We headed up Sunday, with an all too brief stopover along the way to meet up with twitter pal SheikYurbouti, followed by a mad rush to make it downtown in time for the first of our first of three Pearl Jam concerts. Yes, three. I’d taken Andrea to see Eddie Vedder — the lead singer — perform solo a few times but this was my first time seeing them as a group. This trip made Andrea’s tenth, eleventh, and twelfth shows. We booked tickets months ago through Andrea’s fan club connection and our seats were great. Aisle seats at all three shows, and I was able to sit for two of the shows and still see the stage. Even the view from at the third show, where we were center row floor, wasn’t so bad.

I noticed an interesting behavior (and by interesting, I mean HULK SMASH RAWR) by some of the men standing at the end of a row. When a woman would tap on their arm/shoulder to get past, it was used as an opportunity to stroke, touch, or otherwise make inappropriate physical contact in a confined space. It seemed to get worse as the night (and the drinking) continued. I didn’t see anything obvious enough to intervene or call security but clearly someone’s best judgement was not in play.

Monday started off with Bakka Phoenix. I’d been looking forward to that trip for ages. We spent at least an hour browsing and talking to the staff (it wasn’t Chris, but I can’t remember what her name was). I picked up quite a few books and only gossiped a little, I swear. Later that night, more Pearl Jam. By this time, I’ve become fairly efficient at navigating both freeway and surface streets despite the grinding sound coming from the rear end of the car, which turn out to be the brake pads. Metal on metal never sounds pretty.

Tuesday was my day, to a tv taping for some professional wrestling (yes, I know it’s scripted). I’ve been to a few taping over the last twenty years but this one was special. One of the performers, Adam Copeland aka Edge, officially retired due to injury and had a nice send off in his home town. Love or hate wrestling, life is about doing what you love no matter what someone else tells you and this was a bittersweet moment to celebrate the career of someone who did that and now, due to circumstances beyond their control, must move on to the next chapter.

We had a free day Wednesday so we decided to go to the Toronto Zoo. I took nearly 500 picture, which will take me half a year to sort through, and walked a dozen miles or so it felt. Zoos are oddly pleasant, if tiring, experiences. Going mid-week during the school year meant there was very little crowd. It was peaceful. Someone would make a killing renting scooters or segways, though, especially with the hills. Since it was our first early night of the week, we stayed with Andrea’s sister and enjoyed a relaxing evening.

Our first real complication came on Thursday. We were heading to Hamilton, an hour away, for the last Pearl Jam show of our trip. As it turns out, Hamilton was hosting the Canadian Country Music Awards or some such. It ended up being cheaper, and not much further to drive, to stay the night in Niagara Falls, than to find somewhere in Hamilton or Toronto.

We spent a few hours in Niagara that afternoon, before commuting to Hamilton for the show that night. It’s a total tourist trap, but still a lovely place to visit. We napped, then walked to the falls, which are spectacular.

Friday morning, we drove through wine country and met up with an old friend of mine that I’ve known online for a decade but never met. After that, back to Toronto for a Blue Jays game, where the beat the Yankees (sorry Matthias) at the bottom of the 9th.

All in all, a pretty nice and mostly unplanned vacation. We had specific points in time set but otherwise we picked a direction and drove. It’s a little risky not planning on where to sleep in advance but it worked out and we had nice bit of sightseeing for the detour that went with it. This was the best kind of trip I could have not planned.

My hat goes off to Patrick Swenson, who puts heart and soul into making the retreat an awesome event. 30+ writers from across North America gathered in one place for a long weekend of writing, eating, and drinking. People compare managing writers to herding cats, and the observation isn’t far off from the truth. Andrea wrote a bunch of new words. I revised and plotted, finally completing and resubmitting a rewrite request of a story very dear to me.

We met some great new people that I’m looking forward to keeping in contact with. We also got to visit with many of my fellow Inkpunks – Wendy, John, and Sandra.

I made it a few talks, including Mary Robinette Kowal’s on giving an effective reading (the second time I’ve seen it). It was Jennifer Brozek and Erin Evans‘ discussion of freelancing and multi-tasking that really tickled me, giving me some ideas on how I can manage my workload a bit more efficiently.

The environs around the retreat were spectacular. It rained every day while we were there, as you’d expect from a rainforest. Green moss covered tree limbs and roofs alike.

The Worlds Largest Spruce tree was, indeed, huge. The pictures don’t come close to showing just how epic it is.

We found the roaming herd of Elk on our first day I’d forgotten to bring my camera. We found them grazing in a pasture the next afternoon. Judging by how calm they were towards us, I suspect a lot of people stop to stare at them.

