The plane ride was super turbulent, due to a heavy wind storm that had started earlier in the day. I am a mixed flier. Most of me is excited by the turbulence—it’s similar to an amusement park ride, where all of a sudden your stomach drops out from under you. It’s fun. Then I get flashbacks to the plane crash scenes in every stranded-on-a-desert-island movie ever made, where backs of planes are suddenly ripped off, and people are sucked out in screaming fiery explosions. I momentarily get a little nervous and white knuckle the armrest until the plane rights itself. Then, all is well. The green of the land and that intense grey-lavender that comes after a storm here in BC, coupled with the ability to walk around in a hoodie… you’d be hard pressed to find a happier girl at that moment. Instant comfort.

It’s been 1 week. 1 week of running the gamut of emotion: Happy, scared, worried, disappointed, excited, discouraged, sad, comfortable, happy again. Wash.rinse.repeat. I’m ecstatic to be back, but also feeling at a bit of a loss of where to start to rebuild. It’s like I hit the “reset” button on my life, and now I’m back trying to find a house I adore, find work I love, reestablish me in this place, all.over.again. Funny how everything can be knocked down to zero in the course of just under 6 weeks. Instant regrowth.

I’ve realized the hardest part about what I will now refer to as “the experiment” in Banff, was letting go of my apartment. When I moved away, I said my goodbyes as I was scrubbing her black and white checkered floor. I lovingly removed every scrap of myself from within her walls, whispering reassurances of adoration as I worked. When I locked the door for the final time, I felt like I had closure. I knew I would get over the loss. Sure, it might take awhile, but I would be better from the experience. But because I cut the experiment short, I didn’t have enough time to feel like I had moved on. So here I am back, feeling as though I could just walk right into my old building, open the door and find all my things—my studio, my bathtub, my life. Start from where I left off. Obviously, it’s been a tough break-up, me and that apartment. A lot of sleepless nights, a lot of regrets. I just hope that I can eventually move on. I just hope that I don’t spend the next 5 years reminiscing about all the good times we had, she and I. Holding a ruler up to all the new apartments, forlorn if they don’t quite measure up. But she will be a tough one to live up to—with her high ceilings, beautiful kitchen, decorative mantle, clawfoot bathtub, windowed office, southwest facing, cheap(relatively speaking, for the Westside of Vancouver). She was pretty special. I daydream about the property managers calling me up, telling me the new occupant had to take a job in a foreign country unexpectedly, the suite suddenly available again. These are the fantasies that live in my thoughts now. Instant longing.

I realized that looking for a new place is not unlike online dating. You get a super brief description, and then show up hoping to hell that it all works out. Sometimes you are amazed at the diamond in the rough that came from a few descriptors: one bedroom, 2nd floor, non-smoking, no pets. And then it ends up gorgeous and amazing. Other times, no matter how much they try to spruce it up by using words like “spacious” (380 sq ft bachelor apartment), and “bright” (as bright as an underground basement suite can be), and “cozy” (read: 6.5′ ceilings), there is just no prettying it up. I like to imagine who ends up taking those places. Midgets? Vampires? Hobbits? Not girls with long legs who like to collect things… not me.

Rental pricing in Vancouver is atrocious. I knew this before, but some of the rent is ridiculously laughable. All this “Vancouver is the Best Place on Earth to Live” is hurting us. $1200 for a teeny tiny bachelor suite? I don’t care if you do have an elevator (which, by the sounds of it, is larger than the apartment itself), or in-suite laundry. Having the convenience of washing your shirts at 2 a.m. pales in comparison to being able to stand upright in ones own living room.

I’ve approached the process in baby steps (much like everything else in my life as of late). I’ve slept on the floor of my best friend’s apartment so I can be in Vancouver, searching. I’ve wandered around, writing down addresses of buildings that seem like they would have character—be somewhere I would like to call home. I’ve drafted a letter, and sent out many envelopes, explaining my situation. Pleading my case. Hoping that a vacancy will come up and they will take a chance on me. Fingers crossed.

