From the old “Moving to Canada” blog, originally posted on 22 Jan, 2006:
Two things I did not anticipate for January in Kingston: A federal election, and having to remove my coat to cool off while bicycling.
Weather (or où sont les neiges d’antan?)
I didn’t expect to be able to bicycle at all in the winter, since I expected the roads to be icy and dangerously narrowed by snowbanks. Instead, the two feet or so of December snow have vanished, except for a few tough icy rinds, and we’re back to shuttling Chaya to daycare in her bike trailer. Some nights it has not even been dipping below freezing. It’s like an unending late fall, with the days getting longer. Meanwhile, Europe has been having a Canadian winter. The natives here complain about the weather. It’s too slushy. They want the streets properly frozen.
Skating is a big deal in Canada. Skating rinks are an essential public service, and municipal governments are judged in their effectiveness on their ability to keep them well maintained, and in their social conscience on making them available to the poor. In this, they are like the swimming pools in German cities, or railway bicycle storage in the Netherlands. Or prisons in the US… The Market Square in Kingston (soon to be renamed the Springer Market Square, according to a backroom city council sponsorship deal which is now the topic of legal action) has had a cooled outdoor ice rink installed, open 12 hours a day every day, and several parks have had wooden ovals installed, which they hose down at regular intervals and let freeze, if the weather is cold enough. Whereas middle class men in the US are always off to their basketball leagues, here they go play hockey at midnight, because that’s when they were able to get the ice free. Continue reading “Weather and Politics”
From the old “Moving to Canada” blog, originally posted on 10 July, 2005:
To begin with, I should say that, for the first time ever, I was on a Canadian train that arrived on time. In fact, it was half an hour early. Of course, that’s just the flip side of the casual timing that I mentioned in my previous posting.
At home, I am rarely out of contact with real-time news sources for very long, so one of the real novelties of travel is that I get to be surprised by an accumulation of news. We arrived Thursday, July 7 in Winnipeg, and one of our fellow travelers, someone we had spoken with in the Jasper station, told us she had heard that there had been a major terrorist attack in London. No further information. Then we walked out into the city. We passed the provincial parliament building, and noted that the flags were flying at half staff. It was another couple of hours before we learned that several dozen people had been killed by four separate bombs on public transport in London: horrid, but not another 9/11, not even (apparently) another Madrid. Such is the calibration of our times.
Winnipeg was a bit of a surprise. Knowing nothing about the city except its geographic location, I expected it to be like all the flat US cities I know, pedestrian in all but the literal sense. In fact, Winnipeg is a good deal more attractive than that, on a human scale, pleasant to walk. I had been warned that torrential rains over the past several weeks had caused an upsurge in mosquito activity, and potentially an early start to the West Nile Fever season. It sounded bad enough that we considered giving the city a miss — and we might have, if not for the extra fees that Via Rail would have charged to change the dates for our travel, about $600 extra on $700 tickets. I’m happy they dissuaded us, though, because Winnipeg is definitely worth visiting. I got a few bites, but nothing terribly unpleasant, and there didn’t seem to be any toxic spraying going on either. I wish we had more time to see the city, because we ended up spending most of our time (as planned) at the Winnipeg Folk Festival. Continue reading “Winnipeg”
In the end, the immigration procedure was at the very lower limit of the range of hassle I had anticipated. The immigration officers did not kiss us on both cheeks, shout “Welcome home, future Canadians,” or sing a chorus of “O Canada!” (It would have been premature, in any case. Perhaps they do that at citizenship ceremonies.) But they were cordial, calm, and easy to please. Over all, the procedure was about as formal and confrontational as purchasing a gym membership — You don’t qualify for this deal, how about this other one? Sorry it’s taking so long, we’ve just had a rush of customers. (There were two RV-loads of Israelis whose passports were about to expire, requiring some personal attention from the immigration officer.) There was none of the atmosphere of suspicion that hangs so thick over US Customs and Immigration. In fact, of all the papers we brought with us, the only ones they even looked at were the passports, the letters about the job offers from Queen’s, the HRDC letter (which they said I actually didn’t need, because of NAFTA — the people at Queen’s have a different interpretation), and Chaya’s birth certificate. The list of items we had with us were cursorily perused, because I handed it to the official who was asking us what we might have to declare, but it was clearly more than she wanted to know. The biggest surprise was on the issue of common law marriage. I had expected a discussion that started with a presumption of marriage, then we would explain that we are not married, and would then be asked for the form, and some documentation. Instead, she asked, “Are you married? Common law?” and didn’t ask for any proof.
Whereas we ordinarily speak German at home — except Chaya, who typically insists on speaking mainly English — Julia felt it would make a bad impression on the immigration officials for us to be speaking a foreign language between us, so we spoke English. Chaya was in no mood to change routines. “We don’t sprech Englisch. Wir sprechen German.” She was also upset that the woman took her passport away, and asked quite boldly for its return.
Chaya has been challenged by the new circumstances. In particular, for the past couple of months she has been telling everyone she meets, apropos of nothing, “I’m going to Canada. There’s snow there.” I’ve been trying to explain to her that it makes no sense to tell people that she is going to Canada when she is already in Canada. She feels a bit cheated by the absence of snow, but if you try to explain seasons to a native Californian two-year-old, you may as well teach quantum mechanics.
Introduction to the old “Moving to Canada” blog, originally posted 20 June, 2005:
Why are we moving? Why Canada?
The simple answer is, we needed jobs. Professors are like soldiers and priests, sitting on their bags, waiting for their next billet. Less so in North America than in Germany, where you do 15 years of postgraduate training, and then cluck about in the university coop until a job opens up. Between us, we applied for about 60 jobs, were invited for 11 interviews, and received two offers, one from Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario, and one from Louvain-la-Neuve, in Belgium. About two thirds of the jobs were in the US, but we only had three interviews. Two of these were at Yale, where they told us they found us quite interesting, but they didn’t really have jobs open, and weren’t quite sure why they had invited us. We had heard that Canadian universities often have very generous policies for supporting academic couples, a crucial point when considering how many couples we know who work hundreds or thousands of miles apart, or where one or the other has abandoned all career ambitions. Queen’s attracted our attention very early for its very generous policy, clearly stated on its website. They were as good as their word: After offering me a position as associate professor in the mathematics/statistics department, they created a special five-year position for Julia, half in math/stat, half in community health/epidemiology.
While many left-wing Americans like myself have prattled about moving to Canada as a protest against the Bush regime, or to have a field where progressive politics are not forelorn, they pretty much all stayed put in the end. We have no illusions of Canada as a progressive Shangri-La, but we are going. Sutter’s Mill pulled more pioneers out west than a dozen idealistic Horace Greeleys.
Continue reading “Introduction to “Moving to Canada””