The waterfalls were brilliant. I wish I’d had my camera adjusted better to photograph them. As it was, the spray coated me and the lenses, making things a challenge.

We saw these odd structures built into the river some miles north of the retreat. Giant tree trunks hammered into the riverbed, and criss-crossed with more timber added to form what looked like a funeral pyre. It turns out that the local Indian tribe went to great lengths to build these as salmon breeding grounds a few years back. Judging by the bald eagles feeding nearby, I would say they were successful.

More photos can be found on Flickr.

After the retreat ended, we drove back to Portland. Along the way, we stopped for lunch and discovered that our flight that night was delayed and we were being offered a rebooking, which we hastily accepted. A day to explore Portland wasn’t nearly enough but we did visit Powell’s Books, which caused me to exclaim, “I need to quit my job so we can move here. Wait, scratch that. I need to apply for a job here and then move.” We managed to survive the dinner involving an invasion of a hundred or more 8-12 year old girls from a national dance troupe, and capped off our visit with a yummy lunch with Wendy.

The people we met in Portland were friendly and everyone we spoke to loved being there. It’s somewhere we could see ourselves living down the road a bit.

I spent several years working downtown in the late nineties so going back via train is always a bit nostalgic. I made a few transient friends along the way — names forgotten but faces that will always be familiar.

Walking through the tall marble white walls in Union Station’s grand ballroom or its darker coridoors I catch the scent of popcorn and it takes me back in time to those younger days. In some ways I am that same person, full of curiosity and wonder. The decade has changed me for the worse, too. I’m more distrusting, more likely to question motive and intent. The saddest thing for me is I can’t decide if that’s really a bad thing.

Nostalgia brings us back to older days, but not always better days. As much as I’d like my innocence back, bitter experience is a shield that protects us from self-inflicted harm. A sheltered life isn’t really living, is it?

We went to Ontario with the intention of it being a temporary stay. The company I’ve worked for the past five years is based in California. I’ve worked from home every day of that but there was talk of me moving closer to the office. We’ve debated pros and cons of this over the months, but half of my salary still goes to maintenance to my ex-wife (for another 15 or so months) so the finances to do any kind of move, while still paying mortgage on a house I can’t live in, can’t short sell and can’t let go into foreclosure by court order under threat of imprisonment, limits us.

Two months ago, we made the decision to stay in Ontario and scraped together enough money to retain an immigration consultant who used to work for the Canadian government, as an Immigration Officer, Area Manager for the Department of Citizenship and Immigration, and later a district Adjudicator with the Government of Canada’s Immigration and Refugee Board (for over twenty years). The immigration process is kind of a big deal and I did not want to screw up something so important, even if it takes us longer to scrape enough together to have it done this way.

We had our initial consultation and got copies of all of the paperwork we needed to fill out, and we needed to make an appointment to come back so I could go across the border and back through Immigration, meet my consultant and wife and fill out a visitor record to make things official and travel back and forth without issue.

Right after that first consultation, I headed to the states for the beginnings of the medical hell I’ve been going through. That took much longer than expected. I came back to Canada for two weeks, with little energy to do much more than work or sleep, and then headed to Dearborn, MI on Tuesday of this week for three days of company meetings. Last night, I headed back to the border, expecting a smooth crossing and looking forward to home cooking.

I knew there was trouble when the border guard told me it would be a minute and frowned. He handed me back my passport with a yellow slip of paper and told me I needed to go inside and talk to Immigration. I was nervous, but as far as I was concerned I was doing nothing wrong.

The first person (Immigration Agent A) I spoke to took all my information, essentially what I said above, and told me that I have been living and working illegally in Canada. Flabbergast doesn’t begin to describe what I felt. She told me that Andrea needed to come there with the paperwork to prove that we were working on my immigration or she was denying entry.

I called home; Andrea doesn’t drive and the family car just lost its muffler so that sparked a minor crisis of car swapping. Two hours, some rude remarks and an eye roll from Agent A, Andrea and family arrived with our documents. At this point I thought it would be a short delay and we’d be on our way, lessons learned. Silly me.

By this time, the lobby had filled with people and there was a shift change. We waited a while for turn in line and presented our documents and restated our case to Agent B. B. seemed to share the same opinion as A., that I was an illegal foreign national. Both maintained that I should have filed paperwork shortly after Andrea and I married, not more than a year later. B. tells us that to immigrate to Canada I need a sponsor and that Andrea does not qualify to be my sponsor, which is not what I’ve been lead to believe. We’re then sent out to the lobby, and later called in individually to be interviewed.