In the meantime, I’ve enjoyed hanging out with my folks. Playing with their cats. Eating home-cooked meals. Catching up with dear friends. Taking in all the signs of Spring—the yellow and purple crocuses, the tiny fragile paperwhites, the cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom, the light out until 6:37 pm.

I don’t regret the experiment. I had to do it in order to know. But at this moment it’s hard not to look back regretfully on what once was. It is with this experience that I hope comes something new—something even better. In the midst of uncertainty, it can be tough not to dwell. Only when you’ve had some space and time to reflect do you truly understand that that situation was necessary to get where you now stand. That rough patch was necessary in order to move forward. That’s what I just keep trying to remember. It will all work out in the end— it always does. Instant faith.

If anyone hears of a great one bedroom character apartment in Fairview, Cambie, Main Street, or the WestEnd, please let me know. I’m responsible, quiet, and love places as though they were my own. Because I suppose for a short time, in my mind, they actually are.

I got into an interesting conversation with a girl from New York, and we were talking about technology and our inability to keep up with it. I confessed that if given a choice, I would much prefer to write everything down, old-school style with a good pen and a crisp sheet of paper. She looked at my incredulously, like I had suggested chiseling text on stone or cave painting. I tried to explain myself; I felt like handwriting says so much about a person, and how likely in 5 years, with our ever-increasing dependence on email and text messaging—that no one will have unique penmanship anymore. It’s a sad thought. We will all be reduced to a handful of typefaces, the sentiment lost in the generic uniformity that comes with perfectly typeset notes.

This idea came to me a few weeks ago. As a compulsive list-maker, I’m alarmed by my own budding reliance on the ‘Notes’ feature on my Ipod, whereas I used to jot everything down in a moleskin journal. I find ridiculous amounts of pleasure in flipping though those books now, trying to figure out a) my poor handwriting, b) my horrendous lack of spelling and proper grammar, and c) half defined thoughts, ended midway—with no context whatsoever. It makes for a bit of a game. As artists and designers, so much of the creative process can begin through the act of bringing pen to paper. One doesn’t often go to the trouble of starting Word to jot down a quick note to themselves, or opening Illustrator to do a small sketch. Or, at least I don’t. I rely on memory, which fails me every.single.time. I think technology hinders experience in those instances; I believe a certain amount of art and idea may be lost to this, in future generations. I suppose we are the lucky ones, sitting comfortably on the cusp of both methods. We can operate computers, but we still had to labor over cursive in 5th grade (although few of us still use it). I can’t imagine how many projects would have never been realized, if not begun as a whim, jotted down onto paper.

I was feeling a bit stifled in my apartment yesterday, having not left the house the entire day previously. So I bundled up, braved the -29 cold and headed up to the Centre to have breakfast. Saturday it turns out, is the perfect day to go, because the campus is almost completely empty. I was able to camp out on a cushy overstuffed chair by the wall of mountain-view windows, bust out my Wonder Woman sketchbook and write. Write and write until my hand was cramping and the words were almost indecipherable.

I feel like I’m on the verge of having a breakthrough with my project—with the theme of my book, and the direction I would like to take it in. Much like my life, I’m trying to break it into babysteps. Manageable chunks, so I don’t choke on the enormity of it all. Creating a book from scratch is an undertaking, but if I look at it page by page, section by section, chapter by chapter, it’s not quite so daunting. Besides, it won’t be a proper book—requiring formula, sense and continuity (thank god). It is a book about details, with small written blurbs,  photographs, sketches, maps, recipes, ephemera… and white space.

I realized this week that essentially, if you are not getting the project you want within the context of your job, you must make that project yourself. For the longest time I’ve waited to find a position that I could be fully creative in, which is difficult because I consider myself equal parts designer, photographer, writer, maker. I don’t imagine myself as an expert in any of them, but I find if I neglect one for any length of time, I feel unfulfilled. I suppose that makes me a bit high maintenance, creatively speaking? So until I find my niche in the world, I will try to build my dream project in the meantime, on my own terms. Find my own direction.

