Going east before going more east

My journey EAST east to spend time in Hungary soaking up the cultural DNA attached to my X-chormosomally challenged parent appropriately began by not only spending some quality time with my chosen family (my friends) and my immediate family, but also with a quick hoppity-skip to the east coast to visit my mother’s side of the family.

I had most certainly begun developing roots in Vancouver in my three years there; great friends, great school, great working environment, names on pub walls.

I loved my apartment. I committed to that apartment and it committed to me. We both held up our end of the bargain and would have kept holding it up if it weren’t for pesky life-dream goals that forced us to see a bigger picture and consciously uncouple.

My parents made the journey out west to help with the move-out. Everything in my apartment, save a few carefully selected items, was dispersed out to the Vancouver-verse. I had very intentionally made this apartment into a home and welcomed many a friend for dinners, drinks, weekend holidays, binge watches, documentary nights, etc.

The time had come to say goodbye. There were stealth after-hours night drops to the Salvation Army, furniture and other prized items given for free to numerous Craigslist-free subscribers, including a woman whose previous apartment was burned in a fire, three young men from the Czech Republic, yoga and fitness tools donated to a senior’s home, and numerous friends who are now so kindly giving my things a good home.

Survivors of this purge included travel souvenirs, photos, some high quality cooking utensils, musical instruments, and books. Interestingly enough, when I stripped away ALL THE THINGS that I believed to be ultimately dispensable, what was left behind was a beautiful archaeological dig that provides immense insight into what I value; beauty, adventure, culture, and ideas. This collection will be stored indefinitely in my parent’s basement and museum hours are as follows….

Loading my parent’s vehicle went fast, especially with the help of my surprisingly sturdy and strong senior citizen parents. We left Vancouver in a jiff and headed to stop number one: Kelowna, the home of my half sister, her husband, their two beautiful canine babies, and her in-laws.

After an amazing visit that included great food, great company, riding in a topless jeep through the Okanagan orchards, and a sizable party pontoon-boat, we headed further east towards home, Calgary.

While although I’ve never lived in Calgary myself, it is home because that is where my mom and dad are. Other family also abiding in this weird Alberta city, that has an entire street of steakhouses, include my little sister, my half-brother and his partner, my niece and nephew, and, of course, my sweet sweet puppy, Cubby.

While my parents had been away with me in Vancouver, my sister had been caring for Cubby who was 16 years old and had started showing signs of degradation before mom and dad came to pick me up. We arrived home to a listless, emaciated, seemingly deaf old girl who hadn’t eaten in weeks. My poor puppy wasn’t my puppy anymore. The weakened creature we picked up from my sister’s apartment was a far cry from the bouncy, energetic, singing pooch from earlier this year.

I spent some time with my family in Calgary but mostly spent my time with my pup as she lay dying…at the same time as binge watching season six of Game of Thrones with my mother which I verbally annotated with a lot of explanatory factoids for her benefit.

Hitting the express loser cruiser to Edmonton to visit friends, I said a sad goodbye to Cubby knowing she would soon be in doggy heaven humping her stuffed monkey, chasing deer, and eating oatmeal for eternity.

My dear friend from my undergraduate degree picked me up from the bus station in Edmonton and we headed for the country, to her little horse ranch just outside of Camrose, Alberta where I spent four years doing my first degree. In classic rural Alberta style, we drank beers, smoked cigarettes and BBQ’ed steaks under the big Alberta sky.

She has just sold this little ranch and is moving to the city in the fall. This would be the last time we’d spend time out here under the big sky as her horses trot by and cows graze off in the distant field.

Following this, I headed to the thriving metropolis that is Edmonton, my home for three years during my second degree, to stay with my heterosexual life partner and her partner to whom I am considered “2nd wife”. They always keep the basement ready for me…my ‘Levay Suite’, as we affectionately call it.

After some good visits with old friends, it was time to be leaving on a jet plane to Nova Scotia to visit my bluenose roots, my mother’s side of the family. Most of them are really Quebecois but have all been in N.S. for a long time, some of whom grew up there, raised children there, and in the case of grandmother, will die there. She’s not imminently dying per se, but she’s old enough and not quite healthy enough that you can’t really know for sure. This was a major reason for my stop here.

While more connected to this side of the family than my father’s side about which we know zilch, my immediate family didn’t really keep in that close of touch with my mom’s side. We were just always ‘away’, posted somewhere or other. One time, when I was in elementary school, we lived in Nova Scotia for two years, though.

I rented a car in Dartmouth after spending my first night with my favourite uncle (also happens to be my only uncle) and his lively and gracious wife, where I was watered and fed with welcome-ceasars and an array of fresh shellfish:

Like little red riding hood, I headed off to grandmother’s house, taking the Lighthouse Route along the South Shore, stopping for roadside fish and chips that were self-reported by the roadside diner to be “really good”.

It very much felt like home.

From grandma’s house I joyrided across the province, through the Annapolis Valley’s winding, narrow tree-lined roads and pastoral scenes, hopping from family member to family member’s place, catching up, having drinks, singing songs, until finally I reached the Bay of Fundy a couple days later.

Here is where some old family friends from Alberta, now retired, have a beautiful seaside home.

She fed me good…

…and taught me the meditative practice of seeking out beach treasures.

And he and I did what we have always done; waxed philosophy while basically solving global hunger.

And this felt like home.

While in Nova Scotia, my family back in Calgary decided it was time to put my sweet Cubby down. Mom, dad and my sister went all together and I wished I could be there.

A couple days later, after spending time with my absolute favourite retired couple, I raced my Ford Fusion to the airport, driving 10 kms over the speed limit on a divided highway, and passed EVERYONE. This was NOT Alberta, that is for sure.

And I chuckled at this slower pace of life, with its ominous and beautiful Atlantic coast and highly affordable real-estate. Yes, I thought, this could most definitely be home again too.

It was with a strange feeling that I made these rounds visiting people who are a part of my past, present and future. I will be gone away long enough that things will change in people’s lives significantly. Will my grandmother remain alive? Will the ‘Levay Suite’ still be available? Will my mom get a new dog? Will those fish and chips in Chester, Nova Scotia still be just ‘really good’?

However, contrary to my claims of rootlessness-by-birth in the previous post, I felt extremely rooted as I visited the spread of people that are my family and friends across the country; a non-place-based rooted-ness, if you will. These roots feel secure and maybe it is because of this feeling of security, that I CAN come home whenever or wherever that may be, that I am enabled to live in a rootless manner, in pursuit of what I truly value: beauty, adventure, culture, and ideas.

To come…. my arrival in Europe… stress rashes and all.