We don’t know what to think at this point. It’s clear that the border thinks I’m doing things wrong. Heck, maybe I am. That sure wasn’t my intention. Andrea and I are just barely holding it together, running through the what ifs. We think we have sufficient evidence to show that we are working through the process, even if we have been slow about it. Eventually I get called in again and directed to a supervisor.

Agent B has written her report against me and the manager makes the final decision. I tell him everything that’s happened, from the beginning. He tells me that there are three options; I can be held over for a hearing, deported and banned from entering Canada for one year, or be allowed to leave of my own accord. Once more back to the waiting room.

For the last time, my name is called over the loudspeaker. I’ve now been sitting in the Immigration office for six hours and haven’t eaten for fourteen. I’m tired, scared, and in despair. I was still clinging desperately to a shred of hope but I knew, as I stepped up to the window, that the effort was in vain.

The fact that we produced paperwork showing that we were working through the immigration process, even if it wasn’t filed, was the only thing that kept me from being held over or outright departed. He gives me paperwork to sign, and print out from their manual that shows why they claim Andrea cannot support me. They say that Andrea must make at least 22k a year in order to be my sponsor, regardless of the fact that I have a full-time job, and will continue to have one when I move to Canada. In fact, I’m told on several occasions that I won’t be allowed to work while I’m being sponsored.

As it stands, I was allowed to voluntarily leave Canada with the clothes on my back and what I had in my truck – two dirty t-shirts, socks, and sundry. A book, my laptop, fountain pen, and moleskins, and that nights does of medicine. I had to say my goodbyes to Andrea and her mom and drive back over the bridge.

We’re not really sure what’s going on right now. Andrea, like me, is a writer, but doesn’t have a day job. Even if she did, it likely wouldn’t pay that much, especially in the small down we live in. If what I was told at the border is accurate, there is no way I would be able to live with Andrea in Canada.

I had a follow-up call with my immigration consultant today and he believes that the border people were wrong on multiple points, both with my legal status and Andrea’s ability to be my sponsor. She’ll meet with him on Monday and see what can be done and what timeframe we’re looking at.

I managed to get my two most critical prescriptions filled today. It’ll be a couple days before I can get a new glucose meter and I’m going to have to do without my newest medication because insurance won’t cover a refill this soon and it’s way too expensive to fill without. I’ll just have to deal with the effects of that. Work put me up in a hotel in Michigan for a few days to deal with some issues undistracted, so that is one less immediate worry.

I was heading back to Illinois next week where I have someone to stay with, for another round of doctor visits. Those plans will carry on as expected. What I don’t know at this point is when or if I’m going to be able to go back to Canada. Being separated from my family is just about the hardest thing I can imagine. The next couple weeks should tell if we continue the immigration process to Canada or if we reverse course and bring Andrea to the states. We might be apart for a couple of weeks or it could be a couple months. The situation sucks, but I take partial blame for it. Ultimately, we should have been more orderly and prompt with filing paperwork and such. Now we’ll have to wait and see what the damage is.

My thanks to everyone who’s been there for us through this ordeal. It means the world to me to know that I have friends like you out there.

It’s really too early to tell how things are going to work out long-term but so far I feel good. Not overwhelmed by keeping my spreadsheets updated or gut checking my short-term goals. I’m right where I want to be. I hope I can say the same thing a week and a month from now.

I’m writing a little bit every day. I’ve surpassed my 250 words/day goal. It may not seem like many but that’s a novel-worth of words a year. I write longhand — my moleskin and fountain pen are never far from my side. Usually I’m a slow writer, bogged down by my internal editor. Not so much lately. The words are coming out fairly smoothly.

Travel

Today, there was some conversation on twitter about air travel that caught my eye. I’ve done a fair amount of travel for the day job over the years and know the pains of (in)security checkpoints, TSA ineptitude and airport delays. I really wish the train were a viable option for business travel, but 5 hours of flying, plus a day on either side to catch up on sleep, beats the 3-4 days the train would take. Still, I think it’s something Andrea and I will do when we can afford to take a vacation in a couple of years. A trip through the Canadian Rockies, then down the west coast to visit Seattle, Portland and parts of California sounds about right.

Reading

I’m probably a quarter of the way through Jeff VanderMeer‘s Finch. It’s weird. It’s noir. It’s awesome. I’ve read some of his short fiction and enjoyed it. Obviously, I’ve read Booklife and City of Saints and Madmen is sitting on my side table. This is apparently my winter of VanderMeer. I’ve fallen behind on reading in the last few years. Coming back to it feels a bit like rediscovering and old friend moved in next door.