Unrelated awesome sidenote: I finally hit the houseplant JACKPOT. So far it’s the only thing that makes this place feel like home.

I was feeling horribly lonely yesterday during the day. In fact, I wrote a pretty raw blog post explaining my head space while on my lunch break. I saved it in my ipod, with the intention of posting it online when I got home. Work was pretty normal, but in the evening, I was able to attend my first actual event at the Banff Centre. It was called “Artists Crossing” and it allowed employees and workstudies to give presentations about their work. A girl I work with, Leanne, who is a writer, showed a video and spoken word piece, which was really moving. Also there was a sculptor, a sound engineer/composer, and a videographer. The turnout was surprisingly big—it was held in the Maclab bistro in the Kinnear Centre, which was the perfect space for the event. Imagine a modern restaurant combined with the laidbackness of a pub—all windows and gorgeous mountain views. Plus, they serve beer, and what likely was the most incredible burger that I have ever consumed in my lifetime. So I shook off the loneliness, got a chance to talk to some new people, drink a lot of beer, and observe the insanely inspiring talent that seems to inhabit every inch of this place. Needless to say, I didn’t post my raw blog post when I got home. I’ll save it for another day, because I think it deserves a place, too.

Despite not getting to sleep until 2 a.m., I awoke this morning at 9:12 (a totally respectable time in my option, under the circumstances). So I’m up, showered, gulping down a mediocre cup of coffee, surprisingly functional, and ready to go by 10:09. I’m impressed with myself. I grab my camera and head out the door.

Today is wonderful for a lot of reasons. 1, (as stated) it’s CreativeDay! 2, it’s three degrees outside! THREE! And for the first time in weeks I have been able to leave the house sans toque and scarf. I kept the mittens, as I knew I would likely be crawling around in the snow, but the temperature was perfect. The temperature reminded me of home.

I headed to this tiny cemetery that I pass each day on my way up the mountain. It’s so small, and serene. I’ve had my eye on it since the first day I arrived, mentally counting down the days until I got to wander around in it. Added bonus—on route, in the yard of the instrument maker, were two beautiful deer. And for the first time I was able to capture them with my camera. It was shaping up to be a good day already.

A strange thing about this cemetery, apparently no one goes there, aside from the deer… and girls stupid enough to try to wade through almost 3 feet of snow in the name of photographic exploration. I know this because of the dainty deer tracks mapping their way around the tombstones, and my clunky gigantic footprints messing up the pristine snow everywhere else. At times, I felt like I was treading water trying to make my way through it all. This was the stuff of parent’s stories meant to evoke guilt in children (unsuccessfully, I might add). This was “Don’t you complain about that, because I HAD TO WALK TO SCHOOL IN 3ft OF SNOW UPHILL, BOTH WAYS” snow. And admittedly, it was pretty tough to walk through.

I had intended on trying to get about 150 shots today, and ended up getting 349. I’m shocked by that number, but I did take a ridiculous amount in the graveyard trying to capture mossy tombstones and old decaying statues. I’m a sucker for the angel wings. If I get 20 solid shots from that 349, I’ll be thrilled. The secret to good photography? Take stupid amounts of photos.

Tired of snow trekking and picture taking, I decided to loop around the downtown core to grab a couple of things at the store. Did I mention that I only had a cup of coffee on my way out the door? So understandably, I was ravenous by the time I got to Safeway—which, as we all know, is a recipe for spending insane amounts of money on things that you would never purchase under normal circumstances—like Fig Newtons and Kraft Singles. I almost went for Cheez Whiz, but mustered up the willpower at the last minute to restrain myself. Lesson to myself: eat before you adventure.

Two gigantic shopping bags later, I’m toting the groceries down the street mentally wishing for a wagon, and accompanying dog with which to pull it. No such luck. I stopped at the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine, and reasoned that since I was already lugging 42lbs of groceries, my super heavy camera, a bottle of wine, and my enormous purse full of crap I never use, why not go all out and stop at the library? Two hardcover books added to the pile. Sled-dog, where are you when I need you? Good-for-nothing, lazy imaginary dog.

