This Year's Good Decision

Just me and the barges along the River Rhine.

Do you like loud bar noises all through the night? How about streets strewn with broken bottles and puke? Drunks everywhere, peeing in doorways and shouting German at passers-by? Then I humbly recommend renting a flat in Dusseldorf's Altstadt.

A 21-year-old me might have loved it here, but not the 33-year-old me who needs beauty rest and likes reading a book in the evenings.

Its only advantage, aside from the central location, is its proximity to the Rhine River. Every morning I walked to work along the river and every evening I returned home along this route.

In the mornings, it's just you and the fog and the river barges. In the evening, weather depending, it's you and the runners and the dog walkers and the tourists and the homeless afternoon drinkers with the fog and the river barges.

I did this all throughout the Rhenish 'winter,' which is really just a cold, windy and rainy day that lasts until the spring. 

Stepping onto a stuffy tram and subway car in the middle of winter so you can be dropped off in front of your office for a day of indoor office stuff is one of life's truly soul crushing experiences. It's a relief to shake your legs and step outside with just your two feet and a heart beat (and the appropriate amount of clothing) and walk along one of Europe's mightiest rivers to the office. 

When we finally fled the Altstadt to less rowdier environs, I joined the soul crushees on the tram to the office. That only lasted a few months before I bought a Dutch Cruiser for Kata's birthday, and nifty street beast for myself.

I have mastered the bike commute to work, once again. But the real thrill has been taking out our bikes for pedalling adventures in the Dorf's neighbourhood, which inevitably means cruising along the Rhine.

This has been a turning point for me. 

I once lamented the lack of hills, now I'm happy for the flat bike-riding terrain. We hated the long monotonous smooth distances when we were walking, like on our trip to Zons, but we relish it now with our bikes. We resented shelling out wads of Euros for train trips for distant locales in our corner of Germany. Now, we boldly attempt to reach them on our own – not always succeeding, but then we just boldly look for a closer destination.

Beer and Flammkuchen in Benrath

When I moved into my apartment in Baldwin Village in Toronto, I pulled boxes and furniture from my parents' basement in London. I also raided the garage for my old bicycle.

As a student in London, I would ride to campus, shooting along the bike trails along the Thames River. The bike was left hanging from the garage ceiling when I moved out.

Living in Toronto without your own transportation means contending with Toronto's public transit system. A system that is likely the most soul-crushing of all transit systems, and I have encountered a few of them.

When I took the bike out on the streets of T.O. for the first time, my immediate reaction was "Why didn't I do this before!" The less immediate reaction was a love for the city began to grow where there was a lot of cynicism before.

Riding a bike in Toronto allows you to forgo public transit most of the time. You ride to work, zig zagging up and down side streets you never would have discovered without the bike. 

In Toronto, I discovered the city with the bike and loved the city more because I discovered more. Staying off Toronto's subway and tram system definitely helped my outlook too.

We point out to friends and family that the a posh little town, but it's a nice place to live... and then we trail off. The bikes have allowed us to get out and discover more of the town, and a lot more of its surroundings. Given time, we might learn to love the Dorf. Maybe.

One of many suspension bridges along the Rhine.

Voting From Afar

The Gregorians had it all wrong when they put the beginning of the new year in January. September truly feels like the first month of the year. By then, vacations are over, along with the fiscal year for some businesses (like ad agencies), school begins, and people slowly shake off the summer laziness. 

By now, a month into the 'New Year,' life has picked up where it left off before the summer. At work, I'm juggling several projects with looming deadlines. Money must be saved and preparations made for the coming Canada trip. There's an urgency to drink patio beers and partake in outdoor activities before winter becomes a reality.

In the midst of this, a Canadian election is scheduled for October 19, and there is one thing I wanted to ensure I made time for.

Casting my Voting as an Expat

As a someone who has lived outside of Canada for less than five years, I am happily still able to vote. I applied for my voting kit (which meant simply sending a scan of my passport and my address to Elections Canada) and cast my vote today (by mail).

It's an interesting process. I didn't tick a box for a candidate; I write in the name of the candidate. Then I put the ballot into a little envelope. Then I took that little envelope and put it into another envelope, which I signed and dated. Then I put it into another envelope, which is the mailing envelope. It felt more like putting together a lickable Matryoshka doll than voting. 

