so i have some major apologies for emily we were paired together for 20sb's blog swap and she posted my post last week about wanting to live in two places and somehow i never received the email with her post. so here it is :)
When I read the name of Erin’s blog, I must admit my heart did a little leap. “And her heart, it is in Ireland”, it said. Mine TOO! I thought, and immediately started reminiscing about my brief little 24 hour stint to Dublin, two years ago.
I’ve only ever been to Ireland the once. Which is funny, because it’s about 45 minutes away from England, where I spent the first fifteen years of my life, during which I didn’t visit at all. I knew my great grandparents were from Cork, and I’d always been fascinated with everything Irish. What wonderful music they have! What wonderful landscapes! What wonderful beer! I used to daydream about what it must be like to live in a country so rich with culture, so musical and lively, so full of folklore and history. To be able to take walks along the coast, or through a little village still paved with cobblestones and catch up with your mates at the local pub at the end of the work week, or go jumping around, dancing to traditional Celtic music, having the time of your life.
Why is it that grass always seems so much greener on the other side? When I first moved to Canada, I was in love with it here. Everything was so vast, so open, so clean. Houses were so huge, and cheap, and weren’t attached at the seams to your neighbour’s living room! People were so welcoming, and so interested in hearing about a life and a country so very different from their own. I had the chance of a new life unlike anything I’d ever known, and the world seemed incredible this side of the pond. Who’d ever want to live in England, my mother told me. It’s expensive, dirty and crowded, and people are “common as muck”. I found it easy to fall in love with a new country when that was the only thing I heard for two years before we actually got here. Added on to the fact that in British schools, you’re either popular and a bully or unpopular and bullied, and with my short boy-hair and braces, it’s pretty safe to say I wasn’t the former. What a wonderful country Canada was going to be.
And for the first few years, it was. Then came the trials of every child turning into an adult. Boys! Horrible, nasty boys who’d take you for everything you had! Moving out! Rent, bills, and being thrown out once things with said boys turned sour. I went through several very ugly years of relationships (or “relationsh!t”, if you will), and the more I stayed here the more I decided I wanted to go back. I convinced myself I was missing out on everything I grew up on; amazing music, great TV, awesome food you just can’t get in North America… and all my friends I’d grown up with. I came very close to moving back. And then I met Mr. Right.
He’d entered my life right at the beginning of my downward spiral, and we’d dated briefly in first year university before our paths diverged and we didn’t speak for years, only to resurface again a couple of years ago, when we decided to give it another shot. A ring on my finger and several intense conversations later, you could say the issue of where in this world to live has come up several times. I think for me, honestly, England will always be home. For him, Canada is where his heart is. A large family with a rich French culture – going to the UK would be the polar opposite of anything he’s ever known. Often, in Winnipeg, I find myself longing to be elsewhere. Especially at this time of year, when the leaves have all fallen, the temperature’s slowly getting more bitter, and you know that for the next six months you’re not going to be able to expose any skin without risk of it freezing and falling off. It’s hard to be positive a place you can only really be happy outside for three months a year.
But for various reasons, here seems to be where I’m staying. I’ve had numerous conversations with a very good friend of mine whenever I feel low about Winnipeg, whether it’s at the beginning of winter, or when I’ve just returned from a trip back home, and she’s always reminded me of why I’m staying here. It’s not just because my parents brought me ten years ago. I could move back if I really wanted to. The truth of it all is that this city has brought me the most wonderful things I’ve ever known. A friend for life who’s scooped me from the bottom of the well when things were bad and brought me back to life. A love that returned against all odds only to prove the most incredible thing in my world. A beautiful home – I wouldn’t be able to afford one a third of this size back in England. Incredible personal growth opportunities, and a really great job. These are things that have shaped me for the future, and truly, I’d probably never be at the place I am today if I’d stayed in England. Plus when you only see somewhere you love, whether it’s England, Ireland, or wherever, once in a blue moon – you have so much more appreciation for it. When I visit, I cram in everything I can – as I said before, in fifteen years of living there, I never took advantage of everything it had to offer. So I’m okay with staying here. As long as I can continue to visit the places my heart loves every once in a while, there’s some pretty darn good reasons to stay here.
Even if there is six months of Arctic temperatures – that’s all the more time to spend with these wonderful people; evenings of hot chocolate and ice skating, enjoying all the crazy things winter actually does have to offer, and to dream – to dream of the next time I’ll see those wonderful places again.
I