A word about the library in Banff—it has provided so much pleasure while I’ve been here. I always forget about how wonderful the library concept is, with their ridiculously unprofitable business model. Most of the time I stare at the clerk incredulously, still expecting them to say “That will be $37.91, please”. And yet, they never do. They just stamp the inside cover card (old school style!) and push the books across the counter. Done and done. This town is great.

(Trust me, I do appreciate the irony of the bag of Hershey’s kisses laying atop the 0-calorie Coke Zero)

Funny the difference a day makes. Yesterday morning I was feeling hollow, desperate; Today, I feel inspired and content… slightly stronger from the grocery lugging, considerably poorer from the grocery buying. Home by 1:47. A very successful CreativeDay, indeed.

I wake up every morning and get excited to open the curtains. You never really know what the weather is going to be like here. So far, -26 has been the coldest, which was excruciating. That was painful, eyelashes-fusing-to-your-skin cold. Then, two days later, it’s 4 degrees. I’ve realized that Banff is not a town to look pretty in. Regardless of how much time you spend getting ready, inevitably by the time you get to where you are going, you are either red faced and runny nosed, sweating your ass off, or just generally looking 25lbs heavier from all the layers. I’ve given up trying, which may hinder my ability to attract mountain men while I’m here.

Walking through this town is pretty amazing. Before I came, I had a picture in my minds-eye of what I thought it would be like, and in many ways it was both everything and nothing like that. It is quaint, and yet strangely corporate at the same time. The main street is littered with tiny shops (many of which are touting the usual “I Heart Banff” tourist sweatshirts and shot glasses with bears on them, stamped “Made in China” on the bottom). There are a ridiculous (read: AWESOME) amount of candy stores in this town. And liquor. Banffians (Banffittes? Citizens of Banff?) love their booze and sugar, apparently. As you walk down the street the rich smell of dark maple hits you in the face like a hammer… fudge. It’s like crack for the nostrils, and it’s been all I can do to avoid it thus far – I’m afraid if I falter and give in even once, I’ll spend the rest of my days here strung out under a snowy bridge, in a sugar induced coma. But the smell is intoxicating, and so very “Canadian” at the same time. These are the types of places that I expected of Banff, and yet unexpectedly, an even larger portion of this town seems to replicate big city landscape – Lululemon, Gap, Foot Locker, Lush, Louie Vuitton, Benetton, Mcdonald’s, Indigo… on and on and on. In some ways it seems to rob the place of personality, from a tourist perspective. However, from a local perspective, it’s been hugely handy to be able to pop in and pick up some mass-produced necessity I forgot (surely packed in box #47, now buried deep in the trenches of my parent’s basement). I think Banff Ave. is the main tourist street, while it appears that most locals try avoid it like the plague, sticking instead to side streets and back routes. Many places here offer a “local discount” which makes me feel like I’m part of a top secret club, and rather than perks like decoder rings and complicated handshakes, you mostly just get 10% off of wine purchases and cheap breakfast.

I’ve been incredibly creative since I’ve gotten here. I guess my lack of internet largely contributed to that, combined with my desire to get out and explore the city. I’ve taken a bunch of photos and written quite a bit. While I’m here at the Banff Centre, as a work study I am in the Banff Centre Press 4 days a week, the other day is set aside to work on my own creative project. I doubt I will get a chance to do much design at this position, so I’ve made it my creative project to do a book layout. Similar to my “City Within” project, only set in the mountains. I’m going to try to incorporate some of my journal entries into it, just so it can involve a bit more typography than the first one. But it feels good to have something to work toward. Something that is entirely self directed, and something that I will be forced to find focus in, if for no other reason than distraction, because I still don’t know many people here yet.