Nevertheless, I miss voting in person, not for the ease of it – although licking my way through the voting kit was a little weird. It's a comforting ritual to walk in the polling station, mark an X beside my candidate, and drop it into the ballot box. 

Elections Canada made this process very easy for me, but it's startling to see that only 6,000 Canadians out of maybe 2.8 million living outside of Canada cast a vote. 

It's startling, but somewhat understandable. I didn't know I could vote from abroad, and I've always made a point of voting, but a similar ignorance might keeps expats away. Or a perception that it's difficult (which it isn't). Or old fashioned indifference (not unlikely).

Exercising my right this way might not last long. A court struck down Canadian citizens' right to vote if they've been living elsewhere for over five years. The court's decision was rooted in the argument that expat's votes would upset the social contract between the government and current residents in Canada. 

I understand that argument, but to me that means the system should be tweaked just a bit. 

My Parliamentary Expat Reform Bill

My suggestion? Expats should get our own Member of Parliament. Just because we've been away for a while doesn't mean we don't have ties to Canada (property, investments, family, citizenship) or that we never intend to return.

Having our own MP would attract more voters and bring a different perspective. We're copywriters in Germany, teachers in Indonesia, and hockey players in the United States. Where we live shouldn't invalidate us from making an informed decision – we are still Canadian citizens, after all.

Recently, Prime Minister Harper has proposed more changes. Mostly, it would make it difficult to vote from afar. Rather than emailing a scan of my passport, I would have to get someone to vouch for me that I am from the riding that I intend to vote in. 

There is a pattern here. In the last election, mysterious robocalls sent voters to the wrong polling stations. A new law that should have countered this instead instituted rigorous identification procedures for voting. The stated purpose was stopping people from voting more than once, but it merely succeeded in making it more difficult for students, pensioners, and the homeless to vote. Budget cuts to Elections Canada and for voting advocacy have not helped either.

This obfuscation of the democratic process is shameful enough, but it's not the only problem. Voter turnout was only around 60% in Canada. 

It's so disheartening to see people throw away their vote by not voting. yes, the country's and the world's problems can seem so daunting that our vote seems like it won't make a difference. But it's also so ridiculously easy (for now) that there's no reason why we all shouldn't give it a shot.

Sissi 2012-2015

The Long Short (Probably Happy) Life of Sissi

Sissi on her house.

Sissi was a hamster. She was suspicious of strangers. She hated being touched by people. She had three different homes and four different owners in her life.

Despite all of that, she lived three years – three lifetimes for a Siberian hamster – and most of it was good.

Kata inherited Sissi from her ex, so the pet-to-owner relationship started off awkwardly. Sissi's cage sat beside Kata's desk, so while she was freelancing they spent a lot of time together. Gradually, they came around and developed an understanding.

Sissi moved in with me when Kata left to Berlin for work. I don't think she liked me in the beginning. When I came over to Kata's place, she'd squeak at me and keep me awake in the night, digging in her wood shavings and shimmying on the bars of her cage.

I put her in my front hall, where her nocturnal shenanigans would not disturb me. I also refused to get attached, since she was over a year old at the time – an old lady in hamster years. Kata would ask after her and I would worry about having to tell her that Sissi died.

She didn't die, so I didn't have to follow through on any strange plans of burying her in Karoly Kert at night. Like all good roommate arrangements, we gave each other space. She had her room, I had mine. I would only take her out to put her in her hamster ball while I cleaned the cage. As time went by, we developed a rhythm, I'd feed her and talk to her (I was told you're supposed to do that) and she would do her usual hamster-y things. 

Then I left Budapest. 

Once more Sissi was passed on, this time to Monica, who wanted a pet. I walked Sissi in her cage to Monica's place. She cried and screeched the whole way down Vaci utca. I kept it together, mostly.

Once again, Sissi somehow lived beyond expectations. Monica and her spent a year together – until last night – which was likely the most stable and comfortable Sissi had been since leaving Kata's flat. For a short life, it was a long one, and likely a happy one.

Kata freelancing alongside Sissi.
Drawing by Kata Varga.