flux.

A conversation prompted by some sudden life-changing news of an acquaintance led a friend and I to pause and reflect our current situations in life in relation to where we thought we’d be at this age. I’d forgotten about my plans and expectations until badgered unwittingly into reflection. About five years, I thought I pretty much knew how things would end up.

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With my undergraduate diploma still tucked under my arm, I bid a fond farewell to my university friends, with hugs for all punctuated by one or two tasteful tears. There’s inexplicably no luggage, or furniture to move: ah yes, it’s been seen to, sent ahead. Carrying only my purse, framed diploma, and congratulatory bouquet of flowers I step aboard the train and wave farewell to my beaming parents.

One year later.

I’m living in a small one-bedroom flat in Montreal, just on the edge of the old part of the city. It’s in old brick building adorned with black wrought iron balconies and fire escapes zig-zagging over the exterior. I live with my cat, Mia, and the terrier I adopted upon moving to the city. He is somewhat pretentiously named after a famous novelist. The apartment is small and unassuming, but sleek. Dark wood floors throughout, and lilac walls in the bedroom offset by gauzy white curtains and an antique vanity. The living room houses two crisp off-white linen armchairs and a cherry wood writing desk facing out the balcony window looking over the cobbled streets below. The kitchen looks mostly unused apart from the mail and some magazines on the table and an unnecessarily elaborate espresso machine on the counter. The cat and dog’s stainless steel food bowls are neatly arranged against one wall.

I’m finishing off my Masters and moving into full time employment. Basically, I’m transitioning my university placement as an arts magazine journalist into my livelihood. I do most of my work – writing and researching – from my laptop around the city. My pretentiously-named dog often accompanies me around the cobbled-streets of Old Montreal and basks in the sun at my feet while I work on the tiny round tables of various café patios. In the winter, we move indoors and he wears a little red knit sweater. I like to work out of the house and in the city, especially in the old quarter, because it gives me a chance to work on my French with the locals.

There’s a boy. We don’t live together, but we plan to in a few years. We met during our undergrad and planned to move here to be together. In a few years, we plan on buying a town house in the city and live on the top floor while converting the rest into a few apartments for an investment. On weekend mornings we go for long winding walks through the cobbled streets of old Montreal with the pretentious terrier. We spend time perusing organic produce and tiny jars of artichokes and pesto at the market. As we leave the market he holds a paper bag of hand-labelled condiments, fruit, and fresh leafy basil poking out the top. I clasp the terrier’s lead in one hand, his hand in the other. At night we go to galleries, the theatre, and smoky jazz lounges.

My friends start receiving degrees and promotions, they get engaged, get married, and have baby showers. Everything follows a smooth progression, and I arrive at each graduation, engagement party, wedding, and baby shower with bright eyes, a big smile, and a beautifully wrapped giftbox the size of a compact car. The events take place, but only exist as ceremonies, gifts and champagne toasts. This is life; we’ve arrived. Barring the organic progression through the checklist of life accomplishments, everything is stable and safe nothing is uncertain or in flux.
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I watch a rarely-seen tear slide down my father’s cheek and hear my mother choke back tears as she pushes a card into my hands. My laptop has just disappeared down the conveyor belt into an xray machine and I stand in my stocking feet, holding my butter-soft Nine West boots in my hand. The guard taps his magnetic wand into the gloved palm of his hand. Hot tears I didn’t know were in me, well up in my eyes as I feel my dad’s arms trembling when he wraps them around me. It’s awfully far away, my mother says. I can’t look back over my shoulder as I walk though the metallic arch and collect my bags. As the plane takes off, I look down at Pearson Airport disappearing beneath us, and Toronto twinkling gold around her and think of how many times the descent into Pearson has meant coming home. The hot tears are creeping back again, their unfamiliarity stinging the corners of my eyes.