In the mornings I walk over a frozen river to get to work. I was terrified the first few days I was here to even brave the river path, which as been worn down from all the people who live in the housing co-op that use it as a shortcut, so I would take the long way around, over a bridge. Eventually though, my laziness won out over my fear of death. It does make things much quicker. Plus, there is something so beautiful and serene about standing in the middle of the snow covered river, surrounded by trees and mountains. The landscape has not lost one shred of it’s novelty yet. I don’t know if it ever would. Several times a day I feel fortunate to be getting a chance to have this opportunity. To live in this snowy town, to be attending one of the most prestigious artist centres in Canada. I’ll delve more into the Banff Centre in the coming days, but I just wanted to write another entry fairly soon after the first. Try to keep on top of it all.

There is so much to say, and I’m still formulating the order in which I want to write about it. Countless unseen stars, the tenacity of magpies, being able to call oneself an artist, the glory of libraries, tiny graveyard squirrels, life in the co-op, the nature of loneliness,  church bells heard ringing throughout the town on Sundays. So many incredible details to talk about. I hope that you will continue to come back and visit… and it’s always much appreciated if you leave a comment. It lets me know that you are out there, and makes it feel a tiny bit less cold here.

I am at a bit of a loss on where to begin. So much has happened since I got here, and I’ve been writing like crazy, but my inability to access the internet for any length of time has hindered all updates to this blog. Which means now I’m struggling to try to figure out what to explain as important story foundation, and what to let slide.

During that two week period I was largely without either a phone and/or the internet for a good part of the time. Initially not having an internet connection was kind of awesome, as it forced me to don scarves and toques and mittens and trudge my way through the town of Banff to the Starbucks, which has far as I could tell, was the only place that a) had free wifi and b) could not care less how long you sat there, nursing a $1.87 cup of coffee while sucking up all the free internet you could handle. I’m sure in the town of Banff there are countless tiny cafes that have wifi, but I always feel a certain obligation in places like that. I find I end up feeling there is some twisted ratio of guilt-purchasing necessary, wherein every 30 minutes I must buy something else, to make up for my ass taking up real estate in their establishment. (My ass at which rate, which was sure to be twice the size it was when I arrived, what with all the cookies, pastries and caramel apple ciders that would inevitably be consumed if my home internet situation wasn’t soon rectified). As of Thursday, it finally was.

But I guess I really should start with my arrival…

*******

I had bundled up before I got on the plane, both to be prepared for the bone chilling temperatures, as well as to give me that much needed space in my luggage to pack as many comforts of home that I might need over the next 6 months, as possible. By the time the plane touched down in Calgary I was sweating like a pig—what with the weather being a balmy 3 degrees—almost identical to that of Vancouver. The snow lay on the ground in huge drifts, but the sidewalks were almost completely bare. This fact was both disappointing and yet somewhat reassuring. Thanks for easing me in slowly, Alberta, I appreciate it.

Before I left Vancouver I had what some would call a bit of a (read: major) emotional meltdown. The mental preparation involved with moving to a new place is huge and stressful, but until that point, I was doing surprisingly well. Being that it’s my nature to be terrified of change, I found solace in the fact that once I got to Banff—although I would be sharing an apartment with someone else—I would have my own room, my own space… with a door that could close, with privacy.  A few days before I was set to go, I got an email telling me that there were no single rooms available, and I would be sharing a room with someone else. A panic attack so immense hit me, it was hard to keep it in check. So, reasonably, I lost my shit. I could handle the thought of leaving a place I loved to move to a place I’d only heard of. I could handle the idea of leaving my family and everyone in the world I knew. I could however not handle the thought of immediately being thrust into the space of a stranger, with less than 3 feet of space between single beds. Oh god—had I made a huge mistake?? I probably never would have agreed to this scenario, had I known that was the rooming situation. And yet, my Vancouver apartment was almost empty, bags were packed, the ticket was booked. What could I do? Cry, that’s what. And cry I did. And then take deep breaths, regain composure. I would figure it out. I would make it work. I had no other choice.

