situation in a Facebook status update. I know I don't want anyone to worry about me while I'm away, and I certainly don't want anyone feeling the need to look after me, but this was actually a fairly extreme situation and it sheds light on some of the dangers of travelling alone. It proves how vulnerable you are. Thinking back, perhaps if I had actually been honest about how anxious this whole experience left me, things might have gone better for me in Vancouver? In an effort to make myself seem tough, and brave, I made light of one of the worst experiences of my life. I really wanted to love San Francisco, but no other city in the world has left me feeling so small.  I’ll go back one day, I have a friend to visit from my first Contiki trip (Europe, 2011) and I think if i was in the right frame of mind and staying somewhere safe, I probably would fall in love with San Francisco.  I am in no way trying to say that travelling alone is a bad idea, I would encourage it, it’s incredibly refreshing. This experience taught me though - do your research and read reviews ENTIRELY (my mistake was not opening some reviews properly, and I missed the parts that actually warned about the Tenderloin), listen to the locals advice carefully, and finally - don't be afraid to call home when things go tits up.  Being homesick because of a frightening experience doesn't make you any less brave than you already are, (even if you didn't feel brave to begin with) and talking about how you reacted doesn't make you weak! Perhaps when I get a little time, I’ll tell you all what actually went wrong in Vancouver. 

[theangrydougnutdiaries]

The 6six

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A bit of the Couvs..

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New home, all alone. (at Toronto, Ontario)

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Sometimes you win,

Sometimes you learn. 

This week, I'm learning a lot.

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Day 2. Hollywood. Silverlake --> Hollywood and Vine --> Bus Tour around the Hollywood hills --> Walk of Fame --> Chinese Theatre --> Santa Monica Pier. First and only American McDonalds. Don't need to do that twice.

[theangrydougnutdiaries]

Day 1. Santa Monica.