I’m awakened in the morning by a stewardess’ hand on my shoulder as she shakes me gently. We’re landing. Groggily I pull myself into an upright position. Classy way to start my adult life, I think, as I recall waking to a jolt of turbulence a few hours ago and upon remembering that I was in a metal tube hovering above nothing but ocean, reaching for what was apparently one too many sleeping pills. I hope I wasn’t drooling on myself when she woke me.

I drag myself and my three suitcases from the airport into the middle of the city getting them stuck in the turnstiles at various underground stations. Puffy-eyed, groggy, and trying to rinse the pills and in-flight wine out of my system with bottles of water, I’ve arrived. Here I am, London. About a month and a half away from being broke, with no place to live and a second interview for an unpaid internship next week. The future’s looking rosy.

Seven months later.

I’m living in a studio flat the approximate size of a shoe in the northwest quarter of the city. My street is lined with charming stone townhouses although the one housing my flat is the definitely the least enviable. Fortunately there are some well-placed trees and hedges obscuring it. Inside, a funky metal clock adorns one of the lilac walls. It’s sat at a quarter to two so long that a thin layer of dust coats the hands. When I sleep on the right side of the bed, I’m careful not to bump my head on the kitchen counter when getting up in the morning. The flat is too small for a cat, a terrier, and most certainly for a pretentious name assigned to either. My window overlooks an overgrown backyard which, when covered in ivy in the summer, looks almost quaint. The window panes quiver when the trains from the London underground pass by, on the above-ground stretch of track a short distance away. The kitchenette looks mostly unused apart from a simple kettle and a stout blue and white teapot.

I spend, what seems to be, most waking hours at my office just outside the city, or on a train to or from the office. I work for a prominent publishing house, in the marketing department. The internship there turned into a permanent position after seven days. It comes with perks – some nice travel to Europe here and there – but on a daily basis it seems to offer more in the way of stress and a long commute. The office is open-concept: bright and sunny, complete with a gym, massage suite, library, restaurant, café, and rooftop terrace. I spend spare moments at my desk contemplating this self-contained bubble and longing for some reason to run out the front doors and feel the well-worn pavement beneath my feet and the sun upon my hair. The smokers get their fix atop the building surrounded by potted ferns and bistro-style tables. The building has been designed so not even they and their carcinogens have a reason to leave the perfectly-constructed bubble.

There’s a boy. We see each other several times a week. We commute in exactly opposite directions. Everything seems to revolve around train schedules, commuter routes, and engineering-related delays. Things are kept fun and uncomplicated. We go to the theatre, the cinema, and on weekend mornings to the breakfast place with the best scrambled eggs in the city. We eat crepes and drink wine in Nice. I watch him play the Blackjack tables in Monte Carlo and he watches me kick off my sandals and step into the sea at Cannes.

I miss my friends from home terribly and worry that they’ve forgotten about me since I’ve moved away. I miss the student social life and having a full social calendar. I often think about the half-completed and ultimately discarded grad school and journalism school application forms. I articulate this and other anxieties to my fellow ex-patriot: the only person I know in the country from home. Although she lives hours away, we talk at least twice a day and I feel like she’s always close by. She listens to my regrets and uncertainties and helps keep me sane. In turn, I listen to her tears and sadness about a broken heart, family issues, and post-graduation angst. My friends are all succeeding in remarkable ways, but their successes are scattered amongst less celebratory events. Everything seems complicated and ever-changing. Heartbreak, health scares, infidelity, birth control slips, dating and career stresses are just as prevalent as promotions, graduations, engagements, and world travels. Events are marked by consequences and repercussions, not just gift cards, toasts, and flowers. It’s too easy to be the happy bringer of gifts in times of triumphs. It’s the times in between where the offerings of advice, words of comfort, and reservation of judgment mean something more.

Apparently there’s no arrival, as such. The stasis we assumed marked adulthood doesn’t exist. The only consistence seems to be the constant state of flux. It’s a little frightening, but comforting at the same time because if we had already arrived, we’d have nowhere left to go.