*******

Cut to: Arriving in Banff after a breathtaking 1 hour flight over the mountains and a 2 hour shuttle bus ride, I was sweltering under the weight of multiple coats and countless layers. I had informed the bus driver that I would be going to the Rocky Mountain Housing Co-op. He knew where it was, he assured me. I had made plans to meet up with the housing coordinator at 2:30pm, and she would check me in. If I got to the co-op, I was told, and she wasn’t there right away, just buzz 100 on the intercom and she would come and let me in. Easy enough.

We arrive at the building, and I struggled to get my two ENORMOUS suitcases, a backpack, a ridiculously packed gigantic purse, and the pile of clothing I had peeled off, over the snowdrifts onto the front sidewalk of the building. As I approached, a helpful girl held the door for me, so I squeaked “oh, thank you!” greatfully, and clumsily jammed myself through the front doors into the main foyer. I was early by 30 minutes. Thank god there were couches.

*******

2:10pm, I’m passed numerous times by people coming in and out of the building. I’m not sure how to say this without sounding snobby, but the building was, uh… a bit shabby. The furniture in the foyer was old and mismatched, the carpets were stained, and it smelled kind of musty. [Deep breaths]. Each time someone walked through, I perked up, wondering if this was the housing coordinator. Then, each time, it wasn’t.

2:25pm I left my bags in the lobby and by jamming my foot in the front doorway, I managed to keep it propped open, knowing I’d be screwed if the door shut closed behind me, leaving all my stuff in the hall. Awkwardly leaning halfway out the door, and halfway in, I  punched ’100′ on the intercom. The steady green display of “input suite number” flashed on the screen. Again. Nothing. Alright, no worries, I’ll just wait. It’s almost 2:30, she would be here any minute.

2:35 Still, nothing. The worry begins to set in—what would I do if she didn’t show up? I didn’t have a cell phone, and there was no way in hell I would be able to haul all this stuff back into town to try to find a pay phone, I could barely get it the 10 feet to the building. Not to mention I have zero sense of direction and couldn’t remember what road we took to get here, let alone where I would need to go to get back to it.

2:45pm Awesome—I’m now in Banff and will be forced to spend the weekend camped out in the foyer of my somewhat sketchy new apartment building, without actually owning an apartment. Anxious butterflies begin to flit around in my stomach; I feel a bit like I might throw up. Behind a potted plant. Because my apartment is nonexistent, as is the bathroom inside of it.

2:50 Finally, a guy walked by on his way outside to smoke, and I asked him “Excuse me, do you know where I might find Kim, the housing coordinator? I was supposed to meet her here at 2:30, but I can’t figure out how to work the intercom”. A head shaken, no.

3:00 OhshitOhshitOhshit. Ohgod, this was a mistake—and setting up to be a horrible start to my Banff experience. I mentally made a list of all the things I could sacrifice to someone stealing, if I had to leave it in the foyer and hike back into town. I had everything – two laptops, a camera, hard drives, sketchbooks, photos—all valuable, all important. Fuck.

3:10 More people walk by. Finally, in desperation, I say “EXCUSE ME, can you help me? I need help. I don’t know where I am, and where I’m supposed to be going, who I’m meeting, and apparently how to work simple technology. Can you please, please help me?”. Taking pity on me, a guy stops and tries to help me work the intercom.

“There is no option for 100 – are you sure it was 100?”.
“Yes, it’s in the email, 100″.
“I don’t know then—I’ve never heard of a Kim—are you sure it wasn’t Larry?”.
“No, definitely Kim. Is there any other buildings that are part of this complex? I’m starting work at the Banff Centre, and this is supposed to be for their housing”.
“Oh, the Banff Centre has people here now? Huh, they sure are expanding”.
[Blank stare from me] I look out the back window, point. “That building there, is that a part of this complex?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so”.
“Look, I don’t have a cell phone, I need to go and see if there is any possibility I’m in the wrong place. Can you please just watch my bags? I don’t want to try to lug them through the snow drifts if it’s not the right building”.
[He looked down at the unlit smoke in his hand, then back to my pitiful, desperate face, then back to the smoke again.]

Finally, “Uh… fine. Ok, sure”.

So, this stranger—this incredibly friendly, disheveled stranger, agreed to watch my stuff while I tromped through the snow to the back building. As I approached the door, a woman came to unlock it…
“Kim?”
“Yes”.
“OhmygodI’msosorryI’msolatethedriverleftmeoffatthewrongbuildingandagirlletmein
Ididn’tknowhowtocontactyougodI’msosorry”.

I hurried back to the first building, slightly relieved at the situation, totally annoyed at the bus driver, absolutely grateful to this stranger who helped without robbing me blind. I thanked that man no less than 50 times as he graciously assisted in carrying my stuff through the snow and parking lot to this other building—this much newer, cleaner, nicer, better building.

Kim sat me down, and checked me in. She explained the no drugs policy, took my $100 damage deposit, pointed out on a map where in town I could find everything—groceries, library, coffee shops. She handed me the keys and as we walked to the suite she explained that I was lucky, at the last minute a suite opened up, and it was completely empty. For the time being, I would have no roommates. I almost burst into tears right then and there. This was better than Christmas! Within 1 hour I went from thinking this was the worst decision I had ever made in my life, to feeling like I had just inexplicably won the lottery. Funny how life is like that sometimes.

I walked into the suite, dropped my bags, said goodbye to Kim and shut the door. The apartment itself was pretty plain, but tastefully decorated and not too bad at all (compared with sleeping in the foyer of building #1).
When I walked into the living room, through the window I saw this view:

And all at once, I was again reassured—absolutely—that this wasn’t a mistake after all, but was exactly where I needed to be.

Lately it’s been bust-out-the-light-jacket weather. I can only assume that this has to do with the fact that we are hosting the 2010 Winter Olympics in 3 weeks.  This makes me secretly smile a little on the inside, because although this is an exciting opportunity for a city, it simultaneously creates a lot of chaos and disruption and cost for those who regularly call Vancouver home. But that is an entry for another day. Currently there is hardly any snow on the normally white covered mountains… funny how the universe is, sometimes.

Today I decided to go on an adventure to Home Depot. I love hardware stores. There is a particular smell about them that makes me feel rather more handy and helpful when I walk through the electric doors. Like cedar and drill bits and sweaty domestic improvement. I like it. I went today to check out the plant section, because I have managed to kill about 1/3 of all my plants this winter, and needed to restock the troops. My problem is I love them to death.  Mostly the orchids – who try as I might to ignore them like I’m supposed to, I can’t help but stroke their tiny blossoms adoringly whenever I walk into the room (they are  smooth and warm and soft – like suede!). They despise this, and prove it to me by dropping their blossomed heads onto the floor in the middle of the night – a suicidal gesture of their hatred and solidarity. I keep hoping with enough perseverance I will find a particularly hearty one – a botanical masochist that enjoys being manhandled. It has not happened yet, and I have the 7 bare-stemmed plants staring me down to prove it. But I can’t help by try… I just love having flowers in my life.

In Home Depot I managed to ignore the magnetic pull toward the orchids and went instead to the outdoor plant section. Rows of metal orange racks, exploding with rainbows of coloured flowery goodness. I picked out several vibrant daffodils, tulips, and primroses in shades of reds, burgundy, yellow. I know it’s only 9 degrees out (for winter, that’s awesome) but as I stand in the aisles I couldn’t resist temptation. I made the rash decision that today- TODAY- was going to be window-box day.

I planted them in the middle of my living room – a dirty, messy endeavor that I always secretly savor because it reminds me that as an adult living alone, paying fairly high rent – this is one of the perks. It would have been easier to do it in the courtyard… certainly more clean and responsible, with less to messy aftermath. But then my apartment wouldn’t smell like rich soil for the next few days. No, no air freshener could ever replicate this scent.

If I have jinxed myself by trying to rush into Spring, I’m sure the universe will punish me with frost and flurries – a reminder to be patient and allow Winter to take it’s course.  If that happens, the Vancouver Olympic Committee can thank me for doing my patriotic part in aiding in the success of the 2010 Winter Games. Either way, it’s a win-win situation.